#that’s history we’re focusing on this now

[bookwyrminspiration]

look what they’ve done to my boy /lh

[mariacallous]

It is over and everything is lost. This is the refrain repeated by Armenian families as they take that final step across the border out of their home of Nagorno-Karabakh.

In just a handful of days more than 100,000 people, almost the entire Armenian population of the breakaway enclave, has fled fearing ethnic persecution at the hands of Azerbaijani forces. The world barely registered it. But this astonishing exodus has vanished a self-declared state that thousands have died fighting for and ended a decades-old bloody chapter of history.

On Saturday, along that dusty mountain road to neighbouring Armenia, a few remaining people limp to safety after enduring days in transit.

Among them is the Tsovinar family who appear bundled in a hatchback littered with bullet holes, with seven relatives crushed in the back. Hasratyan, 48, the mother, crumbles into tears as she tries to make sense of her last 48 hours. The thought she cannot banish is that from this moment forward, she will never again be able to visit the grave of her brother killed in a previous bout of fighting.

“He is buried in our village which is now controlled by Azerbaijan. We can never go back,” the mother-of-three says, as her teenage girls sob quietly beside her.

“We have lost our home, and our homeland. It is an erasing of a people. The world kept silent and handed us over”.

She is interrupted by several ambulances racing in the opposite direction towards Nagorno-Karabakh’s main city of Stepanakert, or Khankendi, as it is known by the Azerbaijani forces that now control the streets. Their job is to fetch the few remaining Karabakh Armenians who want to leave and have yet to make it out.

“Those left are the poorest who have no cars, the disabled and elderly who can’t move easily,” a first responder calls at us through the window. “Then we’re told that’s it.”

As the world focused on the United Nations General Assembly, the war in Ukraine and, in the UK, the felling of an iconic Sycamore tree, a decades old war has reignited here unnoticed.

It ultimately heralded the end of Nagorno-Karabakh, a breakaway Armenian region, that is internationally recognised as being part of Azerbaijan but for several decades has enjoyed de facto independence. It has triggered the largest movement of people in the South Caucasus since the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Azerbaijan has vehemently denied instigating ethnic cleansing and has promised to protect Armenians as it works to reintegrate the enclave.

But in the border town of Goris, surrounded by the chaotic arrival of hundreds of refugees, Armenia’s infrastructure minister says Yerevan was now struggling to work out what to do with tens of thousands of displaced and desperate people.

“Simply put this is a modern ethnic cleansing that has been permitted through the guilty silence of the world,” minister Gnel Sanosyan tells The Independent, as four new busses of fleeing families arrive behind him.

“This is a global shame, a shame for the world. We need the international community to step up and step up now.”

The divisions in this part of the world have their roots in centuries-old conflict but the latest iterations of bitter bloodshed erupted during the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Karabakh Armenians, who are in the majority in the enclave, demanded the right to autonomy over the 4,400 square kilometre rolling mountainous region that has its own history and dialect. In the early 1990s they won a bloody war that uprooted Azerbaijanis, building a de facto state that wasn’t internationally unrecognised.

That is until in 2020. Azerbaijan, backed by Turkey, launched a military offensive and took back swathes of territory in a six-week conflict that killed thousands of soldiers and civilians. Russia, which originally supported Armenia but in recent years has grown into a colder ally, brokered a fragile truce and deployed peacekeepers.

But Moscow failed to stop Baku in December, enforcing a 10-month blockade on Nagorno-Karabakh, strangling food, fuel, electricity and water supplies. Then, the international community stood by as Azerbaijan launched a 24-hour military blitz that proved too much for Armenian separatist forces. Outgunned, outnumbered and weakened by the blockade, they agreed to lay down their weapons.

For 30 years the Karabakh authorities had survived pressure from international powerhouses to give up statehood or at least downgrade their aspirations for Nagorno-Karabakh. For 30 years peace plans brokered by countries across the world were tabled and shelved.

And then in a week all hope vanished and the self-declared government agreed to dissolve.

Fearing further shelling and then violent reprisals, as news broke several Karabakh officials including former ministers and separatist commanders, had been arrested by Azerbaijani security forces, people flooded over the border.

At the political level there are discussions about “reintegration” and “peace” but with so few left in Nagorno-Karabakh any process would now be futile.

And so now, sleeping in tents on the floors of hotels, restaurants and sometimes the streets of border towns, shellshocked families, with a handful of belongings, are trying to piece their lives together.

Among them is Vardan Tadevosyan, Nagorno-Karabakh’s minister of health until the government was effectively dissolved on Thursday. He spent the night camping on the floor of a hotel, and carries only the clothes he is wearing. Exhausted he says he had “no idea what the future brings”.

“For 25 years I have built a rehabilitation centre for people with physical disabilities I had to leave it all behind. You don’t know how many people are calling me for support,” he says as his phone ringed incessantly in the background throughout the interview.

“We all left everything behind. I am very depressed,” he repeats, swallowing the sentence with a sigh.

Next to him Artemis, 58, a kindergarten coordinator who has spent 30 years in Steparankert, says the real problems were going to start in the coming weeks when the refugees outstay their temporary accommodation.

“The Azerbaijanis said they want to integrate Nagorno-Karabakh but how do you blockade a people for 10 months and then launch a military operation and then ask them to integrate?” she asks, as she prepares for a new leg of the journey to the Armenian capital where she hopes to find shelter.

“The blockade was part of the ethnic cleansing. This is the only way to get people to flee the land they love. There is no humanity left in the world.”

