#not tagging anything it’ll find its audience

[askamnesiamoonjumper]

made this in a feverish haze btw

[irisintheafterglow]

lights, camera, bitch, smile!

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: taylor swift - "i can do it with a broken heart"

summary: it's your first time headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and your guitarist is nowhere to be found. good thing your other headliner-- and billboard chart rival-- can play guitar, right? right? (rockstar!gojo x popstar!reader)

wc: 2.73k

cw/tags: implied fem!reader but gn pronouns used, rivals to lovers, he falls first, mild angst (descriptions of a panic attack)/fluff with happy ending

note: this is another fic as a part of @ficsforgaza and a gift for @um-no-ok for donating and supporting palestinian families! interested in being a part of this initiative? check out my masterpost ! hope you enjoy this, i had a lot of fun writing it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You’re sure the flight is still running late?” You plead, head in your hands as the tech lead, your publicist, and your manager sit apologetically on the other sofa in your trailer. “We can’t send out a car to go grab them from the airport as soon as they land?”

“Getting off festival grounds will be hard enough, not to mention battling the traffic of incoming guests,” the tech guy reminds you with a shake of his head, exhaling deeply as his radio crackles, another warning that you need to be on stage to sound check. In a matter of hours, you would be headlining the biggest music festival in the country, and both your guitarists were stranded hundreds of miles away. They should have known better than to take a gig right before the festival, but you let them do it anyway because it was only a 30 minute flight between the airports. But, after a stray bird flock nearly downed another passenger plane, the tarmac was backed up for the time being. “Can you try asking around to see if someone can fill in for them?”

“And maybe hire them instead,” your publicist mutters under her breath, seething. You shoot her a wry smile, absentmindedly fidgeting with the plug of your in-ear monitors.

“The band is out trying to find guitarists, but it’ll be hard to ask someone to fill in because of scheduling issues and the number of stages there are this year.” Your manager takes a peek at her watch and looks at you with regret. “You need to go soundcheck, guitarists or not.” 

“We have a drummer, a bassist, two keyboardists, and a vocalist. You’re gonna make them go out there with a jazz band and expect them to sing the biggest pop songs on the planet?” Your publicist, bless her heart, voices what you’d been dreading since you got the call from your lead guitarist. It was the biggest test to your professionalism since your career took off and you silently wished you’d paid attention to those tour bus guitar lessons. “How bad would it be to push back the set, even thirty minutes?”

“Bad, very bad. There’ve already been more delays than anticipated that aren’t music related,” the tech lead replies with a grimace. Your publicist curses under her breath and gives you a look telling you to get on stage. “And, it’s too late to fly in guitar tracks, even if we had them.” Shit. You’d just have to trust your team to figure something out, you figure, grabbing your sunglasses from the coffee table and exiting the trailer. 

The rest of your band is already plugged in by the time the golf cart drives you to the main stage where you’d be performing. The ruthless summer sun competed with barely any clouds, blazing anything in its sight and leaving you breaking a sweat, even in the shade. A stage hand slips a wireless pack onto the waistband of your shorts and the click of the volume knob brings you the dweedling sounds of your band. The audience lot is relatively empty, thankfully, save for a few brave souls who were taking care of sound. Steeling your nerves, you shoot the audio tent a thumbs up, pop in your in-ears, and wait for the click track to run. 

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and– 

The synth intro of your walkout song rings concerningly quiet in your ears and you tap your in-ears a few times, signaling the sound tent with a thumbs-up until the rest of the keyboards are audible. Not a great start to sound check, but that’s what this time was for, right?

CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and– 

Nothing. 

The click continues its monotonous beat and you vaguely make out bass at the bottom of your mix, but you and your drummer look at each other with the same confused expression. She taps her ears, shaking her head. 

“W-Wait, wait, wait. Can we stop, please?” You speak your request into your mic, disheartened to not hear your own voice in your mix. The synths stop abruptly, as does bass, and a dozen tech people rush onstage to fix various audio problems. “This is a nightmare,” you mutter, wiping the beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead. 

“It’s always mix issues, isn’t it?” As if your irritation couldn’t increase, your eye twitches on its own when you register the voice of the person standing at the bottom of the stage. All shining white hair and dark, round rimmed sunglasses, Gojo Satoru was the last person you wanted to be interacting with. To say he looked good would be an understatement and your eyes look for any place to focus on other than his chest under his unbuttoned shirt. “For what it’s worth, you sound pretty on the mic.”

“What do you want?” Your voice is tired already, as is your entire body. Figuring out who would replace both your guitarists had sapped your energy and doors weren’t even open yet. “I don’t have the time nor the energy to debate with you today–”

“Heard you were looking for guitarists,” he cuts in and you narrow your eyes. The last thing you needed was your Billboard chart rival mocking you and your current situation. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t look at me like that. You and I both know you’re in a less-than-ideal spot right now.”

“Choose your next words very wisely, Gojo,” you seethe, using every ounce of your willpower to remain civil. “If you’re here to tease me, I don’t wanna fucking hear it.” 

“I wanna help you,” he says before you’ve stalked out of earshot. “I can fill in for your lead and Suguru can play rhythm. I’ve already talked to him about it and he’s down. We’ve got the chords alright, but if anything funky happens, we’ll just follow your bassist. We’re pros for a reason, aren’t we?” 

“I don’t need your help, Gojo,” you lie, desperately looking around for anything to get you out of this conversation. 

“Thought I told you to call me Satoru when we were at that awards show.” His voice was always velvet smooth, disarmingly charming, and you hated the way it drew you in like a moth to a candle. 

“I don’t remember that; and, if you did, I still don’t care.” We’re back on, says a voice through your ears. Starting the click on your cue, lead. 

“Seems like you don’t remember a lot about what happened that night. I wouldn’t mind recounting it for you since it seemed like you had so much fun,” he baits coolly and you fall for it, storming back to the front of the stage and looking him square in his pretty face. Memory remnants of dancing in colorful strobe lights and running your hands through his hair appear in your mind’s eye before you can stop them, and it must register on your face. “Ah, so maybe you do remember what happened if you’re this angry about it.”

“We’re rivals, Gojo,” you hiss, your vision close to going scarlet. “We’re not supposed to be buddy-buddy, and what happened at that afterparty was a slip of my better judgment.”

“We’re not supposed to be, or you’re scared to be?” His question hangs in the air and you have no choice but to glare at him, waiting for him to back down when you know he never will. After a long pause, he sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I know you’re in need of guitarists and I just wanna help. Consider it a favor.”

“Favors need to be paid back,” you counter skeptically, “and you’re the last person I want to owe.” 

“Not my kind of favors,” he says, more genuinely than you’re used to him being. “Just…think about it, yeah?” You don’t have time to dwell on why he was being so nice to you, though, as you give the audio tent a thumbs-up again. CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and– 

By the time you’ve suffered through soundcheck, changed into your stage outfit, and inhaled more setting spray than should be considered healthy, the sun has become a laser. Gojo is nowhere to be found, thankfully, and you spend the rest of the time before your set pacing your trailer like a caged animal. There wasn’t any room in your mind to think about the crowd, the heat, or the extensive team counting on you to make it a worthwhile show. All that you could focus on was your lack of guitarists and the proposition from your #1 enemy in the music industry. Before you could cross from the kitchen tile to the living area carpet for the umpteenth time, the door threw itself open to reveal your breathless manager. 

“We found guitarists! Let’s go, before they change their mind,” she commands. You thank the music festival gods for whomever she found, even happier knowing that it couldn’t be Gojo and Geto because their band had just finished on the other largest stage. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you answer uneasily, still reeling from switching panic-mode into show-mode within minutes. “Let’s just hope they’re good.” 

This next artist needs no introduction…

The golf cart parks sidestage. 

Dominating the pop charts for twelve straight weeks, taking the industry by storm…

You wink at the handful of screaming fans that spot you before ducking backstage. 

And nominated for the most prestigious awards in the music world…

The stagehand slips the pack onto the waistband of your pants and hands you a mic. 

Performing live and streaming around the world… [CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Intro, 2-3-4. 1…2…1-2-3 and–] Make some noise for–

“Yo, Satoru. You got an extra pick?” Your synths come in at the same time you whirl around, heart dropping into your stomach when you see the two guitarists behind you. You recognize Geto with his signature black hair tied up in a bun and catching rays of sunlight reflecting off the turtle shell body of his electric guitar. The limited interactions you had with Geto were pleasant, but the same couldn’t be said about the other musician fishing a pick from his leather pants. “Thanks,” Geto says as he sticks the spare in his pocket, clocking your shocked expression and giving you an apologetic shrug. “Sorry we’re a little late, the set ran a little long because this dumbass wanted to do another encore. I made the golf cart guy race over here, though.” He motions in the direction of your temporary lead guitarist, who unsuccessfully tries to clean his sunglasses with his fishnet shirt. “Oi, hotshot. Get ready, we’re on soon.” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Drums and bass in. 1…2…1-2-3 and– 

“They’re smudged,” Gojo pouts and you act without thinking, snatching the glasses from his hands, wiping it on your own costume, and handing it back to him without meeting his gaze. “Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, sticking them on his face and trying to catch your eye. There were too many things happening at once for you to worry about him.

“Mhmm. Thanks for filling in,” you choke out with no trace of malice, the pressure in your forehead and chest becoming suffocating. The gravity of your performance crashes down on you in one disorienting wave and you blink in an attempt to clear the sudden blurry spots in your vision. Hundreds of thousands of eyes, waiting on you, watching you, worshiping you. The biggest performance of your career thus far, and you were going onstage prepared with nothing but a terrible soundcheck and two rock stars that probably didn’t give a shit about pop music. It was too much, it was all too much–

“Hey.” It’s him, breaking through the static as the click fades into the background, any panic replaced by the feeling of your biggest rival lightly touching the side of your face. He wipes a stray bead of sweat from your forehead, and you’re close enough to see every shimmering fleck of turquoise in his eyes. The crowd noise is staggering, but all he sees is you. “You look beautiful.” 

“Satoru,” you whisper, barely able to verbalize your panic. He understands anyway, confidence radiating from his body. 

“I’m with you. I’ve gotcha,” he reassures you, letting you mirror him as he takes a deep breath. “You trust me?” CLICK! 2-3-4. CLICK! 2-3-4. Guitars in, vocals enter. 1…2…1-2-3 and–

“I-I do.” 

“Great.” His grin is dazzling, heart-stopping. All of him, he’s yours. “Let’s have some fun, then.” 

— 

You sleepily blink open an eye as you register the ringtone for your publicist playing on the nightstand. Outstretching a tired arm, you find it a little hard to move with the other occupant of the bed securing you against his chest. You mutter Satoru’s name, unsure if he’s awake yet; he grunts with his eyes still closed and you figure it’s unconscious, the way his muscles tighten around your waist to pull you closer. You groan as the phone screen blinks off, then on again with another insistent call. 

“Satoru, you need to let me go.”

“I already did that once,” he mumbles into the pillowcase, “and I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I need to pick up the phone, baby. It’s my publicist,” you counter gently and it’s his turn to groan, reluctantly peeling away to rub his eyes. “Thank you,” you say sweetly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before answering the phone. 

There you are. Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, says your publicist, her incredulity obvious.

“Mhmm, good morning to you too. Everything okay?” You squint against the morning sun breaking through the windows of Satoru’s loft, the city skyline casting rainbows on the walls. 

Everything’s great, just wanted to let you know what’s been happening media-wise. 

“They figure out where we are yet?”

Not yet, no. But, you know how these things go. They’ll find you eventually, so savor the time you have with him now. Right now, you have a lot of late-night outlets asking for interviews and a few charity ball performances lined up. It’s all stuff you can handle, don’t worry. Aside from the scheduling talk, her warnings were things you already knew. It was weeks before social media users finally settled down after Satoru and Suguru joined you on stage. Satoru had even convinced you to create a burner account so you could scroll through all the edits and fancams of you two. Now that you’d reconciled your feelings about Satoru and agreed to let you two make up for all the time you lost to your stubbornness, it was relatively peaceful. On another note, I did see a pretty cute reel counting all the times he looked at you during your festival set. 

“Yeah? And how many times was it?”

More than you looked at him, which is saying something, she chuckles. I’m still reeling from how chaotic the crowd was when those two walked out with you. You’d think there was a fire breaking out, or something. 

“They were pretty loud, weren’t they?” You smile softly at the memory of strutting out in your boots with Satoru and Suguru on either side of you. “I think they went crazier when Satoru started soloing, though.”

“I’m not called the best for nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs from behind you with a smirk. “These hands are worth millions, and you get them for free–”

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” you cut in before he says anything more. “Please, ignore him.”

What’d he say? 

“Nothing important.” Your cheeks heat and you shoot him a look over your shoulder, only to be met by a self-satisfied wink that makes your heart race. 

I’ll take your word for it. What’s your plans for today? 

“Breakfast, probably, and then maybe head down to the shopping district.”

That’s pretty public, no? 

“I don’t mind. I’m ready for whatever they throw at us,” you shrug, honestly feeling like you couldn’t care less about being seen with Satoru. You look over at him again and find boyish, giddy excitement written all over his face. He was yours and you were his, mind, body, and soul. Let the cameras come, let the tabloids rave, let the fake fans criticize, you think to yourself.

As long as you two were together, you were untouchable.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[dodorimo]

to even the odds

The sight of her half-naked body, already flushed with arousal, awakened a torrent of emotions within him. Desire was one of them. Bitterness was another.

His mouse stole his treasures, leaving bereft of pride and hope. A light at the end of the tunnel comes in the form of his incubus and the new body they have added to their repertoire. Raphael/Named F!Dark Urge, Explicit, 2.2k

Tags: possessive behaviour, yandere, vaginal sex, knotting, he's disgusting but would you have him in any other way?

AO3 link

The moment the words left his lips, he felt a sense of uneasy nagging at the pit of his stomach. Stage fright, he reassured himself, afflicts even the most seasoned of performers.

“Change into her.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Haarlep did not ask for clarification. Didn’t need to. The incubus knew as well as he did who he was referring to.

A brief moment elapsed. Beyond the silken  curtains, the ever-present audience held their breath.

There was a sound like a soft whoosh of air as Haarlep assumed her form, the long mane of her white-blonde hair cascading down their back. The sight of her half-naked body, already flushed with arousal, awakened a torrent of emotions within him. Desire was one of them. Bitterness was another. If breaking into his house and sleeping with his incubus wasn’t enough, the mouse decided to rid him of his much prized possessions in one fell swoop.

The sheer gall of her. He remembered finding a piece of parchment with a lipstick mark on it where her contract should have been. Still warm.

He kept it as a souvenir. Pile up your evidence, as he likes to say.

Oh, he will love to pry her forgiveness from her rouge-tinged lips. Make her beg. All in due time. For now, he would stay his hand and enjoy whatever prizes were left so kindly to him.

“Lie down on the bed,” he said. “And don't even think about touching yourself until I say so.”

A poor consolation prize, he added, as he watched Haarlep crawl into his bed, a decidedly not mouse-like grin on their face. But it’ll have to do.

Once Haarlep settled among the pillows, he climbed on top of them and kneeled between their legs, his own clothes magicked away in his—shameful, he admitted—haste. His greedy eyes ran down her body: her outspread legs, the generous curve of her breast, her alluring pout. Every inch a love letter, excessive in its beauty.

There would be plenty of time to gawk later. This was an act of chastisement, and he would do well to remember.

Slowly, he took a finger down her collarbone towards the valley of her breasts, savoring the little goosebumps that rose on her flesh. The poor excuse for undergarments that still covered her body, no more than a few lace-trimmed straps, melted like sand in an hourglass.

Haarlep wasn’t used to having their lover taking their time in bed, much less tending to their needs. The anticipation was getting to them. They pressed their thighs together and bit their lip until blood welled to the surface, eyes closed.

“Fuck me, master. Make me your whore,” the incubus finally gave in, hoping the blatant vulgarity would be enough to stir his loins.

Raphael’s fingers found the bridge of his nose and pinched, as if he heard a particular keening sound in an otherwise flawless composition. “Sweeter, much sweeter,” he instructed. “Remember, there is release in the act of giving in, but there is also shame.”

A look of fleeting confusion flashed through the incubus' eyes. The meaning of his words was lost on them. Haarlep knew only the invigoration that accompanied the sins of the flesh, and hardly anything else. The act was as new to them as it was to him.

Regardless of their personal judgment, it wasn’t in the incubus’ nature to shy away from a challenge, especially when the promise was such a sweet reward. They closed their eyes, as if reliving the time spent together joined at the hips with his mouse.

Raphael straightened his back, jaw clenched. That the wretch would know her so intimately when he had to contend with a facsimile. The idea alone was grounds for the harshest of punishments, and yet, there he stood with his pants around his knees and flaccid cock in hand. What a pitiful sight he must be.

There was a hint of trepidation in their voice when Haarlep finally spoke. “Take me, please…” they said, spreading their legs—her legs—for his perusal. “I long for you. Raphael.”

It was the low whisper of his name that did it for him, that sent a primal shiver coursing through his body. He could almost picture his little mouse beneath him, pretty lips open and hair fanned out on his silk pillows.

“Better, somehow...” He sighed and wrapped a hand around his cock—almost fully erect now—and pumped once, then twice, to take the edge off. To his immeasurable disappointment, it did very little to help him with that.

Raphael turned his attention to her body instead, fingers reaching out to test her smoothness, giving special care to the nub above her nether lips. Pink and glistening with her honey. Just as he imagined.

He rubbed at her with just the tip of his fingers, more to satisfy his curiosity than to offer any real pleasure. The incubus’ eagerness was evident in the way they writhed and moaned softly under him, clutching at the pillows. When he pulled back, she bucked her hips toward him, chasing his touch.

“So impatient. One might think you were looking forward to this.” He laughed, dipping his wet fingers into his mouth. “Tell me, dearest, have you thought about me? Late at night?”

"I… you've been on my mind more than once."

Ah, an impressive show of restraint. He ought to give Haarlep his compliments later.

“Here, mouse. Be a dear then and return the favour.”

He placed her hand—so small and delicate even in comparison to his glamoured body—around his cock. It reminded him he could assume a different form; a larger, more imposing form. But it’s not his wish to scare her just yet.

The feeling of her hand, stroking his length, thumb shyly grazing the head, was nothing less than divine. Only to be rivaled, he wagered, by the feeling of her pretty lips around his cock. But that delight he would save for another day.

“To think I could have been spared the trouble of trying to woo you.” He guided her hand up and down his cock, harder now, letting his anger dictate his words as well as the cadence of his movements. “No, wooing is for ladies and well-behaved girls. Not backstabbing little whores.”

Her curious hand strayed lower, then lower still, seeking entrance between his thighs. He stopped its descent before it could reach its desired destination.

He was many things. Kind, forgiving, charitable. Patient he was not.

Her velvety walls are what he desired. He wrapped one hand around her thigh to keep her open, the other finding purchase on the pillow beside her head.

As soon as he bottomed inside her, he let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, capturing a nipple into his mouth, drawing soothing circles on her skin.

“She feels you, master. Your possession.”

“She better,” he gritted out.

“And she loves it,” the incubus continued as if he hadn’t heard him, all too pleased to relay her thoughts to him. “She loves it more than she’s willing to admit.”

Of course she does, you thrice-damned wretch, he wanted to say. Why else would she have fooled around with his doppelgänger for? If her claws were as sharp as rumoured, she would’ve made short work of a lesser fiend the likes of Haarlep. And he knew how much those bhaalspawn craved their fill of blood. No, the mouse had no need to get on her back for measly morsels of information: her choice was one born out of lust. The memory of phantom fingers still burned hot on his skin.