Back in the central square of Goris, where families pick through piles of donated clothes and blankets and aid organisations hand out food, the loudest question is: what next?

Armenian officials are busy registering families and sending them to shelters in different corners of the country. But there are unanswered queries about long-term accommodation, work and schooling.

“I can’t really think about it, it hurts too much,” says Hasratyan’s eldest daughter Lilet, 16, trembling in the sunlight as the family starts the registration process.

“All I can say to the world is please speak about this and think about us. We are humans, people made of blood, like you and we need your help.”

[thefemigirl]

★ Reset Your YouTube

With the new year approaching, there’s a buzz in the air. It’s the perfect time to reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re heading. This year doesn’t have to look like the last one. If you’re planning a glow-up, stepping into a new mindset, or just becoming the person you’ve always wanted to be, here’s a method that can genuinely change the game: your YouTube feed.

Let’s be real, YouTube isn’t just entertainment. It’s also one of the most powerful platforms for self-improvement and learning. But if your feed is filled with videos that no longer serve your goals, it’s time to take charge and reset.

▸ Step 1: Unsubscribe From the Old You

First things first, go through your subscriptions and be brutally honest with yourself. Ask, “How often do I watch content from this channel? Does this align with who I’m becoming?”

Don’t worry about missing out. This isn’t about cutting off enjoyment—it’s about making space for growth.

Personal Example: I used to be subscribed to a lot of gaming channels because they were my go-to for entertainment. But now? I’m focusing on building my best self, so I said goodbye.

▸ Step 2: Hit the Reset Button

If you’re ready to go extreme (and trust me, this works wonders), delete your YouTube watch history. This is your ultimate clean slate.

Here’s how: Go to your YouTube settings, click “Manage All Activity,” and clear your watch history.

Why this works: YouTube’s algorithm will stop showing you videos based on your past habits. This means no more random recommendations that pull you back into old habits.

Pro Tip: Pair this with your new subscriptions to train the algorithm into showing you content that inspires and uplifts.

▸ Step 3: Subscribe to the Future You

This is the fun part. Fill your feed with creators who embody the energy you want to bring into the new year. Look for channels that motivate you, teach you, and align with your goals for 2025.

Being a femi girl, I will recommend some channels that are personally helping me upgrade myself:

Tam Kaur ▹ link

Alonna Elaine ▹ link

Bahja Abdi ▹ link

Adama Lorna ▹ link

Maya Galore ▹ link

Jillz Guerin ▹ link

Kisha Alejandra ▹ link

Thewizardliz ▹ link

Estelle Richter ▹ link

Simonesquared ▹ link

How to Find More: Search for videos with keywords like “level up,” “self-improvement,” “becoming her,” or “glow up in 2025.” Spend time exploring until you find creators who truly resonate with your vision.

▸ Step 4: Set Boundaries for Entertainment

It’s okay to watch fun and lighthearted content too, but be intentional. Ask yourself, “Is this adding value to my life?” If not, consider limiting your time with it.

Create playlists: Dedicate a playlist to motivational and growth-oriented videos. This will be your go-to space when you need a boost.

Schedule your entertainment: Watch for enjoyment, but don’t let it consume hours that could be spent learning or creating.

Resetting your YouTube feed might seem like a small change, but trust me, it’s powerful. When you surround yourself with content that aligns with your goals, you’re reinforcing the mindset and habits that will take you there!

So, I wish you the best of luck,

[nereidprinc3ss]

Ok but I think you hit on something in “in the dead of night” about how Spencer leans into his mammalian instincts. Imagine him angry and tense after a rough day and needing that and then talking you through the motions of it and why it makes him feel better because of the science and chemicals behind it all

i absolutely love this!! thank you for requesting:)

also experimenting with a new short and sweet format for blurbs/request! feedback is always appreciated<3

wc 800

warnings: fem!reader, very suggestive, d/s dynamics

“I don’t—Spencer—”

Something in your mouth keeps you from finishing the sentence. Namely: your boyfriend’s tongue. You gasp into him as he tugs your jacket off, arching your back against the wall he’s pressed you to so that the fabric can hit the ground with a thick thud.

“Spence, please,” you manage, barely, as his hand cups your jaw and his thumb presses under your chin, encouraging you to angle your head up and make room for his lips. It’s not that you don’t want this—you told him he could be rough with you and you meant it—but you’re slightly overwhelmed by this uncharacteristic display of nearing aggressive passion.

“What, baby?” he breathes, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck while his hands snake under your shirt. Focused on the feeling of his hand pressed against your waist, you allow your eyes to flutter shut.

“You’re acting… different.”

A pause—his head drops against your shoulder as he reigns himself in.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—you don’t need to stop, I just… it might make me feel better if I knew what this was about.”

He sucks in a breath.

“You want to hear about my day?”

The way his fingers trail downward over your skin is so gentle it feels almost dangerous.

“… Yeah.” But you don’t at all sound sure of yourself. A hum from him seems to rattle your skull as he drags his lips up your neck and over your jaw, kissing you with a softness that is almost certainly deceptive.

“You know what, angel? I don’t actually really feel like talking about that right now. Does that tell you—” he bites your lip, and it doesn’t really hurt, but you whine anyway, “what kind of day I had?”

No words are forming for you anymore, so you make do with an airy “mhm.”

The first button at the bottom of your shirt is undone before you even realize he was unbuttoning it.

“Have you ever heard of the ventrolateral ventromedial hypothalamus?” Spencer murmurs, undoing the buttons on your shirt with a practiced expertise that is hard to keep up with—especially when he keeps teasing your lips with his like this. It doesn’t even matter if you’ve heard of that or not; all the information you’ve ever retained is gone from the stores of your brain. If it doesn’t have anything to do with Spencer, it feels deeply unimportant. You shake your head no. “The hypothalamus does a lot. It regulates our appetites, our body temperatures, hormones…”

Why is this so sexy.

“It also has a lot to do with how we express our emotions. And that tiny part of the hypothalamus—the one I just mentioned—it’s where we process two really big feelings.” He undoes the last button, gently pushing your open shirt from your shoulders. “Anger.” Hands creep around your hips, blindly unzipping your skirt. “And arousal.”

Oh!

“In a disregulated brain, that can be a dangerous combination. But,” he tugs the straps of your bra down, “if you understand it, you can use it to your advantage.”

Your breath is bated as you do the work of kicking off your shoes, and he unclasps your bra.

“The human brain is fallible in so many ways. At the end of the day, we’re delicate, and vulnerable, and convoluted—but we’re also pretty simple creatures, motivated by a few basic instincts. Anger and sex are intrinsic to who we are as animals. For most of history, they’ve defined us. And they’re so closely related. Do you follow?”

Your response comes as a gasp when you realize you haven’t been breathing for a long moment now.

“Yes.” Does it matter if you understand? You just want him to touch you.

“Good.” His lowered voice gets even quieter as he continues, brushing hair behind your ear carefully. “You know I would never, ever hurt you, right?”

“I know.”

You don’t remember how all your clothes ended up on the kitchen floor, but they’re certainly not on you anymore as he presses flush against your bare skin.

“I will always take care of you and keep you safe. That being said—sometimes the best thing you can do when you’re having a really big feeling is to follow that basic animal instinct. It’s why sprinting can help when you’re having a panic attack. Your body is in fight or flight and it will relax if you follow the instinct to run.”

Spencer’s fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear.

“I’ve been having some of those really big feelings today. Do you know what’s going to make me feel better?”

You whimper. Fabric slips past your hips and falls to the ground as Spencer begins closing the small distance between your mouths—but not before uttering a word that has your heart racing.

“You.”

[jezebelblues]

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

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

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

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

word count: approx 21.5k gulp

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

masterlist

June, 2017

It was Mitch who vouched for her.

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

But good wasn’t the issue.

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

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

Her name was YN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mitch smirked but didn’t reply.

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

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

YN looked at Mitch. “Fine?”

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

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

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

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

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

Her words hung in the air.

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

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

She didn’t flinch under his gaze.

It went on like that for the next hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it meant setting the whole stage on fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands paused on the dials. “Nope.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Clinical?” she repeated, her voice flat.

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

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

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

Mitch coughed to hide his laugh.

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

“Do I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“S’fine,” he said, his tone careful.

“Fine?”

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

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

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

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

“Because I know what this show needs!”

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

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

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

The room went silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry glared at him. “At what?”

“Not making her hate you.”

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

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

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

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

“I know.” 

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

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

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

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

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

September third

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

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

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

Until she wasn’t alone.

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

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

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

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

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

But Harry didn’t leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You weren’t tired,” he said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should go.” 

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

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

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

September nineteenth

San Francisco was humming.

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

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

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

Inside the venue, it was chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She ignored him.

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

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

YN met his gaze, unflinching. “Positive.”

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

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

By noon, the tension was palpable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mitch snorted, but he didn’t argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the house lights dimmed, the noise was deafening.

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

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

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

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

And then the music began.

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

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

Perfect, even.

And maybe that was the problem.

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t immune.

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

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

Not a passing look. A moment.

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

If Harry noticed, he didn’t show it.

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

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

The audience erupted, their cheers shaking the walls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t look away this time.

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

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

And for the first time, she felt it too.

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

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

She had done it. They had done it.

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

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

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

She thought maybe he’d felt it too.

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t.

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

Her stomach sank.

Seriously?

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

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

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

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

His brow arched, but he didn’t press.

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

But he didn’t look at her. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe she was imagining it all.

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

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

But when she turned, it wasn’t him.

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

She shook her head and kept walking.

The morning after opening night started with a headache.

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

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

Everyone but Harry.

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

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

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

Not directly, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just checking in.”

It felt like a lie.

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

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

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

She hated this.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

“Yeah.” 

Lie.

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

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

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

Two could play this game.

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

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

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

Her frustration simmered, bubbling just below the surface.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt him before she saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated him.

And she hated that she didn’t.

Nashville hit like a fever dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN.”

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

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

“Yeah?” she sighed, her tone flat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her stomach sank. “What kind of error?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really am sorry,” the receptionist said.

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

The elevator ride to their shared room was suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was the last thing she needed.

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made sleep feel even further away.

The night dragged on like a bad song on repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry was already up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t thank him either.

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

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

By ten that morning, they were at the Ryman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Hendrix.”

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

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

“What’s it to you?”

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

“Come along where?”

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

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

“Prove it.” His grin widened.

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

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That sounds unnecessarily dramatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” The lie came easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ketchup,” YN said, dipping another fry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning,” Mitch gave her a small smile.

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

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

Rehearsal started slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mitch nodded, already adjusting his guitar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey! YN.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hated that he was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was during Woman that the tension finally cracked.

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

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

And then, without warning, his gaze found hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

September 26th, Chicago Theatre

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

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

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

But Harry’s energy was different.