The little vixen. Bane of his life. She could’ve come to him. She should’ve come to him.

“That’s a pity.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, each word punctuated with a hard thrust. “She isn’t supposed to.”

Oh, how exquisitely her moans resounded within the gilded walls of his boudoir! The last shiny piece of an already perfect image.

He’s not immune to her siren call—he leaned his head, tasting her lips and tongue, welcoming the coppery tang of blood as it entered his mouth.

The task distracted him enough that he didn’t realize he shed his human skin until later, as the fiendish side of him took over.

There she lay, small, helpless, her body jolting with each motion of his hips, breasts swaying. She may take the little vampling to bed in the morning, but she would open her legs for him every night. 

“Who owns you?” He struggled to get the words out, taking deep breaths to rein himself in.

“You, you godsdamned bastard. I belong to you…”

Raphael hummed in clear approval. His incubus knew he didn’t desire a meek caricature of his beloved mouse. Subdued, yes. Penitent, most definitely. But never meek.

He wasn’t going to last long. Not when she clenched around him like a fist, her lithe legs wrapped around his waist, pulling her to him. The finishing touch, then, before the round of applause.

The sudden swelling of his cock inside her had her squirming and arching her back off the bed. Rarely did he get in the mood to knot a partner, too much of a bother for him to consider. In his experience, he found the troubles far outweighed the benefits, but for her, he would make an exception.

Haarlep’s little mewls and pained gasps weren't all just for show. They never had him in this manner before.

“What is the matter, dear?” He relished in her pain, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s just more of me to love.”

Her walls grew tighter. Her body welcomed him.

“I’m going to spill my seed.” She couldn’t hear him but she could feel him. “Right inside you.” Those last words were whispered in her ear, as if confessing a deed of love.

She chose that moment to look at him, pretty blue eyes lined with tears and, for an instant, he saw himself reflected in those crystalline depths: strong, awe-inspiring, kingly. It was enough to tear his control to shreds, filling her to the brink with his molten essence.

“Eirin,” he faltered, peppering kisses along the column of her neck. “Beautiful. Mine.”

As he rode his high, the incubus feasted on his pleasure at will. Recklessly so. Drinking more than they were used to. He felt his strength seeping out of him just as another jolt ripped through his body.

Raphael let them be. He would not dare break the spell with the sound of his voice. Not now. Not when he felt so connected to her.

He held her close as another wave of his release swept over him. He felt her then. Clenching around him impossibly tight, head thrown back in pleasure. He knew at that moment that it wasn’t the incubus’ release he was witnessing, but rather the mouse’s, as it manifested through the bond between them. 

Unexpected, but intriguing all the same.

He flicked his finger against her pearl to aid her in her fall. Never let it be said that he was nothing but a diligent lover.

As she came down from her peak, Raphael gently stroked her stomach to help her take every last drop of him. Divine blood may run in her veins but it made no difference. Her fragile human physiology was not made to bear his passion. If she were to be his new plaything, and she will be, additional measures would have to be put into place. Not to mention, his heat would render any human contraceptive obsolete.

There's an allure to the idea, he can’t deny. He could easily leave her with child and she would be none the wiser.

Eirin, Eirin, Eirin.

Her father would place a tiara of rubies upon her head, a princess in all but name. Raphael liked to think she deserved something more.

He basked in her scent, ignoring the hint of sulphur, rubbing his cheek against hers like a lovesick paramour. He would build the greatest of cages for her soul. An opulent, lavish cage that would dwarf even his best work. Failure was out of the question.

She would come to accept him, in time. Come to love him, even. Hope fared just fine.

Love.

When it came to the matters of the heart, he was a fierce admirer. But the very notion was dangerous. Like taking a wrong turn in a dark alleyway. Too many eyes and many ears, behind every door. Nothing good could come out of this affair, not for him and definitely not for her. His kind did not tolerate weaknesses, whatever form it took. And what need did he have for her love? All he needed was her submission. He required nothing else. Wished for nothing else.

But must the curtains fall in the end, and he could feel himself beginning to soften inside her.

It always ended the same way. The euphoria, the fervour and the feeling of walking among clouds. Gone too soon.

He pulled back an inch, just enough to balance his weight on his hand. A mistake, he quickly realized, as he was greeted with the sight of her cunt dripping with his seed. His incubus pleaded for him still, deep in the throes of their own passion.

So easily stirred, the appetites of men.

The play needed not end now, after all.

The raptured crowd begged for an encore. And he was ever so eager to abide.

[starhaloeklypse]

Ladies, Gentleman, Those who identify as neither or both, It is FINALLY here. I am so excited to bring this comic to you all and I hope it resonates with many of you out there. Here is my cover of the Undertale Fan Comic I’m working on; “JigsawTale : The Ascension of the PuzzleMaster”. A Post-Pacifist ending long-running Undertale fanwork that centers the perspective of Papyrus. He’s our main character, and we’ll get to see how well he integrates into life on the surface in the human world , along with all of his friends and found family. How difficult is life for monsters who are perceived as even stranger than the average monster is ? He’ll have many obstacles to overcome because Papyrus just isn’t like most monsters. I’m very excited to share my work with you all, this story means so much to me and so much of it is inspired by and informed by my own lived experience. Papyrus is the character I relate to the most in pretty much all of fiction and I feel like I’m telling my story through him, sort of, but also his own at the same time. He’s my favorite for a reason and I think it’s time we give him a moment to shine. The story may contain some potentially triggering topics and events , but when the time comes I’ll be sure to give multiple detailed warnings for anything that needs it. It’s also meant to be viewed by older audiences as such, I’m not really intending for this story to be viewed by kids, it is a story that centers the perspective of an adult who doesn’t always get to feel like one and not only do I think it’ll resonate with that audience more, but it may not be suitable for those who are younger at all times, so I’d proceed with caution. Also I feel I should clarify, I don’t personally see this as much of an “AU”, To me it’s not an alternate universe, so much as it is an extended timeline that asks “What happens to everyone after the end of the ‘pacifist’ run, and what if we looked at all of that from Papyrus’ perspective ?” It’s closer to an epilogue story. Outside of Asgore and Toriel not being immortal in my version of the story and closer to middle age, there are no major differences to the original game, not enough to be considered an AU anyway, but if you see me tag it as one, that’s just to make it easier to find. Regardless , I hope everyone who’s interested gets a chance to read my story when it’s out, it’ll still probably be a while before that happens as I have a lot of things to work on and art skills to improve , but when the day comes , you will know. I plan to continue trying to update when I can. This is just to promote the comic and I hope it reaches as many people as possible. Thank you all for your time and patience, I’m beyond excited.

If you’re interested in the comic and would like to support its development financially , considering I’m a one-man band working on all of this by myself, I’d really appreciate it. If you’d like to request art from me I’d be happy to do so in exchange for donations as well. Any amount helps, and I’d be eternally grateful. Of course however, do not feel pressured to donate. I appreciate you tuning in either way and I hope you all enjoy the story.

[go-to-the-mirror]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)

Relationship: Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters: Ninth Doctor (Doctor Who), Henry van Statten

Additional Tags: Whumptober, Whumptober 2023, Ninth Doctor (Doctor Who) Whump, Medical Torture, Vivisection, Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Episode: s01e06 Dalek, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Ninth Doctor & Rose Tyler, Title is from a line in the dalek novelisation, which you should all read right now, Mentioned Rose Tyler, Spoilers for Episode: s04e17-18 The End of Time, Captivity, Non-consensual surgery, No beta we die like ten

Words: 807

Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

The Doctor sends the TARDIS and Rose back to her time, and Henry van Statten has a unique alien specimen all to himself. --- “You’re going to die, van Statten,” he says. “You’re going to die because you won’t listen.” “And what do you think will happen to you, Doctor?” The Doctor doesn’t answer --- Written for Whumptober 2023, day 11. Prompts used are captivity and “No one will find you.”

Warnings:

Captivity

Non-consensual surgery

Restraints

Torture

Vivisection

 

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Work Header

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Doctor Who (2005)

Relationship:

Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Characters:

Ninth Doctor (Doctor Who)

Henry van Statten

Additional Tags:

Whumptober

Whumptober 2023

Ninth Doctor (Doctor Who) Whump

Medical Torture

Vivisection

Torture

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Canon Divergence - Episode: s01e06 Dalek

Hurt No Comfort

Minor Ninth Doctor & Rose Tyler

Title is from a line in the dalek novelisation

which you should all read right now

Mentioned Rose Tyler

Spoilers for Episode: s04e17-18 The End of Time

Captivity

Non-consensual surgery

No beta we die like ten

Language: English Series: ← Previous Work Part 11 of Whumptober 2023, ← Previous Work Part 2 of Season 1 Episode 6 Dalek Collections: Whumptober 2023 Stats: Published:2023-10-11Words:807Chapters:1/1Comments:2Kudos:4Hits:26

Alien Dissection

NebbyAxolotl

Summary:

The Doctor sends the TARDIS and Rose back to her time, and Henry van Statten has a unique alien specimen all to himself. Written for Whumptober 2023, day 11. Prompts used are captivity and “No one will find you.”

Notes:

For bloopdydooooo.

Written 10 Oct. 2023. Content warnings in the end notes. Anyway yeahhh babyyy i’m writing the same fic but Again because I like making 9 suffer. I’ve written half the fics in the vivisection tag in this fandom. Brian you need to get on that.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“With your… girl gone, no one will find you, Doctor.”

The Doctor looks up at van Statten, it’s hard to look anywhere but up, in the position that he’s in. “That’s why I did it.”

“Not the best of decisions,” van Statten responds, amicably.

“That thing you’ve got there.” Van Statten sighs, the Doctor continues regardless. “It’s a monster. It’ll kill everything.”

“So you send your only mode of escape away. Wise.”

The Doctor wishes he could move, could do anything but lie there, because he’s well aware of how his current situation undercuts his point. “That Dalek, if it escapes—“

“Which it won’t,” interrupts van Statten.

“Which is could. If it escapes — when it escapes — it’ll kill its way out of your museum ,” he spits the last word, he’s shaking, he can feel it. “And it’ll kill everyone on Earth.”

“I think you’ll find that humans are better at handling threats than your species was.”

The Doctor laughs, because how wrong can you get. His species stood a chance against the Daleks, that’s more than any other ones could say.

(His species would’ve killed the universe just as much as the Daleks would’ve, and he can’t think about that, he’s told himself he’d never think about that again.)

“You’re going to die, van Statten,” he says. “You’re going to die because you won’t listen.”

“And what do you think will happen to you, Doctor?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer him, and van Statten leaves.

---

The Doctor likes to think that humans tend towards goodness. It’s not that that’s a lie , per se, but it’s not entirely the truth.

See, humans are good when they can see something as the same as them. It’s that sense of kinship, it’s what a lot of species that reach space have in common. It’s also what makes them so dangerous, both to their own species and to others.

It’s not all humans who fear the unknown, but it’s enough to make it so when faced with something different, humans will fear it or assume superiority, often both. And when faced with something they need to distance themselves from, when faced with something they want to hurt, they’ll try their best to see their victim as not a person at all.

This is a long winded way to say that he’s afraid. Afraid of what the scientists — or he assumes they’re scientists — in the room mean, what they’re going to do to him, why haven’t they told him, is that a scalpel?

He’s almost glad Rose is gone. She can’t see this.

“Sedate him,” van Statten says.

“It doesn’t work,” he responds, and he hates it, hates how broken his voice sounds.

“What?” van Statten asks, coming properly into view.

“Anaesthetic,” the Doctor replies. “It doesn’t work.”

The Doctor knows it’s not going to stop him, but at least the Doctor won’t have to deal with what’s about to happen to him with a tube stuck down his throat.

Van Statten makes a gesture to someone and the table where he’s lying is made completely horizontal. Then someone straps his arms — stretched out to either side — legs, even head down. They’re strong, the restraints. What are they planning on doing to him?

“Open him up,” van Statten says, and he can’t help it, his hearts start to race.

The person with the scalpel doesn’t meet his eyes. There’s a pause before it happens, and then they finally make a cut and the Doctor would be writhing in pain if he weren’t strapped down so thoroughly. Instead he screams, wordless.

Through the haze of pain he hears van Statten murmur, “That’s amazing,” and then he’s screaming again, because they’re doing something , and he can’t hear above his own screams.

The Doctor can’t see, can’t see anything but the ceiling and occasional glimpses of van Statten and the scientists who are doing this to him. He’s straining so much against the restraints that he’ll have bruises, provided he lives, because this hurts so much he’s going to die, he’s just going to die.

There’s a pause. The Doctor’s screams peter off into cries, and he hates himself for it, because he can’t even breathe, can’t even get himself to wheeze out that the Dalek is dangerous.

“That’s fascinating ,” van Statten says, and then there’s the pain again, and the Doctor needs to get away, get away from him, but he’s held fast and helpless and all he can do is scream again.

---

They’ve closed the Doctor up, but they haven’t unrestrained him, not even slightly. Haven’t even moved him. He doesn’t want to think about what that means for him.

He doesn’t want to think about a lot of things, least of all that he’s just another oddity in van Statten’s museum, and that his only hope of rescue is in London in 2005.

[triflesandparsnips]

time for me to talk about RPF

why now? don’t worry about it

Some brief thoughts on why it’s okay to write Real Person Fiction

Because the people being written about aren’t real.

Unless we know them personally (and I mean personally), the only “person” we know is the mask that has been crafted specifically to be shared with an audience. It is just as “real,” to be frank, as any character they play -- they know they’re being observed, and in being observed, they change. To assume that we are getting access to the “real” person, or that we have some kind of personal relationship with them because they are projecting a persona that is friendly/casual/public, is just another parasocial dreamscape.

Example time: I am not who I “am” in real life here, or on twitter, or at work, or at conventions -- although all those places constitute parts of my real life. Much like my fiction, they all contain aspects of me, parts that I want to specifically share with an audience for my own purposes. You could write about “me” and find all sorts of details about my “real” life I’ve dropped in various public locations and come up with something very close to me... but it’ll still be as close as an-AU-where-they’re-all-baristas fic is to canon. You can infer a great deal about the real me based on the persona I choose to share, but you can’t actually know me. Anything you write about me, with whatever level of understanding you have, begins and ends as fiction.

Or, as I have said to random fuckos who try to DM me pickup lines in my gd twitter:

Some brief thoughts on when Real Person Fiction is not okay

For all that it’s not real... there are people on the other side of that name. People who don’t know the context that you’re creating under, or who aren’t completely sure that you know that y’all aren’t IRL friends.

Places RPF thoughts, theories, and fiction don’t belong:

in a real person’s social media

in a real person’s loved ones’ and/or coworkers’ social media

at their goddamn homes or places of businesses, jfc

If your immediate thought to any of the above is “but I want to see if I’m right!!” then you are too close to this shit, stand the fuck down.

Example time: I once had a fandom post get some decent notes. It had a downer of a joke in it, but that was sort of the point. Some people responded, or even just tagged, with the usual hyperbolic #OH HELLO SATAN type of tumblr reactions, which is of course delicious. Some people, though, went in a direction where even I -- who knows about tumblr hyperbole and that this post would elicit it -- was uncertain about whether these people genuinely hated me.

And that’s me! Who knows the context of what I was doing and how people would respond! So imagine these actors or writers or public people or whatever who have NO FUCKING CLUE about the context. Or even if they have a clue, it’s by its nature kind of fucky because while it MAY feel like we know them, they definitely DON’T KNOW US.

(If your immediate thought to the above is that “but they could know me!! If I’m clever and friendly enough we could be buddies!!” then you are again too close, step away.)

Consider why you’re having your RPF thinky-thoughts! Is it because you want to explore an intangible thing, and these people (characters) are the best vehicle to do so? That’s valid! Our Flag Means Death uses real people as a vehicle to tell queer narratives. Clementine von Radics’s “Kim Kardashian Redux” uses real people to talk about consent, power, sexual exploitation, and revenge (nota bene: This poem also demonstrates the danger of using people who are still alive and changing for your works. CvR regrets using Kardashian now to tell this narrative. I myself have a Glee RPF that will never be finished because hooboy. Pick your vehicles, and be cognizant of their ephemerality). 

But if the reason you’re sharing your RPF thoughts is because you want to be able to ~~connect~~ irl with the person about whom you’re writing/thinking? NOPE.

(YOU CANNOT CONNECT WITH THEM. THESE PEOPLE DON’T EXIST IN THE WORLD PURELY TO PERSONALLY CONNECT WITH YOU. DON’T BE THAT DUDE WHO TRIES TO TALK TO THE GIRL WITH THE HEADPHONES ON. SHE IS BUSY HAVING HER OWN GODDAMN LIFE AND GOALS AND MAYBE SHE JUST WANTED TO BE CHILL AND LOOK CUTE WITHOUT YOU ALL UP IN HER BUSINESS, JESUS.)

(ALSO ALL GENDERS ARE CAPABLE OF BEING FUCKING CREEPY. DON’T BE CREEPY.)

Some brief thoughts on when to tell real people about Real People Fiction, Theories, and/or Art

Never.

What if it’s someone else’s Real People Fiction, Theories, and/or Art

Wow, also never.

But what if I think they’d really like it

You have no basis for believing that. Even evidence that they have sought out and read/seen RPF does not constitute consent. They chose that -- don’t take away their choice to see or not see what’s out there.

But what if that means they’ll never see this really amazing/sweet/accurate/thoughtful/hot--

Then they’ll never see it. The world is full of things that will never be seen. That’s okay. You don’t get to curate someone else’s experience of the world.

But trifles, you yourself are trying to control how we interact with Real People, isn’t that kind of related to all this “consent” stuff you’re talking about here? And while we’re at it, why not just... condemn RPF if you’re going to be so judgy about it

I mean, you’re right. I am totally trying to convince you to not creep out the people who produce the content we like. I would also try and convince you to not creep on the girl with her headphones on. I am generally against creepiness.

I do, though, think there’s a difference between “creating RPF because it tells the story we want to tell” and “sharing RPF because we think it creates a bridge over the parasocial divide.”

Humans have been telling stories about each other for a really long time because that’s how we process our experiences. I’ve seen RPF written by anonymous actors about other real actors, who are just trying to process their own goddamn issues about acting. And I personally like actor/author RPF, but don't generally give a damn about most any other (I barely count historical people showing up in fic as RPF), because so much of “creative person” RPF is about figuring out how to balance the personal with the public, and/or dealing with this deeply weird art of personifying Others for stretches at a time-- and how you do it, and what it does to you. Because that is a thing that I think about a lot as it relates to my own life! For me, processing that through writing about other actors/authors, rather than oneself, adds a layer of very necessary abstraction. 

But my fiction is not made to connect to some specific person. I write it because it says something I need to say, and/or it says something others might need to hear. The moment I get particular about it -- with a stranger -- is when the RPF stops serving its purpose as a tool for telling stories, and becomes a hammer to break down walls I have no right to breach.

thank you for coming to my ted talk, yes I’m thinking about this because I am considering the ethical implications of putting OFMD RPF out into the world

[starconsumer444]

BULLY TENDOU PT2! PLS OMG IT WAS SO GOOD

Thanks bae!!! I have 3 requests for a part 2 of this so here it is. Its most likely not what the audience wanted but its the best I could come up with.

(Tendou & Semi 18+)

(CW/TW: Gn!Reader, Facefucking, Abuse, Humiliation, !!PISSSSS!!, violence, threesome??? [kinda??? this is literally one of the least concerning tags...], Non-con/Rape, Ushijima is there... in the background, this is super fucked up!!!, PLEASE TELL ME IF I MISSED SOMETHING!!!, tell me if there are any spelling or grammar errors.)

It’s been a month. Tendou hasn’t bothered you for a month since your last… “interaction”. Why this? Why now?

Thinking you could trust Ushijima was a mistake; a huge, disgusting, dumb, mistake. When he pushes you into the locker room and you see Tendou and Semi sitting patiently on the benches, you know for a fact this is not going to end well. A sense of urgency floods your body and you turn around to push the door open, but it won’t budge.

You start to bang on the door, it’s lunch time so you’re sure that Ushijima is the only one outside of that door that can hear you. He has to be the one holding it shut.

“Ushijima! Open the door!” Your fists pound against the cold metal. It hurts like hell, but anything is better than being in this room. “Ushijima please!” You slam your full weight into the crash bar, but it does nothing. You kick at the door, nothing. And you're back to pounding to no avail. Why is he so strong?

“Don’t leave me in here!” You scream, your throat is raw. “Help me!”

It does nothing.

Your body is shaking, your legs are like jelly, it’s hard to breathe; you're sure you're going to die in this room.

“You want out?” The voice comes from right above you, and you jump. It’s unmistakably Tendou. His fingers dance gently across one of your shoulder blades, “Why are you shaking? I could tell him to let you out if you want to leave so badly.” With a rough hand he turns you around to face him. “You want me to tell him to let you go?”

You can’t bring your eyes to meet his, you just nod to the floor.

“Why? I thought you had a crush on SemiSemi? I brought him just for you.” He mocks you.

Tears start to fall, you shake your head and bring your palms up to your eyes to hide that you're crying.

He grabs your wrists and pulls them away from your face, locking you in a gaze that feels hypnotic. He looks so terrifying, but it’s intense and you can’t look away.

“Listen to me. I’m being fucking considerate.” His tone is harsher than before, the harshness you’ve grown familiar with. “Just do us a favor and we’ll let you go. Okay?” It’s not really a question. You can’t even bring yourself to nod, you just stare into his eyes, horrified to react.

He must’ve taken your silence as an okay. No, he just didn’t care.

Either way, you ended being dragged to the showers at the back of the locker room and forced to suck Semi off.

“Try harder.” Semi demands from above you.

You’re really trying, but you’ve never done this before. The hand you have wrapped around the base of his dick is shaking, and you can’t go down very far. You don’t know what to do.

“Dude, it’s bad.” He speaks to Tendou like you’re not even there.

“You’re too dumb to suck dick, right? Is that it? Not even your crush gets good head?”

The tears never stopped, but now they definitely flow harder. You pull away from Semi to wipe your tears, but it's quickly met with an “uh-uh” from Semi and his fingers pulling at your roots.

“Open your mouth.” He says. 

You don’t; Tendou kicks your thigh, “Do it, dumbass.”

Your mouths open and he’s slowly feeding himself back into it, “Watch your teeth.” He says, and suddenly he has both his hands on either side of your head with his dick touching the back of your throat. “It’ll be easier if we do it this way,” He says before he pulls out and slams back in.

Immediately you’re fighting him, hands pushing against his thighs trying to get away from him, but he keeps going as you choke around him. You’re clawing at his forearms and he’s not giving you a moment to breathe with his brutal assault on your throat. He just holds your head in place and acts like this is okay.

“Calm down,” Semis' voice is unstable from the pleasure he’s getting from this. “It’ll be better if you calm down.”

You can’t bring yourself to stop panicking. Your hands find purchase on Semis’ thighs and squeeze. You try to find your voice to beg him to stop, but you choke as he fucks the words right down your throat. Even you coughing around him doesn’t get him to stop, it just has Tendou laughing at you and noting how pathetic you are from the side.

“Feels so good,” Semi breathes out almost as a warning. Your nose is pressed into his abdomen in no time, and he’s holding you there. Your eye’s must’ve been closed the whole time, because when you look up at him all you can see is his blissed out expression; his eyes are closed and his mouth hangs open as he lets out soft moans. It’s all just a warning.

His hips buck forward slightly into your mouth as he cums down your throat. It doesn’t get very far before you’re coughing it right back up, some of it spilling onto the floor.

Semi pulls you off of him and steps away back into the locker room. Now it’s just you and Tendou. You know in your heart it can get so much worse than what Semi just did to you.

“Lick it up.” Tendous voice is stern but playful, like this is all a joke to him. “Come on,” He pushes your head down to the glob of Semis cum you let get away. “Lick it up.” He demands again.

The thought of licking cum off this dirty shower floor has your stomach ready to lurch out of your body. With his palm flat against your head, you shake it as best you can and immediately come to regret it when he kicks you in your ribcage. The pain travels like lightning though your body and has you immediately curling in on yourself and groaning. “Do it now or I’m just gonna beat you, your choice…”

You move to do it. You press your tongue against the cold tiled floor and drag it across with your eyes screwed shut. It’s shameful to say the least. It feels like you're going to vomit. Your eyes don’t need to be open to know how much Tendou enjoys this. The floor is cold, but his cum is noticeably warm and the texture is different.

You swallow it; a shiver wracks your frame.

“See, it wasn't that bad,” You look at him with bloodshot eyes. You can’t cry anymore and you have a headache.

“Tendou please,” It’s laced with nothing but defeat. “What did I do to you?”

“Some people just deserve it.”

So, nothing. You did nothing.

“Sit up. Open wide.”

It’s work to resist at this point, you don’t have it in you. You simply do as he says. You’ll take his dick in your mouth and this will all be over with. You’ll be done, you’ll never come to school again.

You sit up with your eyes screwed shut waiting for Tendou to use you the way Semi used you. His palm rests on your forehead and his fingers are locked into the front section of your hair, “Ready?” His smile is sadistic, but that’s just parr for the course.

It’s gross. You close your mouth immediately, you recoil, and Tendou laughs like this is even slightly funny. That alarmed look really does something for him, though.

His piss is warm and it smells gross. You, unfortunately got some of it in your mouth and your face scrunches at the taste. You try to pull away from him but his death grip on your hair gives you nowhere to run to. He just pisses on your face and it flows downward to soil your uniform.

You want to yell at him, but if you open your mouth again…

Soon it’s over, his piss has soaked into your uniform and you reek of it.

He nudges his dick at your tightly closed lips, “Clean it.”

You do so reluctantly. Your breathing is heavy and shaky, and the only sound you can hear. You’re supposed to be crying, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it anymore.

Your tongue swirls around the head of his dick and for a second you consider biting him, but you’re in no shape to fight him about it and even if you weren’t covered in his piss you wouldn’t win.

He leaves you there after you clean him off. He says something about the showers working perfectly fine, hoping you have a change of clothes, and the next p.e. class seeing you.

It’s your last year of school and you’re dropping out.

[takamikeiigos]

Okay I know made an ask already like 2 days ago🙄 but what if hawks s/o had to fake their death on a mission for like a month or 2😮‍💨 and when they come back the first thing they do is look for hawks even though they’re tired, beaten and look like complete shit😩😩 I’m just such a sucker for these kind of tropes !!!

Also how’s ur day been :))

ayo i got you fam!!!

this was legit all i could think of for like 3 days so i hope it's okay!!

Title: "You Came Back to Me"

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (for now)

Relationships: Hawks x Reader

Tags: temporary character death, violence, drinking as a coping mechanism (minor on hawk's part), emesis

Word Count: 2.8k

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3

You look up at the villain who currently has you pinned to the floor, your ragged breaths leaving your mouth with every rise and fall of your chest.

His vibrant green eyes are piercing as they stare down at you, his expression wicked and merciless as he presses his foot harder against your throat as a warning.

"Here are your options, darlin'," he pulls his foot away, instead opting to sit back on his haunches. He brushes your hair from your face and rests his hand on your cheek. It makes you flinch and your breath hitch.

"You either find a way to dissappear, or I'll track down that precious little birdy of yours and take his wings for myself."

○ ○ ○

- three weeks prior -

"Let me come with you. Please."

"Kei.." you say softly as you back the rest of your necessities in your bag, finally turning to look at him.

He's on edge, you can tell by his posture. His wings are drawn tight to his back, but his feathers are puffed out. It reminds you of how hair stands on end and goosebumps make them selves known under fear and stress.

"You know I can't.."

"This is too much for one person to handle." His arms are folded across his chest now as he leans against the doorframe of your shared bedroom.

"You don't think I can handle myself?" The words leave your mouth sounding offended, and he instantly deflates.

"That's not what I meant. If you didn't know what you were doing, you wouldn't be working for one of the top agencies in Japan." Keigo steps forward, now in your space, and you can see a faint trace of fear flicker across his face. "I just.. this man is very dangerous, y/n. And if anything happens.."

"Hey. It'll be okay. It'll only be a month and I'll be home before you know it. I won't let anything happen, I promise." Your hand falls against his cheek and he nuzzles into it, both of his hands coming to rest against your own.

"You promise?" he asks quietly, needing one more confirmation that you'll be home and safe in a couple weeks.

"I promise."

○ ○ ○

"Have you made your mind up, sweetheart?" Kimura, the man who has had the utmost pleasure in beating you within an inch of your life, asks. He slams you against the brick wall of the alleyway one more time for good measure, his hand wrapped firmly around your throat.

"Please.." you gasp out, your hands coming to wrap around his wrist, trying to relieve the pressure against your larynx. "P-please promise me you won't hurt him, that you w-wont lay a hand on him.."

He chuckles darkly, tossing you aside onto the cold, dirty floor of the alleyway.

Your vision is blurring, slowly darkening at the edges, but you manage to see him move a few feet away, bending down to pick something up off the ground. You blink sluggishly and suddenly he's in your space once more, holding the object, which you soon realize is your phone, in your face.

"Go ahead, songbird. Give him one last goodbye."

You cringe at the abuse of the nickname that you hold so dear, but weakly reach out and take your phone from his hand, Hawks' number already dialed.

All you had to do was hit send and that would be it.

You close your eyes and rest your head against the brick wall, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. You can feel tears burning as they make themselves known, clinging to your eyelashes and not yet falling to your cheeks. You blame it on the amount of pain you're in, but you know the true reason is because you're absolutely terrified.

You press send.

As it rings you notice Kimura bringing out his own phone, holding it up and aiming it in your direction.

What a sick bastard.

"Baby bird!" Keigo's voice comes cheerfully from the other line. Though it warms and calms your senses, it still makes you sad knowing that he's completely oblivious to what's about to come.

"H-Hey, Kei.." you try your best to keep your voice steady, but the damage from excessive force to your throat is unforgiving and the words leave your mouth sounding raspy and distant.

"Y/n, where are you?" Keigo's voice drops an octave and you can tell his worry has set in, which was exactly what you wanted to avoid.

"I'm okay, just uh," you pause mid-sentence, your throat tightening around the words as tears threaten to spill again, "just got knocked around a lil bit."

Your laugh comes out bitter. You hate the sound of it.

"Y/n. Tell. Me. Where. You. A-"

"Kei, listen. I need you to know how much I.." your voice betrays you and cracks, and you suddenly find that you can't fight the overwhelming fear and sadness coming over you. You weakly bring a hand up to wipe at your battered cheeks, tears continuing to fall and mix with the grime and blood that covers your skin.

You try again to steel yourself, another deep breath falling from your lips shakily, making your lungs rattle. It's becoming harder each second to keep your eyes open and your mind focused, but if you make it through this one phone call, you know you'll be able to rest easy.

"I need you t'know how much I love you. 'N that everything's g'nna be fine. That you'll be okay. And to not c-"

Suddenly a gunshot rings out and your whole world stands still for a split second, before turning completely sideways.

You register warmth blossoming over your abdomen, spreading and soaking your hero uniform. You can hear Keigo frantically yelling from where your phone slipped from your hand and landed on the concrete next to your head. And the last thing you see is Kimura holstering his gun with one hand, tapping away on his phone with the other.

"What a shitty ending for a hero, don't you think?" Kimura grins down at you.

Yeah. What a shitty ending for a hero.

○ ○ ○

The quiet trickle of water finds its way to your ears, and the feeling of something cold and damp against your forehead is a soothing contrast to how hot your body feels.

Opening your eyes feels as though it takes half of whatever strength you have left, and your vision swims. Suddenly hit with a wave a nausea, you lean over and vomit over the edge of the bed you're laying on. Luckily there's a bucket on the floor, and you assume it was placed there for a reason.

That someone placed it there.

In a panic you sit up, your wounds pulling tight and your body protesting. Your vision swims again and it takes you a few moments to ground yourself.

"Ma'am, please don't move too fast. You'll re-open your wounds and you're already in bad shape," a quiet voice projects throughout the room. You look up and notice an older man, probably in his sixties, sitting in a chair next to the bed you're currently occupying.

"Who are you? Where's Kimura?" You grit out, grabbing the edge of the blankets and tossing them off of you. The man in front of you is ready for your attempt at escape and he places steady hands on your shoulders, pushing you back onto the bed.

"Please! My name is Daichi Tanaka, I am a doctor! I found you in an alleyway near Higashiosaka. I would have taken you to a hospital but you begged me not to," the man pleads, his hands persistent on your shoulders.

You glare at him momentarily, before relaxing back onto the bed, still weary of his intentions.

"Kimura? Is that the name of the person who did this to you?" The man - Tanaka - asks hesitantly.

You ignore his question in favor for asking your own, "How long have I been out?"

Tanaka stares at at you, seeming to contemplate answering, but you figure he finally realizes you aren't taking any shit because his answer comes out with a sigh.

"A little over a week. You've been in and out, your fever finally broke this morning."

Over a week. You've been out for over a week and you don't know where you are, where Kimura went, and where Keigo-

Keigo.

It all comes crashing back to you and you lie back, your hands resting over your eyes.

Tanaka seems to have been reading your mind, because he pulls your phone from the nightstand next to you and passes it over.

"I wiped as much blood from it as I could. You have many new notifications and quite a few missed calls. I wasn't able to unlock it to call anyone, but it seems there are many people worried about you." Tanaka stands then, making his way toward the bedroom door.

"I will give you some privacy for now, but expect me to be back in twenty minutes to check up on you."

With that, Tanaka leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You stare down at your phone, the screen cracked and a few specs of blood and dirt tucked into its crevices. You type your pin in and pull your notifications up, Keigo's name amongst others filling the screen.

You don't realize you're crying until a small hiccup forces its way from your mouth, your cheeks wet with tears.

You notice a voice-mail from him, and though you know it's only going to make you more upset, you force yourself to open it to make sure he's okay.

His voice floods the room and it immediately breaks your heart at how wrecked he sounds. You can tell he's been crying by how gravelly his voice sounds as the message plays out.

"You know," Keigo laughs bitterly over the phone, "I punched Ryosetsu in the face for letting you go on this mission alone. Gave 'im a real nice shiner on your behalf."

The message goes quiet and you can hear what sounds like a glass bottle being opened in the background, Keigo's quiet sniffles also making themselves known.

"Fuck, y/n. They didnt even.. they didnt even find your body. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, huh?

"They wouldn't even let me anywhere near the scene, I had to sit back at the office while they kept me informed. He said there was uh.." you assume Keigo pauses to take a swig of whatever he's drinking based off the tink of the glass bottle, "heh, he said there's a low chance you're even alive because there was so much blood. Fuck."

You grimace at how blunt he is with the statement and how distant his voice sounds. You can only hope that he hasn't been drinking as often as your thoughts are telling you.

"Please come back to me," he whimpers over the message, and a new wave of tears fall down your cheeks. "Please.. I can't do this without you."

○ ○ ○

A few days pass.

Tanaka refuses to take any of your shit.

He most definitely refuses to let you leave until you had one more solid meal in you, and one more day of rest.

You're still a little weak, bruises and abrasions littering your skin ( not to mention the nasty bullet wound Tanaka managed to sew up for you ) but you finally have enough strength to stand and walk on your own.

He pleads with you to stay one more day, just to ensure you're strong enough to be by yourself, but you shake your head and bow before him.

"Thank you, Mr. Tanaka, but I have to keep moving. It might be unsafe for you if I stay."

So instead he writes down his phone number on a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to you, patting your hand briefly.

"You're a strong one, just be sure to take care of yourself." He smiles kindly at you, and you nod before taking your leave.

○ ○ ○

Days go by as you hop around from town to town, only stopping for food and rest.

It's been a little over two weeks since you made the decision to distance yourself to ensure the safety of your friends and Keigo, and nearly two months since you were assigned the mission. While you knew faking your death was the only way to keep people from asking too many questions about why you suddenly disappeared, you weren't expecting to actually get shot and almost die.

You keep up with the recent events as best as you can, continuously watching news coverage and especially keeping tabs on Keigo's agency.

Your breath catches in your throat one day while you're moving through a rural seaside town, large red wings and a familiar hero uniform immediately catching your attention.

A flood of emotions run through you and it takes everything in you to not run up to him and hold him. But the fear of Kimura's prying eyes hold you back, and you steadily remind yourself that you're doing this to protect him.

You keep your distance and watch his every move. He's staring down at his phone for a while and after a few moments it rings. He brings it to his ear and though you can't hear what he's saying, it must be something important.

Because soon enough his wings are spread out and he's taking flight into the afternoon sky.

○ ○ ○

'Pro-Hero Hawks makes appearance in. Tanabe - finds lead on hero killer'

'Hanamatsu hero case still under investigation'

'Top Hero Agency in Japan pursuing hero killer - Kimura'

The news headlines on your phone cause your blood to run cold. How foolish of you to think Keigo would let this go so easily.

To think he wouldn't trace every piece of evidence and go to the ends of the earth to take down someone who hurt you.

○ ○ ○

You keep tabs on him as best you can. It begins to feel like you're stalking him, in a weird way, but you'll be damned if you did all of this just to put his safety on the line.

Keigo stays in Tanabe for the time being, the week passing by in a blur as you track his movements.

You figure Kimura went into hiding since his criminal activity fell flat after your encounter with him, but Keigo is as persistent as he's ever been, nitpicking every lead that comes his way.

A few days later word gets out that Kimura has been spotted in the village of Hidakagawa, just thirty minutes northwest of Tanabe.

You only hope you can get there before Keigo does.

○ ○ ○

Hidakagawa is exactly what you pictured, a perfect little town for a low-life criminal to live under the radar.

Its quiet and rural, its occupants living their lives happily tucked away from the bustling life of the city.

A few squad cars rush past you as you look at the map you have pulled up on your phone. It seems a little out of character for such a small town, so you push yourself forward and follow them.

○ ○ ○

When you finally catch up to the squad cars, the scene before you makes your hair stand on end.

Keigo has Kimura pinned to the ground, battered and bruised, his fist closed around a one of his feathers that he's currently wielding as a blade. A few dozen officers surround the scene, guns drawn and on edge.

Kimura smirks up at him and whatever he says is out of earshot, but its enough to piss Keigo off and send him into a frenzy.

"Kei, stop!" You find yourself yelling shakily. You finally manage to push through the barricade of officers and it's then that Keigo makes eye contact with you, his closed fist halted in the air.

Kimura takes the split second of distraction to knock the blade from Keigo's hand, flipping their position so the winged hero is pinned to the floor of the temple. He pulls out his gun and cocks it, pressing it to Keigo's forehead.

All the while Keigo keeps his eyes on you.