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

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

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

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

September 27th, New York City Music Hall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Outside,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

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

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

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

That laugh made her want to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“S’the only one you’re getting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to your liver.”

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

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

But then her gaze shifted, and she realized something.

This wasn’t her room.

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

Harry’s room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You alright?” he asked.

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

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

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

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you did.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why were you so mean to me?”

Harry stilled, the teasing edge slipping from his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine here.”

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t answer my question.”

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

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

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

“Goodnight.” His voice was low and unreadable.

Silence.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

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

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

September 30th, Boston

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

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

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

“Fine,” she muttered, not looking up.

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

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

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

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

It started small. A glance. A smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t get far.

“YN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d been off tonight.

But only because of him.

-

The tour bus rumbled down the highway, the lights of Boston fading far behind them as the road stretched dark and endless ahead. The show at the Wang  was barely two hours in the past, but it already felt like a weight YN couldn’t shake.

She sat in her bunk with the curtain pulled tightly shut, her knees tucked up to her chest and her notebook balanced precariously against them. Her pen hovered over the blank page, unmoving. She had opened it in an attempt to write something—anything—to push the tension out of her head, but her mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, it replayed the night in an endless loop: Harry’s sharp words backstage, the way his smirk twisted into something darker, the challenge in his eyes daring her to finish what she hadn’t meant to say.

Her chest tightened at the memory. She’d spent the rest of the night avoiding him—on stage, backstage, and now on the bus.

The thin curtain separating her from the rest of the bus didn’t do much to block out the low hum of conversation from the main area. Harry’s voice rose and fell in rhythm with Sarah’s and Mitch’s, casual and unbothered. He laughed at something Mitch said, the sound low and easy, and it made YN’s stomach twist.

How is he so unaffected?

Hours later, the bus quieted as everyone began retreating to their bunks. The lights dimmed, and the gentle sway of the vehicle as it sped down the highway turned the space into a cradle of silence.

Everyone except YN and Harry seemed to have no trouble falling asleep.

She could feel his presence even though they weren’t in the same part of the bus. He was out there, probably stretched out in one of the seats, scrolling on his phone or reading something. She hated that she knew his habits, hated that she’d memorized the way he fidgeted when he was restless, or the sound of his quiet sigh when he gave up on trying to distract himself.

She hated, most of all, that she cared.

She finally slid out of her bunk, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet as she padded toward the kitchenette. The small fridge buzzed faintly as she pulled it open, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter.

She tried to focus on the cold press of the bottle against her palm, the faint vibration of the road beneath her feet—anything but the sound of movement behind her.

Harry stepped into the kitchenette without looking at her. He opened one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of tea bags and tossing one onto the counter before reaching for the electric kettle.

YN didn’t say a word. She twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, staring at the far wall as if it held the answer to whatever storm was brewing in her chest.

Harry didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled the kettle, set it on the counter, and leaned back against the opposite side of the small space, his arms crossing over his chest.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

YN turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She froze, her back still to him.

“Not a bad thing,” he added casually. “Just different.”

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, her jaw clenching as she turned her head slightly. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Harry let out a soft hum, not quite a laugh. “How long will that last?”

Her chest tightened as she walked away, slipping back into her bunk and yanking the curtain shut behind her. She sat in the dark, the sound of the kettle clicking off faint in the distance.

She hadn’t seen his face, but she knew he’d been smirking. She could feel it in the way his words lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

And despite herself, she hated that it still mattered.

October 1st, Washington, D.C.

DAR Hall was completely sold out, shoulder to shoulder, elbow into ribs. 

Clips from the show in Boston, among other shows, started to surface online with whispers and reposts. It was only a matter of time, the crowd wasn’t stupid—the tension between the two was obvious, it was just a matter of deciphering if it was real or not. 

The consensus seemed to be split down the middle—they hated each other’s guts, or they were fucking behind closed doors. 

YN wasn’t sure if Harry saw it, but she sure did. Her younger brother had texted her about it first, a series of spam texts at three in the morning asking for every detail.

She left him on read. 

And now, here they stood in DC, before a sea of fans that seemed like they saw right through them, when YN herself didn’t even know what there was to see. 

Luckily, and unfortunately, there were only a few signs that seemed to be about YN and Harry, no one on stage acknowledged them. 

It was a sort of silent agreement that YN would stick to her one guitar during the entirety of the tour. But, when Mitch went to switch out for the acoustic, Harry had stopped him. 

He pulled his ear piece out slightly, whispering something to the guitarist before stalking towards YN on the wings of the stage. With the ear piece out, he could hear how insanely loud the crowd was—he couldn’t help but send shocked smiles in their direction. 

YN furrowed her eyebrows, her palm lying flat over the strings of the guitar as she pulled on her own ear piece. “What’s going on?” 

He stood near her, his breath peppermint and flat sprite. “Switch out, you’re doing track seven.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning her head in further. 

Track seven on the setlist, meet me in the hallway. “What do you mean? You or Mitch play that.”

He smiled, bunny teeth and dimples. “Now you are.” He nodded toward her, shoving the ear piece back in and ambling back toward the mic that stood center stage. 

She wasn’t nervous, more caught off guard. She knew how to play it, it was just being asked to play it. She pulled the strap from over her shoulders, walking back toward the rest of the band and setting the instrument in its place. 

Mitch would approach with an easy smile, settling the acoustic strap over her frame while Harry continued to talk to the crowd. He adjusted it to her body, looking over the frets to make sure they were tuned for the song—they were. “You know it?” 