"I thought I told you to stay away, little one," Kimura grits out, wiping a trail of blood from his mouth, "Now it looks like your little hawk is about to lose his wings, all because someone can't listen."

You move on impulse when Kimura turns his attention back to Keigo, and you grab the handgun from the officer closest to you.

You waste no time in firing a bullet, hitting Kimura right in the temple. But as it strikes he squeezes the trigger of his own gun on impulse, which is still trained on Keigo, a second round going off.

- to be continued -

tbh i was super nervous to post this bc im so new to the fandom but here we go!!

also i just made up random characters bc im not quite caught up with the manga, and also picked random spots in japan that i know absolutely nothing about

rip to my writing skills lmfao

♡ ky

[amor-immortalem]

Can I Stay Up Here With You Forever? Ch.7

Previous

Warning(s): nothing really, this chapter is pretty tame really.

If you want to be tagged please let me know or if you're already tagged and wish to not be just let me know

taglist: @mediocredetective @it-hurts-when-i-blink @ima-simp-uwu

The click-clacking of heeled shoes reverberates through the halls as the Avatar of Lust nears Diavolo’s office. With rapid frantic knocks on the door. It swings open to reveal the Demon’s butler, Barbatos.

“Asmodeus, what can I do for you?” The green-haired demon asks as he studies the other.

“I came to request an emergency audience with Lord Diavolo. Please, it's really important. He’s the only one who can help.” Asmo is out of breath from the speed at which they ran to get here, shaken in the way they talk.

“First, why don’t you come in and we’ll talk.” Barbatos offers. “I’ve prepared some tea and backed good. The young lord is in a very important meeting with a group of witches but once he’s done, you can speak with him at length about whatever this emergency is.”

Asmo nods as they do their best to compose themselves just a little bit.

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

“So what is all this about?” The future demon king asks as he sits across from the Avatar of Lust, “It must be incredibly important considering you’re currently skipping class.”

“It’s Lucifer. He’s gone mad- off the deep end with his latest punishment.” The fifth-born says, “Ever since he brought Mammon back from the human world, things have rough at home. It’s like Lucifer is holding him hostage, controlling who Mammon does and doesn’t interact with. He’s been trying to convince our brother of things that aren’t true and its working. It’s like we’ve lost the person our oldest brother used to be and I’m scared he may never go back to the Lucifer we all love and respect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we all knew Mammon wasn’t happy with us and that’s why he wasn’t ever going to come back from the human world- understandable since you know how we all treat him like a scapegoat for our stress and frustrations. And when he came home, we all tried to show him we were really going to change our ways this time- that we were honestly sorry for the things we’ve done. He’s said multiple times that he no longer considered the House of Lamentation his home and that he wants to go back to the place where he feels loved- to the place he thinks he belongs. Every time... Every time he’s said that, Lucifer has been there to tell him that he’s only imagining that he’s not loved here, that the Devildom is the only place he belongs. But I know that’s not true. You can belong in multiple places at once. And then things started slowly getting worse. Mammon is never out of Lucifer’s sight for long and when Lucifer can be there to loom over him, he has his peacocks follow Mammon around everywhere so he can’t find some way to get back to the human world and Arella.

Whenever Mammon tries to get Lucifer to get off his back for even just a few minutes, he tells Mammon that he’s crazy and Lucifer or his familiars were never in the area to begin with. He’s convincing our brother that he’s unwell in the head and delusional. Do you know Lucifer had Arella’s D.D.D. disconnected so she can’t even get in contact with any of us let alone Mammon. What’s worse, Arella has been writing letters to Mammon to check up on him. She sends them back with Solomon every time he comes back from the mortal realm, but Lucifer takes those letters and burns them before Mammon can even get a look at them. And just today, right before class, Lucifer was gaslighting Mammon into believing that Arella was only trying to isolate him from us, that she was putting ideas in his head, that she was just using him for her own benefit- that she never loved him to begin with and the only people he needed in his life was us. I... I think it worked.”

Diavolo’s honey-colored eyes widened at the words tumbling out of Asmo’s mouth. “Where are they now?”

“Lucifer took Mammon home to rest. He looked so upset by what Lucifer said that he looked like he was five seconds away from a breakdown. Please, I’m begging you to step in and help us get our oldest brother back to the way he was before. And Mammon... he needs to get back to Arella... she’s... expecting.”

“Really now?” The prince is genuinely shocked at this turn of events. “How far along?”

“She’s five- nearly six- months now. I saw her a few weeks ago and she seems to be healthy but half-demons are so rare who knows what’ll happen if he doesn’t get back to her soon.”

Diavolo nods at this. Things were indeed dire at this point. “Here’s what we’ll do. You and Solomon are going to take Mammon on a trip- let's say to a spa and resort. If you don’t feel safe going just the three of you, take another one or two of your brothers along with you. It’ll all be a ruse, however. You’ll all head to the human world to visit Arella and then you’ll bring her back with you after the baby is born.” He looks toward his trusty butler and longtime companion. “Barbatos, I would like you to look for suitable housing for the two of them. Don’t worry about the cost.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“I myself will have a talk with Lucifer and see why he changed so suddenly and what we can do to reach a compromise of sorts. There must be a reason behind all of this.

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

He just wants to be left alone tonight- to have some time for himself to grieve the loss of what he thought was true love. He nuzzled into his pillow; lapis-like eyes squeezed tight as he held a sheep plushie close to his chest. He didn’t want to believe what Lucifer had said earlier at school but what was he supposed to think? The Avatar of Pride was truthful in his statement that he had never lied to him unless it was to protect him and their brothers. And Arella hadn’t even tried to call him or summon him back so it felt like Lucifer’s words must’ve been the truth.

He could just faintly hear the door open and close softly before there was a weight on his bed right behind him. Mammon knew the smell of that perfume anywhere. It was Asmo.

“Hey, Mams,” the Avatar of Lust rubs their brother’s shoulder soothingly only pulling away when he cried, the touch reminding him of the human he missed so much. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss ‘er... I miss ‘er so much but... she was just usin’ me all this time... she... never loved me like I thought she did.”

“Mammon, no. No, that’s not true at all. Arella misses you just as much as you miss her. You know those letters that Solomon tries to give you- the ones Lucifer burns on sight?”

The Avatar of Greed nods in response.

“They’re filled with questions about your well-being. How you’re doing, if you’ve gotten to do anything new or fun, if you’re safe or hurt, how much she loves and cares for you, and how she hopes she can see you again someday once all this blows over. There was something she wanted to tell you the day you were brought back here.”

“What was it?” The white-haired demon asks as he turned his head to his little brother.

“She’s having a baby. You’re going to be a father.”

“What?! Yer not pulling my leg, are ya?”

“No, no I’m not. Congratulations.” The strawberry-blonde-haired demon smiles brightly. “Also, I talked to Lord Diavolo earlier and he came up with a plan to help you sneak up to the human world so you can be with her until the baby is born.”

“Wha- why?”

“Because aside from Lucifer, the rest of us agree that you deserve to be happy- even if you can’t find that happiness with us anymore. We all know you’re miserable down here and I know we’ve all done things to you in the past that were undeserved and we just want to make up for that because we love you.”

“What happens after that? Asmo, I’m not leaving Arella or our baby. I can’t.”

“I know. We’re going to bring them back with us and the you guys will live somewhere else besides the House of Lamentation- you're going to need the space after all.”

“But what about Arella’s job in the human world- she loves it an’ I can’t force ‘er ta leave it behind. It’s not fair.”

“She loves you more though. Just trust me, ‘kay? Everything will work out in the end.”

Mammon only nods as Asmo leans in to whisper in his ear and fill him in on their plan.

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

Next

Find more on my Masterlist

[acespec-ed]

I realized it’s been a long time since I’ve been posting stuff that wasn’t reblogs, especially compared to when starting this blog almost a year ago. I also remember that, when I first started this blog, I wanted it to be all about educating people about asexuality and it’s spectrum- which includes the lesser known identities like fray and aego. 

Which gave me an idea to do something that, not only has me posting something that isn’t a reblog, but also has me bringing attention to lesser known identities.

Which brings me to:

Obscure aspec labels of the week!

Every Sunday, I’m going to post a post containing an obscure aspec identity, its flag, and its definition. And when I say “obscure,” I mean obscure. Not stuff that’s obscure for people who don’t spend a lot of time in aspec spaces, but stuff that even people in aspec spaces have to google. The kinda stuff where, you search the Tumblr tags for it and there’s barely anything. The kinda stuff where, people ask if there’s a label for a thing, and nobody knows the answer. (And so someone coins one when it already exists.) This way, that obscure label will at least reach an audience. Maybe someone will even discover the one they’ve been searching for this way!

Since this is an ace blog first, it’ll all be just acespec labels first. But if I keep doing this long enough, I’ll probably start venturing into aro/apl/etc-spec labels. I won’t be taking any specific requests (though it’s possible that could change in the future), because I already have a long enough list for now and the request might be on that already.

Unfortunately, since these labels are so obscure, I can’t spend all week reblogging stuff on them because there’s barely anything to reblog of them! So for now it’ll just be a little definition post every Sunday, starting today. But we can all find our own ways to celebrate.

[malfoys-demigod]

"I guess this is a lesson in not trusting people”

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested by @potatothingsz​

-> Hiii! I am a big fan of you honestlyyy eee i have read almost every blog of yours (mainly dracos-) anyway! I was wondering if you are open for requests rn? If not totally understand! But if you are tho i hope i can request one? Its a draco x reader one the story goes that draco is fighting with (whatever guy in hp) the reason is that the random guy basically have a crush on you (y/n is dating draco) then draco gets arrogant about it then y/n hears it then they fight cuz of things draco said!Gb!

Word Count: 3.6k 

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this! 

tag list @the--queen-of-hell​ @bbeauttyybbx​

“And that’s how my parents met the headmaster of Ilvermorny School, all the way in America!” Pansy excitingly shared the news with you and Daphne by the Great Hall. 

“How excellent, Pansy,” you said, interested in the conversation, “You should definitely tell your parents to bring you next time.”

“Oh my gosh,” Daphne said, sounding so surprised, “It’s only a week before holiday starts! Why don’t you ask them to spend the holidays with you over there? Wouldn’t an American holiday sound fantastic to you?”

“I second that,” you agreed, “Pansy, you would have the most exciting trip ever!”

Pansy liked the idea of spending the holidays in America, so she smiled, grinning as if it was a mischievous plan. “That is such a smart idea, who knows, I could return from the holiday’s with an American boyfriend!” 

“You wish,” you teased, lightly nudging her shoulder. 

Before Pansy could come back with a funny remark, Blaise bursted into the Great Hall, causing many eyes to look at him as he was running towards the three of you. He seemed terrified out of his life, as there was fear in his eyes, which was something you’ve barely seen from him. He was such a relaxed and reserved person most of the time, so acting like this without caring if people now paid attention to him was a first. 

He placed his hands on your shoulders, huffing and puffing breath. 

“What’s troubling you, Blaise?” you placed a hand on his hand, sounding deeply concerned. 

He was still huffing and puffing when he said, “Malfoy. Fight. Outside. Now.” 

It was like this new, uplifting energy came out of nowhere when you immediately stood up from the table and started dashing out of the Great Hall, along with your friends who followed behind. 

There were so many thoughts madly entering your mind, swimming around and suggesting the most horrid reasons as to why Draco was involved in a fight. You were very much aware that he liked making dramatic debates and conversations with practically much everyone at school. But to make a huge scene that caused Blaise to briefly trouble you to stop what you were doing was something petrifying to experience. 

Mindlessly, you made several turns around the castle, following Blaise, who had quickly followed your pace, guiding you to the crowd by the outskirts of the castle. It was by the balcony which gave a side perspective of the vast body of water which Viktor Krum and his school used to travel by ship. 

It was about time when you were faced with your boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, involving himself in a serious and intense magic and physical battle with Cormac McLaggen, a Gryffindor who was in the year above you. 

They have seemed to be quite in focus with the fight, ignoring the crowd’s chants and cheers. Honestly, one thing to be quite disappointed in at some point were the people’s reactions and follow-ups when it came to witnessing fights. There were crowds that would stop and call for help, and there were crowds that would watch the fight as if it was pure entertainment. 

You were given the crowd that would watch the fight as if it was pure entertainment, saldy. 

Since there was so much going through your mind, without thinking, you jumped into the middle of the fight, hoping you wouldn’t be hit with a spell or a fist fight. 

“Enough!” you yelled, raising both your hands to the side, for both opponents to see. They terrifyingly lowered their wands, looking around the crowd, agitated with the eyes around them. 

Once they had your attention, you angrily heaved a breath out of your system, which resulted from the start of a massive headache. You heatedly walked to the side your boyfriend was standing by and threw out your hands hysterically. 

“What the bloody hell is going on, Draco!” 

He did not reply, as he remained silent. He began looking down at the ground with disappointment and struggle in his face, realizing the damage he had placed himself. He was breathing in and out, holding his wand tightly with such distress in his grip. 

You absolutely did not have the luxury to receive more silent treatment from him, for you were enraged and impatient with the silence. You rolled your eyes with such fury, “Explain, dammit!” 

From the other side of the paused, rather ended battle, Cormac showed a condoling facial expression, which made him slowly walk to the other side, where you and Draco were standing by. He placed a hand on your shoulder, which caused you to briskly turn around. 

He then placed a hand on his chest and said, “I believe I am at fault, Y/N.” he suggested, “He must have overheard me telling my friends how I fancied you and got distressed about it. I should have tried to reason with him more because if I did, we wouldn’t have had this fight. I’m sorry.”

You felt pity for Cormac, which caused you to shake your head in disagreement. ‘No,’ you mouthed to him. Disappointed in Draco, you sighed with such upset in your voice that when you turned to him with such a let down on your face, you said, “Bloody hell, Draco, he was the slightest threat you have encountered in your life. You are a foolish person for wanting to start a fight which is considered by everyone with the right mind to be useless. Damn you, Draco.”

Draco stressly placed the palms of his hands on his temples, placing pressure on it, “Y/N, I saw him as a potential threat to our relationship. I thought showing him that you were mine would be able to keep him from destroying our relationship, what we have together!”

You disgracefully shook your head upon hearing the madness he called for an excuse. “Unbelievable, Draco.” You looked back to Cormac with a sympathetic look on your face, “First of all Cormac, you are not at fault here,” which he gave a small, hesitant nod as response. 

Then you pathetically turned back to Draco, “As for you, Draco Malfoy, you are in every way in the wrong. You’re the one who destroyed our relationship. That was certainly not the way to show him that I was yours. This made me rethink if the need to do that was even necessary! How could you possibly see him as a threat when you know I’m in love with you? I guess this is a lesson in not trusting your significant other, right? Because it seems like I guess I’ve never been a trustworthy person, especially concerning what we have together.”

Draco rolled his head in frustration and annoyance. He scoffed, “Please, don’t say that Y/N, you’re making me seem like the bad person here.”

You scoffed back, but with much anger, “But you are,” you coldy replied. Without thinking, you announced, “Consider us on a break, Draco Malfoy. Don’t bother owling me during the holidays. It’ll be nothing but a waste of parchments on your end.” 

Finished with the debate you had with Draco, you gracefully turned around and placed a hand on Cormac’s shoulder, “Very sorry, Cormac. I still hope you have a lovely holiday despite this.” With a small nod from the older boy, it was your cue. 

You turned around, walking away from the scene without thinking of the glares and whispers surrounding you. They were nothing but an audience with no respect whatsoever. Gossip all they want, they’ve got the scoop anyways. 

—

You walked among the glaring eyes around you, trying to find a suitable cart to occupy. Surely in most situations, you would be happy to sit anywhere. But many would be really uncomfortable to be sitting around the talk of the town, which meant that they couldn’t use you as a conversation starter while they commuted back to the platform. 

Thank goodness for Pansy and Daphne, who you found, securing you an empty cart amidst many occupied and packed carts between yours. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Pansy warmly greeted you, helping you place your bags up on the rack. 

“I got it thanks,” you told her, pushing your bags with strength. 

You plopped down, sitting between the two girls, who looked like they weren’t sure of what to talk about since the travel back to the platform would take awhile. Daphne was playing with her fingers, while Pansy was trying to get Daphne to look up and mouth a conversation.

These girls were the absolute worst in trying to make things discreet but they happened to be attempting to converse with you in the most normal way, without thinking of bringing up anything Draco related. 

“Anytime this week would be lovely, girls.” 

“Wh-what?” Pansy let out an exposed laugh, “What do you possibly mean, Y/N?”

“Come on,” you rolled your head, “Can’t think of making things normal without happening to mention or bring up Draco and my whole outburst in school?”

You checked the two girls, who were cheekily smiling with such guilt on their faces. You chuckled, standing up to move to the other side of the cart, to sit, facing in front of them. 

“You two are the silliest,” you crossed your arms with a comfortable look on your face, “I’m not made out of glass, fools. Come on, the worst things could happen to me.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Daphne cooled down, sighing a relief, “We were just being extra concerned that’s all.”

“And of course…” Pansy seemed to have a hard time continuing the sentence for a second as she tilted her head, mumbling the name ‘Draco’, as she continued, “Most likely isn’t taking it well. We haven’t seen or checked up on him, just to let you know!” she promised, waving her arms out, hoping you wouldn’t bust. 

Daphne nudged Pansy’s shoulder, looking at her with an angry look, “You said you wouldn’t mention him! The hell is wrong with you?”

“Me? She said it was alright!” Pansy revolted in annoyance. 

“Take it easy, you two,” you warned them. “You two are making things even more weird, and I’m just sitting here telling you not to look at me as fragile!”

“Right, sorry,” they both said embarrassingly. 

“I just want to let you two know that this whole holiday of mine will be definitely a time for me to invigorate and rejuvenate on my everyday perspectives. I do not know what my parents have in store for this holiday but either way, I am going to throw this whole year away and focus on building for next year, especially when we come back from holiday.”

“That’s brilliant, Y/N! How magnificent, we will definitely be there to support you through owling you every day.” 

You sorrily tilted your head with an open mouth, “Well I’m going to have to ask you the same I warned Draco about.”

“You’re saving us from wasting parchment.”

“I’m sorry, I just think, in order to focus on fixing myself, I-”

“Hey,” Pansy said, as both her and Daphne switched to the other side to sit beside you, “We get it, Y/N and we cannot wait to see you once the break ends.”

“One last group hug before we go our separate ways for a little while?”

--

In the cart that Draco occupied, it was a whole different energy. 

During the first part of the ride back to the platform, Draco did not care about searching for an empty cart, or relying on friends. All he did was present a short, cold glare in front of first years, who willingly stood up and rushed out, forgetting that they were about to give away their seats to a couple of older Slytherins. 

“Slow gits,” Draco muttered, swimming in his way into the cart as he threw his bag up into the rack without care and depressingly jumped on the seat by the view, which he used to ponder and stare with such a sigh coming from his mouth. 

“Chill down mate,” Blaise had the guts, kindly warning his friend, who he sat beside. 

Blaise was surprised when Draco calmly replied with, “Whatever, Zabini. I’m calm.”

Given this, he decided to take the advantage and reason out with him. He moved around his seat, trying to shift somewhat nearer to him. “You clearly aren’t. I reckon it’s going to rain over your whole holiday at home.”

“It won’t.” Draco gritted his teeth. 

Blaise clasped his hands, shaking his head once, “How do you personally feel about the whole situation, mate?”