She rested her fingers on the neck, nodding with a distant smile. “Back of my hand.” She breathed, earning a small nod from the other guitarist. 

Her eyes squinted in the bright lights as she moved toward Harry, his smile still bright—as if nothing had been happening between them at all. He said something into the mic, his voice a buzz in the background to YN—all that made sense was the second glance he sent her, the look to start. 

The fans simmered down, but not silent. She let out a breath, eyes scanning over the crowd then back to Harry. Her pick moved over the chords seamlessly, as if she played it this way for years. 

His hands gripped the mic stand as he echoed out the first lines, his rings glinting in the golden light. His eyebrows would furrow, his lips would part—he was just music. 

He was an asshole to her, he knew it. He hated it, and she hated how he was completely under her skin, threaded into her veins. 

As they approached the chorus, they looked toward each other, a fleeting sideways glance. He nodded his head down, shifting slightly to the side to make room for her. 

His voice boomed over hers, deeper and more emotional, but they mixed in harmony. Her voice was soft underneath his, lighter, only a backing vocal for the chorus.

The crowd erupted, and some sense settled over YN’s shoulders, the lyrics eerily familiar to them, to their situation. 

Her tummy twisted, yet she played the cords harder, falling into the melody, his words, the reverberation of the crowd. 

—Cause once you go without it, nothing else will do. 

Nothing else will do.

[perfectlyvalid49]

On being Jewish, and traumatized (It’s been 5 months and I want to talk):

Judaism is a joyous religion. So much of our daily practice is to focus us on the things that are good. I know that there’s a joke that all our holidays can be summed up as “they tried to kill us. We survived – let’s eat!”, and you might think that holidays focused on attempts at killing us might be somber, but they’re really not. Most are celebrated in the sense of, “we’re still here, let’s have a party!” When I think about practicing Judaism, the things I think about make me happy.

But I think a lot of non-Jews don’t necessarily see Judaism the same way. I think in part it’s because we do like to kvetch, but I think a lot of it is because from the outside it’s harder to see the joy, and very easy to see the long history of suffering that has been enacted on the Jewish people. From the inside, it’s very much, “we’re still here, let’s party” and from the outside it’s, “how many times have they tried to kill you? Why are you celebrating? They tried to KILL YOU!”

And I want to start with that because a lot of the rest of this is going to be negative. And I don’t want people to read it and wonder why I still want to be Jewish. I want to be Jewish because it makes me happy. My problem isn’t with being Jewish, it’s with how Jews are treated.

What I really wanted to write about is being Jewish and the trauma that’s involved with that right now.

First, I want to talk about Israeli Jews. I can’t say much here because I’m not Israeli, nor do I have any close friends or family that are Israeli. But if I’m going to be talking about the trauma Jews are experiencing right now, I can’t not mention the fact that Israeli Jews (and Israelis that aren’t Jewish as well, but that’s not my focus here) are dealing with massive amounts of it right now. It’s a tiny country – virtually everyone has a friend or family member that was killed or kidnapped, or knows someone who does. Thousands of rockets have been fired at Israel in the last few months – think about the fact that the Iron Dome exists and why it needs to. Terror attacks are ongoing; I feel like there’s been at least one every week since October. Thousands of people are displaced from their homes, either because of the rocket fire, or because their homes and communities were physically destroyed in the largest pogrom in recent history – the deadliest single day for Jews since the Holocaust ended. If that’s not trauma inducing, I don’t know what is.

And there is, of course, the generational trauma. And I think Jewish generational trauma is interesting because it’s so layered. Because it’s not just the result of one trauma passed down through the generations. Every 50-100 years, antisemitism intensifies, and so very frequently the people experiencing a traumatic event were already suffering from the generational trauma that their grandparents or great grandparents lived through. And those elders were holding the generational trauma from the time before that. And so on.

And because it happens so regularly, there’s always someone in the community that remembers the last time. We are never allowed the luxury of imagining that we are safe. We know what happened before, and we know that it happened again and again and again. And so we know that it only makes sense to assume it will happen in the future. The trauma response is valid. I live in America because my great grandparents lived in Russia and they knew when it was time to get the hell out in the 1900s. And the reason they knew that is because their grandparents remembered the results of the blood libels in the 1850s. How can we heal when the scar tissue keeps us safe?

I look around now and wonder if we’ll need to run. We have a plan. I repeat, my family has a plan for what to do if we need to flee the country due to religious persecution. How can that possibly be normal? And yet, all the Jewish families I know have similar plans. It is normal if you’re Jewish. Every once in a while I see someone who isn’t Jewish talk about making plans to leave because they’re LGBTQ or some other minority and the question always seems to be, “should I make a plan?” It astounds me every time. The Jewish answer is that you need to have a plan and the only question is, “when should I act?” Sometimes our Jewish friends discuss it at play dates. Where will you go? What are the triggers to leave? No one wants to go any earlier then they have to. Everyone knows what the price of holding off too long might be.

I want to keep my children safe. When do I induct them into the club? When do I let my sweet, innocent kids know that some people will hate them for being Jewish? When do I teach them the skills my parents and grandparents taught me? How to pass as white, how to pass as Christian, knowing when to keep your mouth shut about what you believe. When do I tell them about the Holocaust and teach them the game “would this person hide me?” How hard do I have to work to remind them that while you want to believe that a person would hide you, statistically, most people you know would not have? Who is this more traumatic for? Them, to learn that there is hatred in the world and it is directed at them, or me, to have to drive some of the innocence out of my own children’s eyes in order to make sure they are prepared to meet the reality of the world?