Draco looked at him with sore eyes and quickly jumped and leaned exaggeratingly, “Me? Personally? I-” then he turned his body around, facing the entire wall with the window, “Forget it. I don’t have time for this girl-talk.”

--

There was a small suggestion of fear in your mind because there was always a possibility of bumping into Draco thanks to the many gatherings your parents were invited to. It would have been extremely discomposing to see the boy you had called ‘breaks’ on before the holiday started. It would make things more complicated to remember that there were more adults than children in these parties, making it more difficult to find people to converse with. 

Luckily, your parents surprisingly cancelled their parties, wanting to spend time with you more. They weren’t cruel or always self-centered, but they were very social when it came to gatherings and mingling with other wizards. So, hearing about this really felt like Merlin was on your side this year. 

With the opportunity to tune out from the outside world, staying at home really made things easier to recollect yourself in these struggling times. 

There was absolutely no distraction from anyone, giving you time to think about Draco. 

It may have been advantageous to give yourself a break from the relationship. Draco, as you obviously know, can be very outspoken. He is the kind of person who wouldn’t be scared to speak up and share his thoughts in any way possible. 

He was a head-strong person, the kind of guy that would really go out of his way to execute whatever he felt like doing. 

What he did for you was… out of hand yes, but when you think about it, he was thinking about you. As a person who isn’t afraid of fighting for honor and the truth, he just couldn’t help himself and protect your relationship. 

Maybe he could have thought things through and settled his issue with Cormac in a more lighter attempt, but if you step into his shoes, you were being Draco Malfoy. He did not want to use the luxury of time and think things through. He was the person who would do it before thinking. 

Plus, he may or may not have anger issues, especially when it came to other boys concerning you. A simple talk about you behind his back would really be an issue for him. The least mess he can do is brag about you if they decided to talk about you when he’s nearby. 

Huh, you actually chuckled at that last thought. Whether what Draco did was right or wrong, he did love you and what he did was for you. Maybe you were a bit harsh on him, but that’s the thing, all of these trace back to love. 

Maybe you thought that he didn’t trust you enough, maybe you were just blinded by so many things. 

It was probably right to give Draco another chance when the holiday ended.

When it did, you had a clear conscience as you were making your way back into one of your favorite places: The Slytherin Common Room. Nothing felt like home than going back to the best common room ever. The weather was still cool, so being around the fireplace was a great idea to warm up. 

Someone had already beaten you to it, though. Walking past with your luggage, your eyes darted towards a platinum blonde hair, resting by the cushions of the sofa by the fireplace. Being curious, you slowly brought your luggage with you, calmly walking towards the sofa. You peeked in, seeing a sleeping Draco Malfoy. 

He seemed to look extremely comfortable with himself. He was wearing a green jumper with a cup of hot chocolate by the coffee table. Had he stayed here all along throughout the holiday? 

To answer your question, Draco’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. His grey eyes were looking at the ceiling for a minute. Still standing there, his eyes now moved towards you. You could see the extreme tiredness in his eyes. A lot could be said by his eyes, aside from tiredness. 

There were dark circles surrounding his eyes. They could be as dark as half-wahed eyeliner kind of dark. It was awful, he must have shed bitter tears that went on for hours. You could see a hint of pink in his eyes, meaning he did recently cry. 

The two of you had a staring contest, as Draco continued looking at you, but as if you were just a dream. You could tell by the way his eyes were narrow, looking half-asleep. You decided that it was time to break the staring contest and be the first to take action. 

To test if he was half-asleep, you dropped your luggage, creating a big ‘thug’ sound, and moved around the sofa, to which he responded by having his eyes follow you. You made your final stop when you stood in front of the ends of the sofa, where his feet were dangling off. 

To your surprise, he lifted his feet, wanting you to sit on the sofa. You didn’t want to keep him waiting, so you quickly sat yourself on the sofa, having his feet, covered in green and red socks rest on your lap. Your eyes moved from the color of his socks to his grey eyes, as he was still looking at you. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, placing a hand on his ankle. You held on his ankle, tightening your grip as you looked at him with sympathy. You looked down immediately, feeling embarrassed and uneasy.

Draco sat up rapidly, removing his feet from your lap as he decided to place himself sitting beside you. His lower body was facing the fireplace, but his upper body was twisted, looking at you with full attention. 

He placed his finger on your chin, causing you to look at his worn-out, grey eyes. “No,” he shook his head, “Merlin knows that it should be me saying that. You know that.” 

His soft, post-crying voice wanted to melt or shatter your heart, making you frown in front of him. “What I do know is that I went too far in scolding you. It was wrong of me.” 

“The amount of scolding was enough for me to realize the immature actions and misfortunes that I have caused. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to realize how much of a childish git I am.” He took your hands slowly, bringing them to him with such a feeling in his heart. “I can’t ask you to forgive me because I’m embarrassed of myself. You deserve so much more than what I offer as a partner. Please do whatever you think is right for yourself before hearts shatter even more.”

Your heart felt like dropping from the sky, collapsing in a pool full of sorrow after hearing those words come out of Draco’s mouth. Was he allowing you to break up with him? What could he possibly mean? There was absolutely no way he could let you do that. He was being out of his mind. 

You let go of him holding your hands, to which his eyes widened to, only for you to wrap yourself around him, tightly and strongly embracing him with such love in your body. “Are you out of your mind? We can get through this, Draco. Leaving you after this would show that our love for each other would never be strong as I hoped to imagine. I’m staying with you because we have so much in store for each other. This is merely a minor bump in this journey you and I walk on.”

You could feel Draco let out a small sob from his eyes as he hugged you back, trying to squeeze and restrain himself from continuing to cry even more. “I love you.” was what he tried muttering without sounding like he was going to break down. 

You nodded, wanting to join his crying session should he stop holding himself from. “I love you more than you know it.” 

He slowly pulled himself from you, looking away from you. He stood up, causing you to raise an eyebrow. 

“What’s the matter?”

“I know you said I’d be wasting parchments,” he replied, removing something from his sling bag, which was by the other end of the sofa, “But I wrote you letters that I ended up keeping during the holiday.” 

He brought back with him a thick load of envelopes, ribboned with a green ribbon. He looked at you with a warm smile and handed it to you, “I give you the honor of burning it.” 

You scoffed, “Burn it? I’d love to see what you were yearning for while you wrote this.” you teased him. 

Draco felt a hint of embarrassment in his eyes as he tried grabbing it back from you. You sneakily pulled it away from him, “Uh, uh, uh” you waved your finger. 

Draco smirked, jumping on you as he continued to attempt getting the letters from you. This caused the both of you to fall from the sofa and the day continued as the two of you fought on the ground, trying to play like childish children, ignoring the other students arriving in the common room. 

Looks like news would spread that love is in the air again as the power couple is back on track with their relationship. 

[rowan-underthehouse]

Shot Glasses and Shadows

Pairing: Castiel/ Dean Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 2,011

Warnings: slight self-harm, mention of blood

Additional Tags: hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, Abandon All Hope Coda, Mentioned Jo Harvelle, grief/ mourning

Summary: Dean struggles with the aftermath of Abandon All Hope. Castiel is there to help.

Read it on Ao3 here

It’s the moments between hunts where Dean starts to lose his balance. When there’s no monster to fight, and the adrenaline pounding through his limbs fades away.

There are things he can do to stop it. He can make dinner runs while he tries to list the name of every song he’s ever put on a mixtape, or blast the radio until the speakers crackle, or sprint until his lungs burn. As long as he keeps moving he can fight it off. But as flames lick the glossy edges of the closest thing to a send-off they can give Jo and Ellen, all Dean can do is root his feet to the ground and watch.

He doesn't walk away from the fire until the photograph is reduced to ash. The crumbling of Jo’s gentle features is almost beautiful here. He wonders if Jo could feel the flames in her last moments. If she still believed her death meant something. If it felt beautiful.

“I’m going to clean up.”

“Dean you don’t-” Sam follows his gaze to the cluster of shot glasses still spread across the table, not finding the right words until his brother is already gone. Sam knows better than to follow.

It shouldn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to finish the kitchen, but Dean’s limbs are heavy with guilt and the half bottle of whiskey he’s already downed. He’d expected it to feel different to be back here. Everything warm and homey and right should have burned up with Ellen and Jo, but Bobby’s kitchen somehow missed the memo. This is still the same place they’d laughed and drank and squeezed out smiles around the dread no amount of alcohol could quite wash away just the night before. It’s Dean who’s out of place. He shouldn’t be here, surrounded by a past already so long gone it aches. It’s going to collapse in on him at any second.

The first shot glass that shatters against the hardwood floor is an honest-to-god accident. Dean lets the second roll out of the crook of his elbow, watching with the closest thing to satisfaction he can muster as broken glass dusts his boots. The third, he smashes into the worn countertop. He feels the blood pooling under his palm before he registers the glass wedged there. It brings a sick, bubbling laugh to the back of his throat.

He’s watching the blood run along the edge of a fourth glass, rolling it over in his palm when a hand appears on his shoulder.

“Dean,” The unmistakable crunching of dress shoes on glass pulls Dean back to reality. “You’re injured.”

Dean tosses the shot glass in his hands into the sink, almost disappointed when it doesn’t shatter. He shrugs Castiel’s hand off his shoulder, doing his damn best to ignore how cold he feels at the tiny loss of contact. Cas has that effect on people. That warm sort of feeling that starts deep in your chest and spreads to your fingertips until it feels like everything might be alright. Sam feels it too, Dean’s sure, but it doesn’t seem to be burning him up from the inside the way it does Dean. The relief he feels when Cas grabs his shoulder again is humiliating. He wipes it clean off his face before Cas can turn him around.

“You’re bleeding, Dean,” there’s more force to it this time. Dean stares expectantly, waiting for the feeling of grace stitching the fibres of his hand together, but nothing comes. Cas’s eyes fall to the floor. “I’m...going to get the first-aid kit.”

“So, what? Not going to mojo me back together? Cas, is there something you want to tell me?” He squares his shoulders, taking a step toward Cas. Of course something’s wrong. Not even an angel of the lord could get that close to Lucifer and come out unscathed.

“Because if something happened, something that we should know about, you better spit it out before it gets someone killed,” Dean closes the distance between him and Cas, staring down with what he hopes reads as more malice than concern and waits. Cas should be snapping back at him or threatening to throw him back to hell or something but he’s just standing there, gaze cast at the floor.

“It’s not important. It won’t affect my ability to help in your fight against the devil,” Dean turns away with a scoff just loud enough for Cas to hear. Somewhere deep beneath two hours worth of whiskey he knows he’s trying to start a fight, but he doesn’t care.

Even turned away, Dean can feel Cas’ gaze burning into his back. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something useful?” He nods in the direction of the library where every piece of lore they could find is still strewn out on the desk. The words taste bitter on Dean’s tongue, but if it gets Cas to do something, anything, other than stand there and stare straight into Dean’s soul (Maybe literally. Dean hopes not) it will be worth it.

Dean doesn’t turn around until the footsteps have faded from the kitchen. He drops the remaining shot glasses into the sink and kicks Jo’s chair in as an afterthought on his way out the door.

Sam and Bobby are nowhere to be seen, no doubt already tucked away in their respective rooms trying to figure out how to get through the night. Dean doesn't bother asking how they got Bobby up to his old room now that the sofa has been temporarily dragged back to its place in the library. He suspects Cas had something to do with it.

The fire is little more than embers when Cas comes back around the corner, battered first-aid kit in hand. Dean’s stomach churns. He should apologize.

“Throw another log on.”

Again, Castiel fixes him with that stupid, sympathetic, stare and does as he’s asked.

“You’re grieving.”

Dean almost laughs. “Really, Cas? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You shouldn’t try to stop it. It won’t help,” Cas settles on the sofa and unpacks the kit, examining the contents carefully while he lays them out on the end table.

That old rage bubbles up in Dean's chest again. “So what am I supposed to do, huh? Just sit here and moan about it in the middle of the friggin’ apocalypse? We have work to do, Cas. Stow the Vincent Grey crap.”

“Give me your hand.”

He thinks about arguing. About trying again to stir up some kind of fight just to feel something other than hollow for a few seconds. Angry is easier. Safer. But then, this is Cas. He knows every atom of Dean’s body and can recite his earliest memories like the goddamn pledge of allegiance. There’s no point hiding. He lets some of the tension holding up his body seep back into the floor.

Cas is more gentle than Dean can handle. All calloused hands and careful touches that are anything but clinical. Letting him in is frighteningly easy. It’ll be letting him go when he finally realizes the Winchesters and all their problems aren't worth the effort that will be like pulling stitches.

“They trusted me,” It’s barely a whisper, but Dean’s throat closes around the words. “They trusted me, and I led them to their deaths.”

“You did the best you could. They knew the risks,” There’s a strain in Cas’ voice Dean has never heard before.

Dean’s eyes are burning. He can’t bring himself to meet Cas’ gaze until a thumb swipes across his cheek, brushing away the tears there. For once he finds himself thanking god in all his infinite absence that Cas doesn’t realize the intimacy of the gesture “You did the right thing, Dean. You tried.”

There’s a weight to his words that Dean can’t quite pin down, the teary smile plastered on his face making Dean want to either wrap his arms around Cas or make a break for it. He shoots for somewhere near a more reasonable middle.

“Are you uh…” Dean is struck very suddenly by just how bad he is at this, But he has to try. It’s Cas. “Are you holding out okay?”

“Human grief is different. It’s...heavier”

If tearing down heaven brick by brick could pull that weight off Cas, Dean would do it in a second. It terrifies him how far he’s willing to go.

“Yeah.”

The mess of bandages Cas eventually manages to secure around Dean’s hand isn’t pretty, but it’s a relief. He tosses the bloody glass in a trash bin and dries his now clean hands on an embroidered dish towel that may have been colourful twenty years ago. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

He’s halfway to the door by the time Dean swallows his pride enough to say something. “Cas, wait. Have you - eaten anything? It’s been a long day.”

“I don’t eat.”

Dean spends the longest ten seconds of silence in his life wondering if he could bore a hole through the floor with his eyes to crawl into. This may be the dumbest excuse he’s ever come up with, which is not an easy title to win.

“Are you asking me to stay?”

Maybe it’s the whiskey clouding his mind or the idea of spending the rest of the night drinking his way through whatever’s left of his liver alone that finally snaps a cord in Dean. He sinks back into the couch, exhaustion taking over.

“Please.”

With a creak of old springs and cushions creasing just enough for Dean to slide, Cas is back on the couch, a good few inches closer than the last time. Of course, it doesn't mean anything. Cas is an angel. He can’t understand the way the closeness makes Dean’s heart leap out of his chest. But the way he presses his shoulder against Dean’s is distinctly and undeniably human. He doesn’t want to be alone either.

The next few hours drift by in near silence, broken only by offers of whiskey and the occasional non-committal remark. When Dean’s eyes slip closed, his head lolling against Cas’ shoulder, Cas doesn’t try to wake him.

Once Dean does finally open his eyes, it’s with a pounding headache, and his face pressed against the rough fabric of Cas’ shirt. Through the fog of sleep Dean slowly becomes aware of his limbs tangled with Cas’ where they’ve sprawled across the sofa. He’s a split second away from launching himself onto the floor when he registers Cas’ hand resting loosely against Dean’s back. The slow tide of his breathing. He can’t be asleep but Dean’s never seen him this relaxed. His hair is a disaster where it’s rubbed against the arm of the sofa and his coat is more on the floor than his body. He must be meditating or praying or whatever the hell angels do to recharge their heavenly batteries. It would be rude to interrupt him, Dean reasons, and he’ll be awake again within a few hours. There’s still plenty of time before sunrise. A few hours can’t hurt. In the moment before he’s pulled back to a dreamless sleep, Dean swears he catches the shadow of wings cast against the wall, curled around his body.

…

It’s not unusual for Sam to be awake before his brother. He rolls out of bed some time after sunrise, stumbling toward the kitchen before he’s even finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He very nearly walks past the tangle of limbs on the couch before Bobby rolls into the room, gesturing for him to stay quiet.

“They haven’t moved since Cas brought me back down here. Let them rest. They need it.”

And they do.

When Dean finally stumbles into the kitchen, Cas having disappeared mere seconds before he woke up, Sam doesn’t say a word about it, just smiles into his coffee mug. It’s good to see someone keeping Dean steady for once, and if Dean isn't ready to admit it yet, that’s a problem for another day.

[moondustis]

an open letter for fanfic readers:

if you follow me, you have probably seen posts i’ve made or reblogged about this topic before. but, talking with a few writer friends, i’ve realized that this is something that is still bothering writers, and even making people feel like giving up on sharing their work. yes, i am once again talking about leaving feedback, comments and reblogging fics.

and yes, it’s ok if you’re tired of me talking about this, i’m tired of doing it too. but imagine this: you have a talent, or maybe you just like doing something a lot, and you decide to share that with people so you do just that. it goes well, people leave likes on your work and you know they must enjoy it, but at the same time no one says anything. they don’t share what they thought, how they felt reading it, the bits they enjoyed and you end up thinking ‘damn, do they actually like what i’m putting out? was it good? where can i improve? what did i get right?’ it’s a weird feeling, because the thing is human beings are highly influenced by their ego and when you’re a creator, feeling like people are not really enjoying or not even knowing how they feel about your work, you can lose your motivation. because why would i put work out if people are not connecting with it?

and i get it, sometimes you don’t know what to say, can’t find the right words to express how you felt reading something. or maybe you’re shy to reblog and leave a comment on the tags. i really get it, that’s why i’m making this post and bellow you’ll find some tips on how to leave comments on fics to help you out on supporting your favorite authors!

and to my writers friends feel free to add anything you’d like to this post!

for starters, if you are shy or don’t want to expose yourself, you can always leave anon messages. writers appreciate those as much as anything else.

i think i speak for every writer when i say that we don’t care if you can’t express yourself well, or if your english is not good. english sucks and i want you to know it’s ok to make language mistakes. so if this is what’s holding you back, please know that we don’t mind.

if you don’t know how to comment you can always pinpoint your favorite scene of a fic, how it made you feel. or what you like about the writer’s style (the way they write certain characters, how they write emotion, etc.) tell the writer something as basic as saying you love their work.

constructive commentary can be welcome if done right. before you do it, think if it’s actually something that can improve the writers work or if it’s something that you personally think. sharing your thoughts is always ok, but remember the ego thing lol, some writers might not take well to comments like “i wish you had done this differently, etc.”

don’t think that when it comes to comments/feedbacks it always has to be full paragraphs of what you thought of the fic or nothing at all. i totally understand that its hard to express yourself and write what your views on something were, i myself struggle with it. you can always leave something short, but sweet and it’ll def make the writer happy.

if you like a fic, please reblog it. likes are great, but they don’t get your work out there. reblogs can help fics reach a wider audience, that’s why they’re important.

that’s all i have to say for now. again, please support the writers you like, it’s not easy putting out fics that we pour our hearts into writing. don’t take the content you enjoy freely for granted.

[jokertrap-ran]

(未定事件簿) EVENT! 「眷然恋影」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: Zuo Ran Birthday 2021- Days to Re-Live Forever (4.18: Volunteer Application)

*Tears of Themis Masterlist / Mobile Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Will also be filed under Zuo Ran’s tag #Tears of a Lawyer *The tracking tag for ALL Event Stories will go under: #Tears of an Event

4.18 / 4.20 / 4.22 / 4.24 / 4.26 Messages / Investigations / Call

Location: Cinema's Lounge Area

MC: …All in all, while this isn't considered a bad movie, it's also quite far from being a "Sci-fi Masterpiece".