And the reality of the world is that it is FULL of antisemitism. There’s a lot of…I guess I’d call it mild antisemitism that’s always present that you just kinda learn to ignore. It’s the sort of stuff that non-Jews might not even recognize as antisemitic until you explain it to them, just little micro-aggressions that you do your best to ignore because you know that the people doing it don’t necessarily mean it, it’s just the culture we live in. It can still hurt though. I like to compare it to a bruise: you can mostly ignore it, but every once in a while something (more blatant antisemitism) will put a bit to much pressure on it and you remember that you were already hurting this whole time.

On top of the background antisemitism, there’s more intense stuff. And usually the most intense, mask off antisemitism comes from the right. This makes sense, in that a lot of right politics are essentially about hating the “other” and what are Jews if not Western civilizations oldest type of “other”? On the one hand, I’ve always been fortunate enough to live in relatively liberal areas so this sort of antisemitism has felt far away and impersonal – they hate everybody, and I’m just part of everybody. On the other hand, until recently I’ve always considered this the most dangerous source of antisemitism. This is the antisemitism that leads to hate crimes, that leads to synagogue shootings. This is the reason why my synagogue is built so that there is a long driveway before you can even see the building, and that driveway is filled with police on the high holidays. This is the reason why my husband and I were scared to hang a mezuzah in our first apartment (and second, and third). For a long time, this was the antisemitism that made me afraid.

But the left has a problem with antisemitism too. And it has always been there. Where the right hates the “other”, the left hates the “privileged/elite/oppressors.” It’s the exact same thing, just dressed up with different words. They all mean “other” and “other” means “Jew.” It hurts more coming from the left though. A lot of Jewish philosophy leans left. A lot of Jews lean left. So when the left decides to hate us, it isn’t a random stranger, it’s a friend, and it feels like a betrayal.

One of the people I follow works for Yad Vashem, and a few weeks ago she mentioned a video they have with testimonies from people who came to Israel after Kristallnacht, with an unofficial title of “The blow came from within.” The idea is that to non-German Jews, the Holocaust was something done by strangers. It was still terrible, but it is easier to bear the hate of a stranger – it’s not personal. But to German Jews, the Holocaust was a betrayal. It wasn’t done by strangers, it was done by coworkers, and neighbors and people they thought were friends. It was done by people who knew them, and still looked at them and said, “less than human.” And because of this sense of betrayal, German survivors, or Germans who managed to get out before they got rounded up, had a very different experience than other Holocaust victims.

And I feel like a lot of left leaning Jews are having a similar experience now. People that we’ve marched with or organized with, or even just mutuals that we’ve thought of as friends are now going on about how Jews are evil. They repeat antisemitic talking points from the Nazis and from the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and when we point out that those ideas have only led to Jewish death in the past they don’t care. And if someone you thought of as a friend thinks of you this way, what do you think a stranger might think? Might do?

The Jews are fucking terrified. I’ve seen a post going around that basically wonders if this was what it was like for our ancestors – when things got bad enough to see what was coming but before it was too late to run? And we can see what’s coming. History tells us that they way people are talking and acting only leads to one place. I’m a millennial – when I was a kid the grandparents at my synagogue made sure the kids knew – this is what it looked like before, this is what you need to watch out for, this is when you need to run. I wonder where to run to. It feels like nowhere is safe.

I feel like I’ve been lucky in all this. I don’t live in Israel. I have family and acquaintances who do, but no one I’m particularly close to. Everyone I know in real life has either been sane or at least silent about all of this (the internet has been significantly worse, but when it comes to hate, the internet is always worse). I live in a relatively liberal area – there’s always been antisemitism around anyway, but it’s mostly just been swastikas on flyers, or people advocating for BDS, not anything that’s made me actually worry for my safety. But in the last 5 months there have been bomb threats at my synagogue, and just last week a kid got beat up for being Jewish at our local high school. He doesn’t want to report it. He’s worried it will make it worse.

I bought a Magen David to wear in November. At the time it seemed like the best way to fight antisemitism was to be visibly Jewish, to show that we’re just normal people like everyone else. Plus, I figured that if me being Jewish was going to be a problem for someone, then I would make it a problem right away and not waste time. I’ve worn it almost constantly since, but the one time I took it off was when I burnt my finger in December and had to go to urgent care. I didn’t think about it too much when I did it, but I thought about it for a long time after – I didn’t feel good about having made that choice.

The conclusion I came to is that the training that my elders had been so careful to instill in me kicked in. I was hurt, and scared, and the voice inside my head that sounds like my grandmother said, “don’t give them a reason to be bad to you. Fight when you’re well, but for now – survive.” It still felt cowardly, but it was also a connection to my ancestors who heeded the same voice well enough to survive. And it enrages me that that voice has been necessary in the past. And it enrages me that things are bad enough now that my instinct is that I need to hide who I am to receive appropriate medical care.

I wish I had some sort of final thought to tie this all together other than, “this sucks and I hate it,” but I really don’t. I could call for people to examine their antisemitic biases, but I’m not foolish enough to think that this will reach the people who need to do so. I could wish for a future where everything I’ve talked about here exists only in history books, and the Jewish experience is no longer tied to feeling this pain, but that’s basically wishing for the moshiach, and I’m not going to hold my breath.

I guess I’ll end it with the thought that through all of this hate and pain and fear, we’re still here. And we’re still joyful as well. As much as so many people have tried over literally THOUSANDS of years to eradicate us, I’m still here, I’m still Jewish, and being Jewish still makes me happy.

Am Yisrael Chai.

[natsaffection]

heyy this is my first time making a request and idk if it's okay but what if reader is like an anti-hero or villian and when reader gets hurt she shoves up to Natasha's apartment thinking she would maybe help her? idk if it works but I've been thinking about something like this and it would be great if you actually write itt😭😭😭

Lines crossed. | N.R

Avenger!Natasha x AntiHero!Reader

Warnings: Blood, Gore and injurys

Word Count: 2,6k

A/N: These are the stories I like the most. 🙏🏻 And I feel honored, that I can write your first ever request! 🏆

The city of New York was no stranger to chaos, but in recent months, a new shadow had begun to loom over its streets. This shadow was not the kind of evil the Avengers were used to dealing with..This was different. And this, was you, a name whispered in fear among the criminal underworld, a vigilante with a taste for vengeance and a history stained with blood.

You had risen to the top of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most wanted list, a place usually reserved for supervillains and global threats. Your methods were brutal and unyielding, your sense of justice unwavering. To some, you were a hero. To others, a menace. But to the Avengers, you were a problem that needed solving.

“Another one,” Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, murmured as she stood over the lifeless body of a notorious gang leader, his blood pooling around him in a grotesque halo. “It’s her again.”

Clint joined her, shaking his head. “She’s getting bolder. This is the third one this week.” Natasha's eyes scanned the scene, taking in the familiar hallmarks of your handiwork. The precision, the brutality, the unmistakable sense of finality. "She’s not hiding anymore. She wants us to know it’s her."

Nick Fury appeared behind them, his expression unreadable as ever. "We need to bring her in. She's crossed too many lines, and now the media's starting to pick up on it. The last thing we need is a vigilante making us look incompetent."

Natasha nodded, her mind already running through the many encounters she’d had with you. Each one had been a battle of wills, fists, and wits. You were good, damn good. But Natasha was determined to be better.

You wiped the blood from your hands, your breathing steadying as you looked at the man you'd just eliminated. He had been a monster, a predator preying on the weak and innocent. You felt no remorse. In your eyes, justice had been served.

You knew the Avengers were close. You could feel their presence like a storm on the horizon. Especially Natasha. Your fights had become a dance of sorts, each trying to outmaneuver the other, each knowing that one day it would come down to a final, decisive confrontation.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts. You glanced at the message: another target, another mission. Your work was never done.

Back at the Avengers' headquarters, the team gathered around a holographic display of the city, pinpointing the locations of your recent activities. "We need to be strategic," Steve said, his voice calm but firm. "She’s not just any criminal. She’s trained, skilled, and she's got a mission."

Natasha’s eyes never left the display. She knew you better than most. She understood your motivations, your drive. And she knew that stopping you would require more than just brute force.

"It’s personal for her," Natasha said quietly. "And if we’re going to bring her in, we need to understand why she’s doing this." The team nodded, each member resolving to bring an end to your bloody crusade. But for Natasha, it was more than just another mission. It was a challenge, a test of her skills and resolve.

You moved through the city like a ghost, your mind focused on the task at hand. You knew the Avengers were watching, waiting. You relished the challenge. Each encounter with Natasha had pushed you to be better, sharper.

But you also knew that the game couldn’t go on forever. One day, it would come to an end. One way or another.As you prepared for your next mission, you couldn't help but wonder: when that day came, who would be the one standing? You or Natasha?

The city was alive with the sounds of sirens and distant traffic, but your focus was razor-sharp. You moved through the shadows, your target's location clear in your mind. You knew the Avengers were closing in, but you thrived on the edge, where danger and adrenaline fused into one intoxicating rush.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your target, a corrupt businessman with ties to multiple criminal organizations. You slipped past his security with ease, your movements precise and silent. As you stood over him, your eyes cold and unyielding, you knew this would send another message to the underworld and the Avengers alike.

Just as you were about to strike, the window shattered, and Natash swung in, landing gracefully on her feet, guns drawn. "Y/n, this ends now," Natasha said, her voice a mix of resolve and urgency. You smirked, stepping back to assess the new threat. "You always know how to make an entrance, Romanoff."

The two of you circled each other, the tension thick in the air. You made the first move, lunging forward with a series of rapid strikes. Natasha countered, your fists and feet a blur of motion. Each move was calculated, each strike intended to find a weakness.

The fight spilled into the hall, your movements fluid and fierce. You were relentless, your skills honed by years of training and combat. But Natasha was no less formidable, her experience and agility a match for your raw power.

In a desperate bid to escape, you knocked over a set of shelves, creating a momentary barrier. You dashed down the corridor, but your path was blocked by Steve. "Going somewhere?" Steve asked, raising his shield.

You didn’t hesitate. You launched yourself at him, your attacks relentless. Steve defended himself with his shield, but your sheer ferocity pushed him back. You knew you had to move fast. Every second counted.

A blast of energy struck the ground near you, and you turned to see Tony Stark hovering in his Iron Man suit. "You’re surrounded. Give it up."

With a quick glance, you calculated your options. You grabbed a nearby fire extinguisher, using it to create a cloud of smoke. In the confusion, you darted through a side door, your escape route planned to the last detail.

In the aftermath, the Avengers regrouped, frustration evident in their expressions. "She’s good," Clint said, rubbing his bruised arm. "We almost had her."