Zuo Ran: Agreed.

Zuo Ran and I were both down at the Cinema’s Lounge, discussing the movie that we'd just finished watching.

The Stellis Film Festival had just started, and the movie that we'd sought to watch for how famous it was, was one of the most highly rated Sci-Fi movies.

But unfortunately, the content of the movie itself wasn't quite as interesting as we'd expected.

Zuo Ran: But "Time Travel" is considered one of the more classic Sci-fi themes, so it's not all that easy to come up with something new and exciting.

Hearing him say that, I suddenly remembered another movie with the exact same running theme.

MC: There are also many Time Travel themed Masterpieces out there. Take the film “About Time” for example; it’s an old film dating more than ten years ago.

MC: But it’s about slice of life, so you probably never watched it.

That’s right, although this movie was labelled a work of Science Fiction, it was also undeniably something that fell into the category of warm, healing, fluffiness.

It’s a movie about the story of the male protagonist, Tim, who wanted to use his Time-travelling ability to find himself a girlfriend; and eventually winning over the heroine, Mary’s, heart.

Additionally, it also depicts Tim’s family history. Generally speaking, it was an award-winning movie that had won over the emotions of many.

I recall that Zuo Ran preferred to watch Sci-fi Films, rarely watching anything emotional. Still, I wanted to try giving him a suggestion. 

Zuo Ran: I’ve seen it before. It was pretty good.

His reply was a little unexpected.

MC: Huh? But even though the male protagonist is capable of Time Travel, there are still far fewer Sci-fi elements to this movie than there are elements of daily life.

MC: I thought that you don’t often watch these kinds of films...

Zuo Ran: You’re right, but this one’s an exception.

Zuo Ran: Rather than calling it a Sci-fi movie, I think it’ll be more appropriate to call it a movie about “Superpowers”, since its main purpose is to power the plot.

Zuo Ran: Although it’s a slice of life, the director of this film has a good grasp of rhythm and mood, capable of making people feel a strong sense of empathy.

Zuo Ran: Of course, I also personally agree with the idea it is trying to convey.

Zuo Ran analysed the movie with utter seriousness, and I could see that he had an extremely deep understanding about it.

Capable of extracting that many praises from him, it seems like this movie holds an extraordinary place in his heart.

MC: Sounds like you really do like this “About Time” film.

Zuo Ran: Yes, I do.

Zuo Ran: I suppose it can be considered… Among the ones I like best.

After getting an affirmative from him, I couldn’t help but to jump for joy.

MC: (Now I know how to celebrate his birthday!)

Zuo Ran’s birthday was the 26th of April; a day that was coming up soon.

I’d only heard about this date back when I was making small talk with Sister Zhai Xing. She’d even told me to put more emphasis on it, since I was his partner.

Zuo Ran has been taking good care of me ever since I joined the Law Firm, but I’d have been way prepared to celebrate his birthday for him, even if Sister Zhai Xing didn’t mention it.

But I didn’t really know what I should do, till now; the conversation I just had with Zuo Ran finally gave me a hint.

MC: (Recreating the classic scenes of movies and celebrating his birthday there will definitely make it an unforgettable experience for the Mr. Robin, the well-known film critic! )

A plan gradually started to take shape within the confines of my mind.

Zuo Ran: What’s on your mind? Why are you daydreaming?

MC: N-Nothing! I was just thinking about...

MC: My favourite movie! I was just thinking how brilliant it was that you also happen to like it!

Birthday surprises are something that’s meant to be kept secret till the very last moment, so I can’t afford to give the game away now.

Zuo Ran: It makes you that happy?

His expression appeared no different from usual, seemingly having accepted what I’d just said.

MC: Yup, of course it does! Sharing the same favourite movie as you goes to show that we’re well suited to be partners!

Zuo Ran: We do coordinate well together.

MC: Let’s talk more about this film, Lawyer Zuo.

Zuo Ran: Sure.

He probably wouldn’t have any idea about just what I had planned to celebrate his birthday with.

MC: (I’m suddenly really looking forward to seeing how he’ll react to this surprise. I’m sure he’ll be way different from how he usually is!)

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Location: The Film Museum

A few days later, at the Film Museum.

Staff: My apologies, miss. But the Museum's Live-action Studio is temporarily unavailable for loan for the duration of the Film Festival.

MC: I’d originally wanted to rent the Film Museum’s Live-action Studio to recreate the classic scenes of the movie “About Time” for Zuo Ran, to celebrate his birthday.

But how unfortunate...

MC: But I’m really in need of it; isn’t there any other way?

Staff: If you’re truly in urgent need of the Studio. Then you can try becoming a volunteer for this Film Festival.

MC: Oh?

Staff: The Museum requires a large amount of volunteers to help out during the Film Festival, and volunteer points can be earned through completing volunteer work.

She took out a brochure, handing it to me.

Staff: Take a look at this. Volunteer points can be redeemed for the rights to use the Live-action Studio in addition to some special props provided by the Museum itself.

Staff: You must be shooting on the set itself if you’re trying to rent the Studio, so I’m sure these props will come in handy.

The staff member pointed out the “special props” listed on the brochure to me.

They came as large as classic retro cars, furniture such as tables and chairs, old-fashioned suitcases… They were all classic props from classic movies.

MC: Are all these props the original ones?

I’d thought that it’d take a good lot of points to redeem rights to the Studio, but I’d never expected it to actually be the easiest to attain.

Although, that being said, most of those special props were pretty “point pricy”.

Staff: A small portion of them are, but the rest are replicated on a 1:1 scale from the original.

MC: Oh! There’s even the window display mural from “About Time”!?

Staff: That’s right. Although this one’s a replication, it is no different from the original one.

MC: (Not only can you rent the venue, but you can also change up the place to be furnished with decorations of your own choice. This can’t get any better!)

Thinking up till this point, I agreed without a moment’s hesitation.

MC: Okay, I’ll sign up! What do you do as a volunteer, though?

Staff: Welcome to the Volunteer Team. Your job this time is to simply hand out questionnaires.

Staff: As the organizer of this Film Festival, we plan to create a review column after the event; hence, why we have to collect information on the audience’s option.

Staff: The content of this survey includes, but is not limited to, their evaluation of the movies released this Film Festival, and their views on well-known film-critics, etc.

Staff: What needs to be specifically explained to them is that, due to the curator's request, this survey will take the form of an offline interview and a physical questionnaire to fill.

Staff: He believes that it is only by interacting face-to-face with the audience, can we then understand their true wishes; and that doing so will also reflect the utmost sincerity of the Museum itself.

She handed me yet another list.

Staff: The information of the willing participants of the survey are recorded here. So please carry out the surveys according to the name list here.

Staff: Your final amount of points obtained will be calculated based on the number of questionnaires you've managed to get filled, and their degree of completion.

I confidently took the list from her.

MC: Understood! You can leave it to me!

Staff: Volunteer Points can be redeemed at any time. I wish you the best of luck, and hope that you can exchange it for the rights to the Live-action Studio as soon as possible.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Next Part: (4.20: Questionnaire Filling)

[count-woe-laf]

Who’s your friend?

Prompt 53 from @someonehelp sorry that it took so long and if it’s not what you wanted, I may have accidently written it for @coconut-cluster ‘s battle of the bands au and this post and its tags because my brain could not stop thinking about it. The au is hers and y’all should go check it out, I love it

Thank you @knight-of-cauldrons for helping me with the names and lovely people from the Roman Arson Squad for helping me with other stuff too and @me-a-mess-morelikelythanyouthink for helping me edit stuff and talking about this until 4am with me so I knew what to write, I appreciate it, (also the drumstick things is entirely her fault (maybe a little bit of mine))

Pre-romantic prinxiety, there’s a few swears, very brief mention of murder/death, the ending and middle is a little weak, 1348 words

The blood pumping through Roman's veins, the air in his lungs, the microphone in his hand, the noise of the music and the crowd, the feeling of happiness- of greatness surrounding him. It was in these moments that Roman felt truly alive.

It was the show high and boy was it fun; the world would slow it's spinning, Roman- his bandmates and friends playing behind him- would sing, the crowd would cheer. It was one of the best feelings Roman had ever felt. (He says one of the best because he got a free pink lemonade in the middle of summer once and it was closely tied for one of the best feelings ever.) This great feeling stayed until Roman would get home that night. Even once the audience left he would still feel the burst of happiness in his chest.

The Disasters were spread around the stage, packing up their instruments. Well, Remus and Janus were packing up. Roman didn't have anything to do so he was scrolling through his phone. Virgil was sitting on the edge of the stage, playing around with his sticks, talking to someone from the crowd. Normally Roman wouldn’t pay much attention to them, but he didn't have anything interesting on his phone and his gaze kept drifting towards Virgil.

The guy Virgil was talking to looked around their age; he seemed nice enough, maybe he was being a little too nice for Roman's liking, but that didn't matter, he was just some guy. Some guy that was talking to Virgil, a completely normal conversation. Virgil had conversations all the time. …Did Virgil usually smirk at a stranger's remarks, though? Did he normally let someone try (and fail) to spin his drumsticks, would they laugh afterwards? Roman's after show happiness suddenly disappeared; he instantly realized his night wouldn't be as good as he thought. The amazing feeling was replaced with another that Roman wasn't entirely familiar with. All Roman knew was that it wasn't jealousy.

There was no way it was jealousy, It couldn't be jealousy, jealousy didn't feel like this, did it? No, the feeling in the pit of Roman's stomach wasn't jealousy, he wasn't jealous. There was absolutely no reason for him to be jealous over some hot looking dude talking to Virgil. Roman and Virgil were just friends anyway, he didn't have a reason to be jealous. it didn't matter that Roman's heart stopped when Virgil smiled at him. It didn't matter that Virgil would say one flirty joke and Roman would be distracted for the rest of practice. And it didn't matter that Virgil was one of the few people Roman trusted. None of that mattered, Roman was not jealous. Finding himself walking towards Virgil's spot on the edge of the stage wasn't because he was jealous, it was because he was bored and cared for Virgil's safety talking to random people. Yeah, that sounded about right.

"Well you seem really funny, Virgil, right?"

Virgil stopped spinning his sticks. "Yeah, and your name is…"

"Andy, short for Anderson, it's a dumb name right?" They both let out a short laugh, Andy's laugh was really nice and smooth, way better than Roman's dorky one. What? That didn't matter, there was no need to compare himself to whoever this Andy dude was.

Roman ignored his mess of thoughts and placed himself near Virgil. "Hey, Virgil! Who's your friend?" Ignoring how stiffly Roman spoke it almost seemed like he was saying it nicely. Of course Roman was saying it nicely, why wouldn't he be saying it nicely?

"Oh uh, we're not friends yet," and the guy dragged his hand through his hair and winked at Virgil. He actually winked. He looked towards Roman. "Anyways I'm Andy, me and my friend Spike are going to get some food, wondering if Virgil here would like to join us?"

And boy, did Roman have a lot he wanted to say, it might've warranted him a disappointed lecture from Janus. So he turned off his internal monologue of this bitch really thinks he can take Virgil, my best friend out to an 8pm dinner, that's our thing sometimes we even share pancakes- and looked over to Virgil. He must know that the late dinners are tradition and that one cannot break from traditions especially ones with your best friends.

"Come on, it'll be fun." Andy lowered his voice, "Maybe after we can drive somewhere, there's a place I know that's really pretty around this time."

Roman scowled and opened his mouth, hoping to say something that wouldn't sound overly protective and jealous. "He-"

"Sorry we have some band stuff to talk about tonight. But uh," Virgil threw up some awkward finger guns and stood up, quickly trying to get away. "I'll see you around though. Have a good night, Andy." They started to walk away.

"Ok, if you're sure, I wish I got your number, but I'll stick with this," Virgil turned around to see Andy badly twirling one of his sticks. "See ya around Virgey," and with another stupid wink, he was gone.

They both stood frozen on the stage, the feeling in Roman's stomach grew as the silence stretched out. "Did he just make a pun? And call me Virgey?" He looked over to Roman with a bewildered face. "He used a pun to take my stick, called me Virgey, and left. Now I need new sticks," Virgil looked down at his lone drumstick. "This is why I don't like new people talking to me. And being stuck somewhere alone with a stranger? Not my thing." Virgil turned to face Roman, hands loosely playing with his stick. "Sorry for cutting you off there but you were already being overly jealous and extra and I didn't want that to get worse."

"Hey, I'm not overly extra, I don't know what you're talking about," Roman looked down and pouted.

"Oh so you're admitting you're jealous?" Virgil raised an eyebrow with an innocent look.

"I'm not that either, Virgey," Roman ignored his growing blush, took Virgil's last drumstick and lightly hit him on the arm, making Virgil frown in response.

"Oh really?" Virgil took back his stick and hesitated before gently placing it under Roman's chin, tilting his head up so their eyes met. "You're a horrible liar, you don't keep eye contact and can't think of excuses, it's very suspicious. Anyways, you interrupted my lovely conversation with Andy, sure seems like you're jealous, Roman."

Wow… Roman was going to faint. Virgil was looking at him with a teasing glint in his eyes as a stupidly cute laugh fell from his lips. Roman couldn't even respond let alone breathe, who gave Virgil a right to be this- this-

Roman's chin fell. "We should go, I think Jan and Remus are already in the van."

"Uh, yeah," Roman said, slightly dazed. "This is your last call to go with your stranger over there and get into his sketchy looking truck. You sure you don't want that?"

Virgil snorted, "I'll stick with your jealous self. At least I know you won't kill me in a back alley." He started to walk away. "Come on, you know Janus will leave for ihop without us."

Roman followed him out. "I blame you if he leaves us, you piss him off too much."

"Says the one who got into an hour long argument with him about cornflakes." Roman scoffed in response.

The after show high had returned, along with memories of thousands of similar interactions with Virgil. (God, why was Virgil such a flirt? Roman would combust one of these days.) Unlike his earlier predictions, it was a very nice night after all. Roman was so thankful to have the feeling of giddiness back in his veins and his band of friends surrounding him.

(He was also thankful for the ihop waiter that brought him extra whipped cream that Virgil proceeded to eat and get all over him. There was now a very cute picture of Virgil in Roman's syrup covered phone that Roman would not stop looking at all night.)

I tried to do it justice, thanks for letting me write this and for sending in a prompt. Send me a prompt (and characters and a ship, sorry if I change it) and I’ll write something (probably short and definitely sanders sides) out of it eventually. Know that it will probably take me forever but I’m trying to write more

[angryinternetduck]

When All Feels Lost Chapter Three: We'll Be Alright Nerves, fancy boas, a phoenix rising from the ashes. A princess is left on a cliffhanger, Harry's a dramatic Renoir painting, and you dive in headfirst. It won't be an easy ride, but you'll be alright. Warnings: Explicit language and more of the heavy topics from last chapter. about 8,000 words << prev chapter | series masterlist | general masterlist | ask ~*~ “You look nervous,” Harry murmurs into your ear as he appears next to you. His hand hovers at your waist, charm turned up high as he gives smiles and waves to the people walking into the theater.

You shrug, keeping your own smile on your face as you say, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“You’re gonna be great,” Harry tells you anyway.

“Sure hope so.”

Around you, the theater looks nothing less than glorious. All the lights are on, a warm golden against the deep burgundy of the walls and carpet. Diamonds glitter, shoes shine, dress hems flirt with the floor.

There’s a low hum of chatter from the masses of people filtering through the lobby and making their way to their seats. Lights in the chandelier hanging miles above you twinkle and clink as they shift in the soft breeze floating through the open doors.

Despite what you told Harry, he’s right; you’re nervous as hell.

Which makes sense. It’s opening night. Of course you’re nervous.

Your first scene is a few scenes into the second act, meaning you have plenty of time to help Harry greet everyone up front before heading backstage to get ready. It’s quite different than all of your previous opening night experiences, but it’s no less nerve-wracking. In fact, it’s significantly more nerve-wracking because of how much is riding on its failure.

A small man wearing a beret and large glasses catches your attention, and you nudge Harry so he sees him too. Harry nods, confirming your suspicions: that’s the critic from The New Yorker.

Harry wiggles his eyebrows at you.

Laughing slightly, you walk over to the critic and start to fiddle with your purse. He looks up, thick eyebrows furrowing at the sight of you. “Hello,” he says curtly, and you smile at him. “Hi,” you reply. “You’re here for Fatigue?”

“Yes.”

“A critic?” you go on.

“Yes.”

You clear your throat, slipping your hand into your purse. Lowering the small bag to waist height and glancing around to ensure no one’s looking your way, you murmur, “I’m a co-producer of this fantastic play...” You shift your fingers to show him a few hundred dollar bills. “And I’m sure your review will be nothing less than spectacular, correct?”

The critic scoffs, eyes widening, and he whips off his glasses in rage. “You dare attempt bribe me?” he hisses. “You think I, a critic of high moral and dignity, can be swayed by a few measly dollar bills?”

You struggle to hide your grin.

“I can assure you, madam,” the critic continues, “this review will be short and honest.”

“Oh, no,” you say.

The critic scowls at you, barks a crisp, “Goodbye,” and storms out of the theater.

Turning around, you meet Harry’s gaze and snap your fingers in a sarcastic oh, drats sort of fashion. Harry grins, and this time you don’t hide your own smile as you mirror his expression and walk back to him.

“Too easy,” you tell him.

Harry smiles. “And now we wait for, uh - Joe,” he says, reading an email on his phone.

“Joe,” you echo.

“Dziemianowicz.”

You blink. "What’d you just call me?”

Harry snickers and tilts his phone so you can see the name on the screen. Sure enough, it says Joe Dziemianowicz. “‘The esteemed critic from the New York Times,’” you read. “I’m sure he’ll love this.”

Harry shakes his head. “I certainly hope he doesn’t.”

“Right,” you say. “How do you know he won’t react like, uh - like The New Yorker guy?”

“Because I’m such a charmer,” Harry replies with a sweet smile.

You raise a brow. “And I’m not?”

“You are,” Harry says, shrugging. “When you want to be.”

“You flatter me,” you deadpan.

Harry grins. “I do try my hardest.” He points out a guy with a notebook under his arm, then tells you, “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah? Make sure D’Angelo’s not fainted yet.” He walks off, and you watch him for a second.

The plan is to get as many awful reviews as possible. Most of them should just come naturally - no one could watch the play and give it any positive comments at all - but you’re guaranteeing two of them to be absolutely horrific with bribes.

The critic you just attempted to bribe from The New Yorker should give some sort of irate nonsense about the dishonorable intentions of the producers of the surely terrible Fatigue. As for the fellow Harry’s heading for, his review will be more detailed in its critique. Harry’s goal is to actually bribe this Joe Dziemianowicz successfully - but for a bad review.

As Harry begins his explanation to Mr. Dziemianowicz, you slip through the crowds until you reach backstage, where D’Angelo is, in fact, on the brink of losing consciousness. He’s taking small sips of water from a glass in which you can see small pink feathers floating. They’re probably from the large pink boa he’s wearing over his suit, which is a slightly jarring green color covered in tiny pink butterflies.

“Angel,” you greet him, giving him a hug.

“Oh, Magenta,” D’Angelo replies woefully. “It’s a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.”

You sigh. “It hasn’t even started.”

“Oh, but when it does, it shall go down in flames.”

“And from the ashes shall rise a phoenix.”

D’Angelo gives you a faint smile. “I do adore you, darling.”

“And I you,” you say with a grin. “Come on, Angel, we have a play to put on.” You gently lead him through the dressing tables, where everyone’s getting ready. Someone glues orange lashes on while another person zips their dress; an actor expertly quiffs his hair in the corner with a loud can of hairspray.

“Your optimism… is inspiring,” D’Angelo murmurs, absentmindedly fixing someone’s collar as he passes. “That’s the goal,” you tell him, taking his glass of water from him when he holds it out to free both his hands. He takes a makeup brush and palette out of a girl’s hand and begins to brush some product on her face. She looks slightly startled, but doesn’t say anything.

“Where’s your Harry?” he asks as he works. “Charming the audience, I presume?”

You start to reply, stop, and then decide on, “Um… probably.”

“He certainly has a way about him, doesn’t he,” D’Angelo muses.

You clear your throat and look down, smiling involuntarily. “Yeah.”

D’Angelo sighs. “You must remember to keep your head up.”

Impulsively, you snap your chin up straight, then realize he’s talking to the girl whose makeup he’s doing. “And keep your voice up as well,” D’Angelo continues. “Project, my dear. You have a very pretty voice.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Also,” D’Angelo adds, handing her makeup products back, “your blouse is inside out.”

Flushing through her makeup, the girl looks down at her blouse, which is, in fact, inside out. The tag waves at you from her neckline. She looks a bit horrified, and she hurries away to correct it as D’Angelo ambles on.

“Have you talked it out yet?” he asks. “With Harry?”

You frown. “Huh?”

“Oh, you know,” D’Angelo hums, giving you a lazy smile. “The ‘what are we’ talk.”

You’re too surprised to even reply, but D’Angelo takes your surprise for denial. “Oh, don’t play coy, Magenta. To steal the wise words of Miss Swift” - he clears his throat - “you could see it with the lights out.”

“Sometimes,” you tell him, “you’re just a bit too dramatic.”

He catches your eye. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You hold his gaze. “You are.”

“Your acting talent is astounding,” D’Angelo murmurs, looking away.

“I think I preferred your hopeless talk of your failing play.”

His brows jump. “My failing play,” he echoes incredulously.

“Our failing play,” you amend.

“Go find Harry, darling,” D’Angelo tells you with a smile, “and stop bothering me.”

You grin. “If you insist. Break a leg, Angel.”

“I’ll break yours if you keep talking,” he says. “Run along, now.”

***

The theater, sweeping out below you in a magnificent blend of golds and reds, is truly breathtaking. You’re in the balcony seats reserved for you and Harry now, watching the chatter and buzz of the people below.

You nudge him and echo his words from earlier. “You look nervous.”

“I am,” he mutters.

“Don’t be.”

He laughs wryly, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. “Gee, that fixes everything.” You sigh and sit back in the chair, looking down at the stage. “It’ll work. There’s no way it won’t.”

“I know,” Harry says softly, looking up.

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not sure what to say. Then the lights begin to dim, and Harry leans back again. In the darkness, you feel his hand find yours. He squeezes your hand, then lets go.

The conversation fades, and Charlie Manswell, playing Leopold Gray the retired FBI agent, walks out onto stage. He looks even more nervous than Harry does; you can see his hands shaking from all the way up here.

The play drags on. Neither you nor Harry says a word at all. Tension settles, heavy and dense, thickening in the air between you and Harry. An hour in, a group of people walk out. Low murmurs sound throughout the theater, and then it goes quiet once more.

You and Harry exchange a glance.

A few minutes before intermission, you go down to start getting ready for your part. Backstage, D’Angelo has calmed down significantly. He looks to be in a bit of a daze, holding his half-empty glass of water in both hands.

“Ah, Magenta,” he greets you when you say hi. “Just in time. Your costume’s over with Madeline… Stay away from the makeup, darling, Madeline will do it for you.” A smile teases the corners of his lips. “No more catastrophes, thank you…”

“I’ll try my best,” you reply, walking over to get changed. Your nerves intensify as you get dressed and made up. A swarm of butterflies turns your stomach over, adrenaline spikes through your veins, sweat gathers in your palms.

Standing in the wings just out of sight, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. The lights dim, the curtain lifts, and you open your eyes. Your gaze darts over the crowd, struggling to see anything through the bright lights.

It takes a second to process, but a grin’s breaking out across your face almost before you can fully form the thought: the theater’s practically empty. People must have walked out during the intermission, you realize with a quiet, giddy laugh.

Charlie, standing on stage, must have noticed too; his voice wavers just slightly through his first few lines. You feel a twinge of sympathy for him. Despite everything, you do feel terribly for all the actors who really are taking this seriously. They’ll still get their cut, though, if not a great review in the newspapers.

When you see your cue, you walk out and begin to act.

Ridiculously, it feels good to be on stage again. Even if it’s doomed to fail, if it’s a joke, if your already nonexistent reputation will almost certainly take a nosedive after this play even if it’s the best performance of your life.

The second half of the play goes much faster than the first. You’re taking bows before you realize, and you smile happily not because of rambunctious applause, but because of the few scattered claps you receive from the nearly empty audience.

Harry’s giving you a standing ovation from his box.

Backstage is quiet after the curtain falls. D’Angelo, surprisingly, is the most cheerful, popping around and giving everyone enthusiastic feedback. He’s exchanged his glass of water for a flute of champagne, which he sips at elegantly in between words.

“Wonderful job, darling, positively splendid,” he says to you, patting your cheek. To Harry, he adds, “And wonderful play, Mr. Styles. The reviews shall be the first of their kind.” A grin begins to spread across your face, and D’Angelo winks at you before whisking off to console someone crying by the mirrors.

“The first of their kind,” Harry echoes under his breath.

You laugh and reply, “He got that right.”

“Let’s get food,” Harry suggests. “I’m starved.”

Nodding, you tell him, “I’ll meet you at the diner,” and grab your stuff to change out of your costume. He walks off, saying goodbyes as he leaves. After changing into something more comfortable, you do the same, hugging D’Angelo goodbye and talking with a few people on your way out.

A Fleetwood Mac song is playing on the jukebox when you walk into the diner. Harry’s chewing french fries, staring out the window. He looks pensive, and you tell him that as you slide into the booth.

“I am,” he admits quietly. Then he tacks on, “Worried” like it hurts to say. “I’m worried.”

You bite your lip, watching him for a second. His eyes are downcast. “Your ringer’s on, right?” you ask, nodding at his cell phone. Harry nods, picking it up. “She’ll call,” he murmurs, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself.

“She will,” you assure him. It’s the company manager you’re talking about, who will hopefully decide that between the attendance - or lack thereof - and horrific reviews, she can’t keep your play open any longer.

“Ninety percent of the theater walked out,” you go on. “There’s no way they won’t close us.” Harry shrugs, leaning back and clearing his throat. “Er… yeah. Yeah.” He nods, an air of finality around him as if he’s done talking about it.

Tapping your fingers against the table, you hesitate for a second before speaking again. “Not to… pry or anything, but what happened with you and her?” you ask. “Gwen? The company manager?”

Harry’s brows jump. “What makes you ask that?”

A tad embarrassed, you shake your head. “Oh, it’s… nothing. Just with… Aurora… and what you said about, uh - Tanner Smith liking your old… girlfriend… presumably…” You laugh, a bit awkwardly. “But you don’t have to answer that. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry says. He shrugs, looking at his glass of water. “Yeah, we had a thing. It was a while ago. We, erm… We were pretty close.” A small smile curves his lips as he traces shapes in the condensation on the glass, and your gaze shifts to the window.

“We worked on a project, a big play we wrote together… Smith helped with that. She’s gorgeous, Gwen…” He pauses again. You regret asking. Finally, he clears his throat and goes on, “Er, but yeah, he took a liking to her. That’s really the only reason he still invests in anything, I think. He keeps hoping she’ll come back.”

He looks up, giving a wry laugh. “She won’t. Aurora scared her off. I brought her to the hospital and she kind of… It was too much. She was a little bit… she wasn’t very…” He clears his throat. “Nice with her. With - er, with Aurora…” His smile fades into something a little bit more genuine, and he meets your eye. “Not nearly as nice as you are with her.”

You frown.

Another bit of a pause, and he looks back at his glass. “But, erm… yeah, Gwen wasn’t a huge fan of the whole… taking-care-of-a-sick-child-in-the-hospital thing. She said all this stuff about commitment and not even wanting -” His jaw clenches, and he makes faint air quotes with his fingers as he mutters, “‘Normal kids’, much less a kid that…” He fades off. “I dunno. Wasn’t great. So.” He looks up and shrugs. “That’s that.”

“Wow,” you breathe. “I’m - I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be,” Harry sighs. “It’s over now.” He gives you a half-smile, popping a fry into his mouth. “I’ve gone and ruined the mood, haven’t I?” You shake your head and reply, “I asked.” You half-smile back at him. “If anything, it’s my fault.”

“If you insist,” Harry says. “Come on, tell me something good.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He smiles big, nudging your foot gently under the table. “We’re going to Rio.”

You smile big too, because he’s not even kidding. You booked the tickets with him a few days ago. The plan is to get out of the country for a while until everything settles down. You’ll avoid a few calls, lay low, then come back to thousands of dollars and all your problems solved.

“I can’t wait to go to the beach,” you murmur, leaning back against the booth.

Harry hums in agreement. “You’ll love the view,” he says.

“You’ve been?” you ask.

Harry shakes his head, a stupid smile on his face. “Nah. But the view of me in my little yellow swim shorts can make up for any underwhelming scenery.” You scoff a laugh and echo, “Little yellow swim shorts?”

“They’re fantastic, darling,” Harry assures you with a big grin. “We’ll have to go shopping so we can match.” You nod, giggling despite yourself. “Forget the beach, I can’t wait for that.” Harry nods sagely. “It’ll be great.”

You crack jokes with him about his swim attire the whole way home.

The phone doesn’t ring once.

***

The second night is not nearly as exciting as the first. The lobby is empty. A few people filter in, but there were significantly more tickets bought than the number of attendees. As far as you know, there aren’t any more ticket sales, either.

You’re somehow even more uneasy than you were last night. Harry is, too. Nobody says anything. It’s just a bunch of nervous looks and heavy silence. Backstage is quiet, too. D’Angelo is the only one saying anything at all. His voice is lower, though, and even his orange boa seems to be a bit lifeless.

The play seems to take hours. People walk out. It’s getting a bit depressing - you realize that’s your goal, for the theater to be totally empty, but it’s really quite difficult to act to a nonexistent audience.

Backstage is quiet after the play, too. You get changed and walk out to meet Harry, brows jumping when you see him talking to a woman you don’t recognize. She’s tall and thin and blonde, sunglasses perched on top of her head. Her clothing is casual, just a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Hello,” you say hesitantly as you walk up to them.

“Hey, there,” the woman greets you. Bright blue eyes meet yours, and she smiles as she sticks her hand out for you to shake. Her nails are painted a light pink. You match her smile and shake her hand, introducing yourself.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “I’m Gwen.”

Ah, you think. You steal a glance at Harry, who looks a bit tense.

You clear your throat. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Yeah,” she replies, laughing a little. “I, uh… Yeah. Well, uh, I was just starting to talk to H about Fatigue. And, um… I’m sorry, but I’m not sure you’ll be happy to hear our decision…” You look at Harry again, and he doesn’t meet your eye.

“That doesn’t sound good,” you say, because Harry stays quiet.

“Well, I think you’ve seen the reception,” Gwen says. “And there hasn’t been a single ticket sale since before it opened last night.” She sighs, a sympathetic look on her face as her gaze bounces between you and Harry. “I’m afraid we just can’t afford to keep it open any longer.”

“We understand,” Harry says, finally speaking up. His hand slides into yours, surprising you, and you watch Gwen’s eyes flick down to catch the action. “We’ll go tell everyone,” Harry goes on. “It was nice seeing you, Gwen.”

He leads you away, and you nod goodbye at Gwen a tad awkwardly over your shoulder.

“You okay?” you ask quietly once she’s out of earshot.

You see his jaw flex, but he doesn’t answer for a moment. He pulls his hand away from yours and runs it through his hair, and then, barely loud enough for you to hear, he says, “That was my sweatshirt.”

“Oh,” you say, wincing.

“I can’t believe her,” he mutters. “Christ.”

You pause a second, unsure what to say, then decide, “I’m surprised she didn’t just call.”

Harry just shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just… We’ll have to tell them. They should hear it from us.” You nod and murmur, “D’Angelo will be devastated.” Harry sighs, pushing open the door. “I’m sure he saw it coming.”

Everyone looks up when the two of you walk in.

As soon as D’Angelo sees your expressions, he finishes the last of his champagne in one gulp. He sighs, holding your gaze, and then speaks to Harry. “How’s your lovely Gwen doing, then?” he asks breezily, his easy tone a sharp contrast to his strained body language.

“I’m not sure,” Harry says quietly. “We didn’t talk much.”

D’Angelo hums lowly. “It’s not good news, I presume?”

“No,” you say. “No, it’s… it’s not.”

“Finished, are we?” D’Angelo asks.

Both you and Harry hesitate.

And then Harry answers, “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” you add weakly.

D’Angelo raises his empty champagne flute. “It was a valiant effort.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then everyone looks away and begins packing up their things. Low chatter breaks out, and D’Angelo slowly drifts over to the half-empty bottle of champagne in the corner. He inspects the label, swirls it around, and then takes a drink directly from the bottle.

Harry clears his throat next to you. “I was planning to go to the hospital,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s a - that’s a good idea,” you reply with a nod.

You lock eyes, just for a moment, and then Harry turns away.

“I’ll meet you at the car,” he says, and walks off.

You say your goodbyes and follow Harry out.

***

“You’re… leaving?” Aurora gasps, eyes wide and beginning to glisten.

Harry squeezes her hand and tells her, “Just for a while.”

“A while?” she echoes, a tear rolling down her cheek. “But - but -”

“We’ll be back before you know it, princess,” you murmur from behind Harry.

Harry nods. “You’ll blink and we’ll be back.”

Aurora hiccups a sob, chin wobbling as her gaze darts between you and Harry. “But we’re almost done with - with Trumpet,” she whispers. “You can’t leave me on a - a hill - a hang - a rock -” She breaks off with another sob, pulling away from Harry to wipe at her nose with her little hand.

Your heart cracks in two. “A cliffhanger,” you whisper.

“You can’t leave me!” Aurora cries.

“We’re not, baby,” Harry insists, voice cracking. “I promise, we’ll be back.”

Aurora sniffles, crossing her arms over her chest and stubbornly looking at the other end of the room, away from either of you. “Just go,” she whimpers. Harry reaches out, and she jerks away, closing her eyes as tears fall faster.

“We’ll be back,” Harry promises again, voice barely audible.

“Go away!” Aurora sobs, and she burrows under the blankets.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, looking hopeless, and you place your hands on his shoulders. “Come on,” you say softly. “She’ll come around. We’ll call her. FaceTime.” Harry closes his eyes, just for a second, and then stands up.

“We’ll… we’ll be right back,” he murmurs.

No response.

“I love you, okay?” he tries. “And I promise… I promise we’ll be… right back…”

Still nothing.

Harry wipes his face and clears his throat. “Bye, Aurora,” he whispers.

Aurora just sniffles again, pulling the blanket further over her head.

Gently, you take Harry’s hand and guide him out.

“It’ll all be worth it,” you tell him, squeezing his hand.

Harry nods and squeezes your hand back, silent.

***

Everything’s packed.

The money has been transferred to several offshore accounts, safe to stay unnoticed until everything’s settled down and you and Harry can start slowly shifting it back into your own accounts.

The plane ride is a bit tense. Harry brought a deck of cards, of course, and you trade magic tricks and play games of Go Fish and Gin Rummy. He chews gum and you giggle watching him attempt to blow bubbles.

It’s hot in Rio. Harry holds your hand as you navigate the airport and the buses to your hotel. It’s a relief to finally arrive, to collapse onto the big fluffy bed and sprawl out in the glorious air conditioning.

The first night, the two of you order room service and eat dinner while watching TV.

And the phone. You watch the phone, too.

Every so often, your gazes will both drift to the phone at the same time, and you’ll catch his eye and give a half-smile. You’re waiting for a call from an investor, of course, demanding where their money is and why the hell they haven’t been able to reach you.

In reality, there’s no way they’ll think of you. The play has probably already been forgotten. Individually, each person gave such a small amount that they probably forgot about it days after they signed the papers. To think that they’d not only remember your play but that they’d be angry that you lost their money is ridiculous.

There’s no way.

It’s silly to think about, really, and whenever you find yourself worrying, you take a breath and think about how mind-boggling your situation is. You’re in a hotel room in Rio de Janeiro that’s almost as big as your entire apartment.

The hotel room you’re in is large. It’s a suite. The bathroom’s ginormous, the closet’s practically just as big, and the desk is a rich, dark oak color fit with huge drawers and a bright lamp. There are two small couches situated in front of the windows, right in front of the door to the little balcony just outside.

Huge windows look out over the glittering city, and far in the distance, you can see the Christ the Redeemer statue. Twinkling lights wink at you, brightly colored in the pitch-black night. Trees sway in the light breeze, and the softest sound of music can be heard even as far from the city as you are.

In a suite as big as this, there are two beds. Harry falls asleep in the same bed you do anyway, on the opposite side. You don’t think about it until the next morning when you realize both of you somehow gravitated to the middle, and you’re curled into his side with your head on his chest.

The sound of birds wakes you up. You’re struck with the oddest of feelings; everything is just so surreal you’re not even sure where to begin. It’s so much more pleasant than it should be to just lay there, reveling in how content you are nestled up to this guy you used to despise with all your being.

Then, suddenly, your heart begins to ache, because you realize you haven’t gotten around to letting him know just how much your feelings towards him have changed. Nothing’s happened since that kiss, and it hurts.

It hurts just to think about it, and being right next to him like this isn’t helping. You roll out of bed, wash your face with cold water, push all of those thoughts out of your mind. It’s not worth the stress.

Harry stirs as you brew a cup of coffee, sitting up and running a hand through his hair with his eyes still half shut. “Smells good,” he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. “Coffee,” you tell him, lifting your now full cup. “Want some?”

He nods, stretching up towards the ceiling before flopping back down. “Mhmm.”

You start another cup, then turn around and lean on the dresser, watching him while you take a hesitant sip of your scalding coffee. You can see his chest rising and falling gently, and his swallows peek out of his white t-shirt. He’s on his back, head to the side, morning sunlight reflecting through the trees by the window and splashing over his face like he’s in some dramatic Renoir painting.

The coffee maker sputters to a stop. You blink, feeling like an absolute creep for just staring at him like this, and hurriedly turn around to grab the cup. Harry sits up as you walk over, and after handing him his cup, you sit on the edge of the bed, crossing your legs and cradling your warm coffee in both hands.

He takes a sip, and his eyes flutter shut blissfully. “Bloody hell,” he sighs.

“Jesus,” you laugh. “It’s not that good.”

He pouts at you. “It’s fucking incredible.”

“Guess it’s those Brazilian nuts.”

Harry grins. “Damn right,” he says.

He holds your gaze for just a second, smile still in his eyes, and you have to look away.

Standing up, you clear your throat and turn to look out the window. “We should… go somewhere, or… something,” you say. There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs, just a little, and you’re looking over at him again before you can stop yourself.

“What?” you ask, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling, either.

He giggles at you. “I - we’re in Rio, and you think we wouldn’t go somewhere?”

You scoff, shaking your head as your face heats a bit. “Hey, I don’t know!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he tells you, still smiling, and he stands up and runs his hands through his hair as he stretches again. “We can take a walk,” he suggests. “Get to know the place.” You nod, looking down into your coffee.

“Sounds good,” you say.

***

“It’ll have six bedrooms.”

Harry grins. “Eight bathrooms.”

“Twelve kitchens.”

“Fifteen pools.”

“Twenty - uh… Twenty… fireplaces…?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head, and takes your hand, swinging it up and down. You’re walking along a beach, sand slipping under your flip-flops and sinking under your feet. You’ve just finished breakfast, and you feel perfectly content.

“I’ve always wanted to build my own house,” Harry says.

“Missed opportunity in construction?”

Harry frowns and amends, “Er - well, more design my own house.”

You nudge his hip, smiling. “Think you’d look good in one of those orange hard hats.”

“Thought you’d prefer something else that’s hard…”

You scoff a laugh. “Wow. Coming on strong for ten in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Harry laughs. “Too much?”

“Maybe just wait a few more hours. Let me get something better than coffee in me.”

“Asking me to get you drunk?”

You just shrug, grinning at him.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Harry says.

There’s a beat of silence, and you watch your hand, intertwined with Harry’s, still swaying back and forth. The waves gently crash against the shore, birds chirping away in the distance.

After a second, you clear your throat. “So,” you say, “you kissed me.”

Harry gazes off at the water. “Did I?”

You stop walking. You open your mouth to reply, then close it again.

He looks at you, and there’s a smirk on his lips. “Don’t remember that,” he says.

You’re not sure how to respond. Hurt rushes through you, then anger, confusion, and -

“I think I’ll have to do it again,” he goes on. “See if it rings any bells.”

Relief floods your body. You smile, just slightly. “Right,” you breathe. “Guess you will.”

He kisses you, softly, hand cupping your cheek gently. He touches you gingerly, like you’ll break, like you’ll pull away, like he’s a little scared. So you’re the one to lean into him, you’re the one to slide a hand onto the nape of his neck and pull him closer, grinning against his lips and giggling when he smiles too.

“You’re a bastard for that,” you tell him when you pull away, a bit breathlessly.

“For what?” he asks innocently.

You roll your eyes. “Pretending you didn’t remember.”

“Sorry,” he says, kissing you once more.

He takes your hand, starting to walk again, letting silence linger for just a second. He’s looking at the sand, smile fading away. He looks like he’s in deep thought, and you squeeze his hand. “You okay?”

He looks up at you and smiles just a bit. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m just thinking… You know, erm… I don’t want to pressure you,” he tells you, his voice lowering as he stops again to face you fully. “I, er… I know the original plan was to - you know, go our separate ways after… after all this. And it’s… It’s a lot, I know -” He laughs softly. “Christ, I’m a lot, just with Aurora, and the theater, and…” He fades off, running a hand over his face. “Er… But yeah. I just… I wanna let you know that I’m not… pressuring you to stay, or anything… We can stick to the - the plan.”

“No,” you say immediately, and then feel a bit self-conscious. “I mean… I don’t want to. I really…” You give him a smile. “I really like you. And Aurora. And it’s a lot, yeah, but… I don’t care. I don’t mind. I love all of it. I -” You falter, then, “I mean - I like - I -”

He raises a brow at you.

So you bite your lip, then dive in headfirst. “I love you,” you say.

“Love you too,” he replies with a big smile, and he kisses you.

***

It’s hours later, now, and you’ve wandered into some restaurant by the beach.

The bar is loud, crowded, and thrumming with music in Portuguese. Somebody’s singing from a big stage in the back. Your hand is firmly in Harry’s, walking next to him through the mass of moving bodies. A warm breeze heavy with ocean air flows through huge open windows, colorful lights shining in the dark.

When you finally make it to the counter, Harry gestures vaguely at something on the wall to the bartender, and you point at the drink of the person next to you. You glance at each other, shrug, and watch as the bartender mixes and shakes up a bunch of mysterious liquids.

Your final result is bright blue, like the one the girl next to you just finished. Harry’s is pink and green. With laughs neither of you can hear over the noise, you clink your glasses against each other and take sips.

Harry’s nose wrinkles. “Sour,” you see him say.

Yours is extremely sweet, and you make an eh motion with your hand and hold it out to him. He takes it and gives you his, and you try his as he tries yours. Your nose must wrinkle like his did, because he grins and hands yours back.

You shake your head, though, and look around for someone who has a drink you’d actually like to have. When you spot someone downing a shot glass full of what looks like water but clearly isn’t, you point that out to the bartender along with two fingers.

A few shots later, you’re buzzing, dancing with Harry amid the mass of people on the dance floor. The music’s so loud, electrifying the air around you. It seems like you’re being shifted towards the front of the room, and before you know it, you appear to be on the raised platform all the way at the front.

Bright lights hit your face, making you giggle and squint. People start clapping, Harry spins you around, and everyone cheers. There’s a screen directly in front of you. You walk up to it, practically dragging Harry with you, and realize it’s a song bank - and there are microphones on the table next to it.

“Karaoke!” you shout at Harry.

He grins and starts flicking through the song choices. When you see one you like, you reach out and tap the screen, pointing at it. Harry laughs and nods excitedly, clicking it. Immediately, the music changes.

On cue, you and Harry come in.

“Yoooo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want -”

It’s not in Portuguese, but nobody seems to mind, and they give you rambunctious applause regardless. You and Harry can barely get the words out for how much you’re laughing and giggling at each other’s dance moves and crazy singing. He spins you around again, you spin him, both of you trip on the mic wires at least three times. As the song ends, he dips you, kisses your nose, and then stands up so both of you can take big bows.

You’re breathless by that point, and you stumble off the stage with Harry as someone else takes the mic. On some unsaid agreement, you both keep going out of the restaurant and back onto the beach towards your hotel.

With your fingers tangled in his and chests heaving, you walk all the way back to the hotel. It’s pretty close, and when you arrive, the two of you lean against the door and grin at each other, hearts still racing.

Harry kisses you, then, hand sliding against your cheek and lips smiling against yours. The wood of the door is cool against your back, and it’s not because of the hot Brazilian air that you’re warming up again.

He pulls his shoulder off the door, almost pinning you against it as your smiles fade and your kisses become more desperate. You want more, more, more; want him closer, closer - even closer - and with fumbling fingers you shed the clothes that separate you as you lurch towards the bed.

It’s warm, in Brazil, so warm, and you’ve never felt a greater thrill.

***

The next morning, after grins and kisses and coffee, the phone rings.

Harry glances at you, then picks it up.

“Hello?” he says. Then, “Yes, this is he.”

He’s quiet for a while. He fiddles with his lip.

“I know,” he says. “Right. Right, I know. Don’t worry… Yes, expect a call soon. Won’t be from me, no, but… No… Yes, of course, I… Fantastic. Great talking with you. Expect that call! Bye, bye now.”

He hangs up.

“Investor?” you ask.

He nods.

You open your mouth to say something, then stop.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells you, starting to smile. “They’ll never remember. One call, that’s all. That wasn’t even the guy himself - it was his assistant. We’ll be buried under hundreds of other things to do. I’ve had to remind people, you know, even on plays that do well. They always forget.”

You’re not quite persuaded, but he comes over and squeezes your shoulder and says, “It’ll be alright” so convincingly that you can’t help but believe him. You nod, taking his hand, and let him lead you out to the balcony, where fruit and warm bread are waiting for you.

Over the next few weeks, only a couple of calls come in. Harry handles them, uses that same calming tone, and says basically the same thing each time: expect a phone call, sorry for the delay, don’t worry about it.

You sit back and distract your racing heart with the beautiful sights, sounds, and food.

***

Harry makes some killer pancakes. After living with him for months and months, you’ve had more than your fair share of his fluffy, buttery pancakes. And while you’d be the first to crown him the best pancake maker in New York, his pancake breakfasts have absolutely nothing on the Brazilian breakfasts you’ve had since you’ve gotten to Rio de Janeiro.

Nevertheless, it’s a few weeks later, and you’ve awoken to the scent of bacon.

“What are you doing?” you ask incredulously, following your nose to the small kitchenette in the hotel suite. “Pancakes!” Harry exclaims, flipping around to brandish his teeny frying pan at you.

“Oh, Harry,” you sigh, taking a tiny pancake from the pile anyway.

Harry turns back around to busy himself with his task. “Listen,” he begins seriously. “I’m aware of how good the food here is. We’re had right scrumptious meals here -” You giggle through a bite of pancake and interrupt, “You’re right scrumptious.”

“Shush,” Harry says, but you can see him dimpling from behind him. “What I mean to say is that I was bored, so don’t blame me for the American food.” You frown at his back. “Bored?” you echo.

You’ve hardly been sitting around doing nothing, you think at first, but then as you think about it more, you… kind of have. The two of you were on a good run the first few days, going out every day and finding a new sight to see. Three weeks in, though, it’s a lot more tempting to just stay in bed all day and lounge around in the sunshine.

“Yeah,” Harry replies now as he turns to face you. “I’m getting antsy.”

“Find an anteater.”

He pouts.

You smile apologetically at him and hold up a little pancake. “Delicious.”

“Thanks,” he says.

You bite your lip, leaning back in your chair as your brain slowly wakes up. “How about… a picnic?” you suggest. “We could go down to the beach again and bring a basket - make it all aesthetic and pretty!”

Harry points his spatula at you. “That’s the spirit!”

“You can pack the basket,” you say.

He frowns. “Maybe try a different spirit.”

“How about - I don’t pack it, and you pack it!”

“That’s… the same spirit.”

“I’ve never believed in ghosts anyway,” you tell him, and you stand up, sliding your plate into the sink. “Have fun!” you say, patting him on the chest as you pass him “And pack some fruits, Styles. Let’s stay healthy.”

“Let’s,” Harry echoes, grumbling, “as in let us. Let us pack the basket.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” you call.

He is, really, he is a gentleman, because he packs it despite your later offers to help and then presents you with a ginormous sun hat when you appear fully changed. You put it on, and when its brim droops over your forehead, you say, “Hey, it flops, just like all of your plays!”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry scoffs, but he’s laughing so he can’t be too insulted.

It’s gorgeous by the water, unsurprisingly, and you feed each other strawberries and sip sparkling water while you chatter away about nothing. You drift closer and closer until you’ve forgotten all about the view of the sunset for strawberry sweet kisses, and you both decide to call it a day and head back for the hotel.

You see him fiddling with his phone as you step out of the bathroom, changed after your shower, and your smile dims a little as you realize what he’s thinking. “We should try again,” you tell him, and he looks up, looking conflicted.

You’re talking about Aurora, about calling her, because she hasn’t picked up the last twenty times you’ve tried. Harry’s talked to her nurses, who say she’s doing relatively well health-wise but not great with everything else. She misses them, the nurses say, but she’s still angry.

“Come on,” you say, plopping down next to him on the bed and gently sliding his phone out of his hands. You move slowly, giving him the opportunity to stop you, and then hand it to him before pressing the call button.

He gives you a smile. “Hundredth time’s the charm.”

And lo and behold - he’s right.

“You gotta come back,” Aurora says as soon as she picks up. “I had a dream about the little swan last night, Harry, you gotta come back! I need to know what happens!” Harry breathes an incredulous laugh and clears his throat.

“I - er, yeah, Ror, of course,” he says. “Soon.”

You pop into the camera view for a second, wiggling your fingers, and Aurora gives a shy smile. “Hi,” she says, sounding a little guilty. “Sorry for not… picking up.” Harry glances at you, and you reply, “Don’t worry about it, princess.”

“We’re still sorry,” Harry adds.

Aurora pouts, looking down, and mumbles, “Should be.”

“Just a few more weeks, Ror,” Harry tells her, his voice weak.

She huffs a little bit and then glances up again. She moves around a little bit, peering into the camera like she’s trying to look behind you. “Where are you guys, anyway?” Harry smiles and exclaims, “Brazil!”

Aurora still looks confused. “Well, where’s that?”

“Remember when we went to Disney World for your birthday?” Harry asks, and when Aurora nods, he goes on, “Right, well, it’s like if you went there, then kept going for a few hours until you heard Portuguese.”

Aurora blinks, then chirps, “Okay!”

“How’re you, princess?” Harry asks. “Any drama we should be aware of?”

“Oh, so much,” Aurora gushes. She starts her story, and as the air warms with her voice, Harry’s hand slides into yours and you begin to relax. Through the end of the phone call, you and Harry can barely keep the smiles off your face.

***

You stay in Brazil for a long time. After it’s been two weeks without a single call from any of the investors, you decide to pack it up. Back home, it’s totally quiet, like nothing ever happened. It’s still scary, though, and the plane ride back is mostly quiet. You’re cautious driving through town, peeking into the theater, greeting people as you walk into Harry’s apartment.

It only takes a look to agree on where to go first after dropping everything off in the apartment, and you’re at the hospital in no time with a huge bag of souvenirs. You’re both greeted with huge smiles and hugs all the way to Aurora’s room.

Aurora’s asleep when you walk in, and Harry gives you a bit of a nervous look before approaching and kneeling down beside her to gently place a kiss on her forehead. She wakes up slowly, blinking blearily before processing Harry in front of her and gasping and throwing her arms around his neck.

“Harry!” she squeals, hugging him tightly. With wide eyes, she looks up, then exclaims your name and you walk over to give her a hug of your own. “You’re back!” she says happily, glancing between the two of you excitedly.

“We sure are,” you tell her.

Harry nods. “We missed you, princess.”

“Missed you too,” Aurora replies.

You clear your throat and bring the small present from behind your back. “We have something for you,” you tell her, handing the little white bag to you. Aurora laughs delightedly, clapping her hands and crinkling the tissue paper inside before pulling out the gift.

“Oh…” she breathes. “Pascal!”

It’s not exactly Pascal, Rapunzel’s pet in Tangled, but it’s a little stuffed toy of a chameleon you found with Harry in some gift shop in Brazil and you figured Aurora would like him. “Told you I’d bring you a Pascal one of these days,” you say with a wink.

“I, of course,” Harry begins with a dramatic sigh, “am completely against this gift.”

Aurora breaks out in giggles.

“... So I had to get you something else,” Harry finishes. He hands her his own gift, a sparkly pink bag with two things inside. Aurora is enthralled with the delicate tiara, and Harry makes a whole production of crowning her princess of all of New York.

The second gift is a small snow globe, but glitter rains down on a beautiful beach scene rather than snow when Aurora flips it upside down, eyes wide with wonder. “I love it,” she says, voice a little quiet in awe.

“We won’t have to leave again,” Harry promises softly.

Aurora looks up, lowering the globe to her lap. “Please don’t,” she says.

Harry smiles a little, then squeezes her hand and stands up, sliding The Trumpet of the Swan off its spot on the table. “Hope you didn’t read any without us,” he sighs, settling down in his spot on the sofa.

Happily, you curl up next to him, just as pleased as Aurora to be continuing the story.

***

Back at the apartment the next day to finalize some paperwork, your phone begins to ring. It’s an unknown number. Glancing at Harry nervously, you pick it up and wander over to the window as the voice on the other end begins to talk.

Your heart drops as you realize what’s happening. It’s someone from another company, asking you to audition for a play they’re starting to work on. Apparently, someone had seen your performance in Fatigue and thought you were wonderful. They couldn’t believe you were working with such a shit producer, they said, and would you like to join their company?

“Yes!” you say immediately, a little too excitedly. “I mean - yes. Please. Thank you.”

They give you the details, and with a still racing heart, you turn around and see Harry, working on some papers at his desk, looking very confused. Your eyes widen. “Oh my God,” you say, realizing what you’d just done.

“You alright, love?” he asks, sounding a bit amused.

You clear your throat. “Um, I just agreed to audition for another play?”

His brows jump, and he comes around his desk to wrap you in a hug. “Bloody hell!” he laughs. “Congratulations! That’s great - did they say when auditions are? Is it close by? What theater?”

You sputter a laugh, surprised at his reaction, and start, “Well, I… I mean… Are you okay with this? Did you want me to stick with you?” Harry scoffs, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. You’re too good for me. My producing days are over.”

“Really?” you ask, startled.

He leans against the desk, shrugging slightly. “Well… yeah. I mean, my record hardly suggests greatness, you know? I’ll find something else.” He grins, wiggling his brows, and adds, “Maybe I’ll go into writing. I certainly know what to avoid.”

“That would be great!” you exclaim. “Harry Styles, writer-producer extraordinaire!”

“Damn right,” Harry tells you, and he kisses you. You lean into him, hand sliding into his hair, and he whispers, “This desk hasn’t been broken in yet.” You snicker, about to reply, when your hand grazes a stack of papers and you sigh, pulling away. Harry whines, puckering his lips and smooching at you.

“We have paperwork to do,” you tell him.

He pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“After,” you say, giving him one last kiss.

“Maybe we can multitask,” Harry muses, turning around anyway and starting to shuffle some papers. “It takes you about a million years to finish a document when I’m not distracting you,” you reply, stealing a pen from his cup.

“Reckon I just need practice,” he says as you collapse on the sofa. You sigh, smiling despite yourself as you click your pen, shuffle some papers, and get to work. “Sure, Styles,” you say.

***

Two nights later, you’re sitting on the floor in the hallway of the hospital.

Beside you, the vending machine hums lowly. It harmonizes with the fluorescent lights buzzing on the ceiling, which are so bright they make your head hurt even when you close your eyes. Every few minutes, the lights flicker just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

Harry dusts his hands off, reaching up to toss his candy wrapper into the trashcan. Like yours, his legs are stretched out in front of him. His hands are folded in his lap, head rested against the wall behind him.

He nudges your toe with his foot, shifting to look at you. He looks tired. When you meet his eyes, he starts to smile, lips curving slowly until he’s full on grinning, dimpling at you and laughing just a little.

“What?” you ask, unable to stop yourself from laughing just a little too.

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

You hold up the wrapper from the candy bar you just ate, peering at it, and tell him, “I wonder if it’s possible to get a sugar rush at one in the morning.” Harry takes it from you and pushes it into the trashcan.

“If you eat the entire vending machine,” he says, “probably.”

“I’m tired,” you whisper.

“What happened to the sugar rush?”

You take his hand, a bit delirious, and flip it palm up in your lap. “You’re gonna have a long life,” you say softly, tracing a random line on his skin. You start at his wrist, and follow a few lines up to one of his rings. “And be very stylish,” you continue, spinning a ring around.

“Why, thank you,” Harry says.

You smile at him. “You’re welcome.”

Harry touches the bottom of your chin with his finger, gently pushing up, and press his lips to yours. You relax at his touch, eyelids fluttering shut as his hand slides to hold your cheek, supporting you, grounding you, giving you butterflies.

Aurora’s sleeping in her room. Harry finished reading The Trumpet of the Swan just before she fell asleep. Earlier, while she went through tests and played, you and Harry filled out the proper forms for the procedure she’d need in a few months. It won’t be an easy ride, but she’ll be alright. And sitting on the floor, head rested on Harry’s shoulder and hand entwined with his, you get the feeling you just might be alright, too.

~*~ and there she is!!! all done!!! i'm gonna admit this chapter took SO LONG - i'm pretty sure i finished the first two chapters in like less than a month and this one took me. five months. BUT i got it done and i hit my word goal and i'm super proud of myself! honestly i'm just glad i got it out lmao. but i do hope someone out there enjoyed it, and if u did, a reblog and some feedback would be absolutely splendid <3

thank you for reading!!!!

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