"Almost isn’t good enough," Tony replied, scanning the area for any sign of you. "She’s always one step ahead." Natasha looked at the ground, her mind replaying the fight. She admired your tenacity and skill, but she also knew that each encounter brought them closer to a dangerous tipping point.

"We need to change our approach," Natasha said. "She’s playing a game of survival. We need to make her see that we’re not the enemy." Steve nodded. "Agreed. We need to understand her motivations. If we can reach her, maybe we can end this without more bloodshed."

Weeks turned into months, and the chase between you and Natasha became legendary among the Avengers. Your reputation as a formidable adversary was solidified, but so was Natasha's determination to bring you in. Every encounter became a game of wits and skill, a deadly dance with an undercurrent of something more.

One night, Natasha found herself on a stakeout at a high-end nightclub. Her sources had tipped her off about a major criminal deal going down. She knew you would be there, drawn to the opportunity like a moth to a flame. Natasha blended into the crowd, her eyes scanning for any sign of her elusive target.

Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. "Looking for someone?" your familiar, flirty voice whispered in her ear. Natasha spun around to find you, dressed to kill and wearing a mischievous grin.

"Yes, you." Natasha said, her voice steady despite the surprise. "You're getting bold." You chuckled, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "And you're getting predictable, Romanoff. I knew you'd be here."

Natasha moved closer, lowering her voice. "This ends tonight. You're coming with me." You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Are you asking me out on a date, or is this another one of your attempts to arrest me?"

Natasha couldn't help but smirk. "Depends on how you look at it." Before Natasha could react, you leaned in, your lips brushing Natasha's ear as you whispered, "Catch me if you can." Then, with a swift movement, you disappeared into the crowd.

Natasha's heart raced as she pursued you through the crowded club. The thrill of the chase was intoxicating, and she couldn't deny the electric connection between you. You were always one step ahead, leaving clues and taunts that kept Natasha on her toes.

The chase led them to the club's rooftop, the city lights sprawling beneath them. You stood at the edge, the wind whipping through your hair. Natasha approached slowly, her eyes locked on you.

"You can't keep running forever.“ Natasha said, her voice a mix of determination and something softer. You turned to face her, your expression unreadable. "I'm not running, Natasha. I'm fighting. Just like you."

Natasha took a step closer, her heart pounding. "We don't have to be enemies, Y/n.. Let us help you." Your gaze softened, and for a moment, Natasha saw the vulnerability beneath the tough exterior. "You don't understand. I've crossed too many lines. There's no going back for me."

Natasha reached out, her hand brushing your arm. "It's never too late to make a different choice. You can Trust me.“ You looked at Natasha, your eyes searching for something. Then, with a sigh, you pulled away. "Maybe in another life, Romanoff."

Before Natasha could react, you leaped off the rooftop, landing gracefully on a fire escape below. Natasha rushed to the edge, but you were already disappearing into the night.

—

One fateful evening, you found yourself cornered by a gang of criminals. You fought valiantly, but the numbers were overwhelming. By the time the dust settled, you were grievously wounded. Blood soaked your clothes, and every step sent waves of agony through your body.

Desperation set in as you stumbled through the dark alleys. You knew going to a hospital was out of the question. The police would arrest you on sight, and SHIELD agents were everywhere. You tried to treat your wounds in an abandoned building, using whatever you could find. With shaking hands, you attempted to stitch a deep gash on your side, but the pain was too intense and your vision blurred.

Realizing the severity of your injuries and your inability to treat them alone, you remembered, „You can Trust me.“ You had placed a small tracking device on Natasha’s shoe during one of your fights, anticipating you might need to find her someday.

The rain pelted the city in relentless sheets, washing away the grime of the day. You stood in front of Natasha's apartment door, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You leaned heavily against the frame, your vision swimming. Despite the pain, you forced a playful smile onto your lips. You had to get inside. You had to see Natasha.

With a trembling hand, you knocked on the door. It felt like an eternity before it finally swung open. Natasha stood there, her expression a mix of surprise and annoyance.

"How did you find me?" Natasha asked, her voice cold. You tried to straighten up, wincing as you did. "Miss me already, Romanoff?" you said, your voice weak but carrying a hint of flirtation. "Couldn't stay away.."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here. Why are you here?" Ignoring the question, you leaned against the doorframe, your legs barely holding you up. "Thought I'd drop by... see your lovely face," you managed, your vision beginning to darken around the edges.

Natasha's patience snapped. She grabbed her phone, her fingers quickly dialing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number. "Enough with the games. I'm done with this."

Your heart sank, your body swaying. You tried to take a step forward but stumbled, your strength failing. You collapsed into Natasha, who caught you out of reflex. As your full weight pressed against her, Natasha's eyes widened in horror. Blood soaked through your clothes, warm and sticky, covering Natasha's hands.

"Oh my God.." Natasha whispered, her phone slipping from her fingers as she cradled your limp body. "Y/n, what happened??" Your head lolled to the side, your eyes struggling to stay open. "Guess I... pushed it too far this time..“ you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Natasha quickly assessed the situation, her mind racing. "We need to get you inside.“ she said, her tone urgent. She half-carried, half-dragged you into the apartment, laying you on the couch. Blood pooled on the floor, and Natasha's hands shook as she grabbed her first aid kit.

"Stay with me, Y/n," Natasha urged, tearing open your shirt to reveal a deep, gaping wound along your side. The sight of old scars crisscrossing your chest made Natasha's heart clench. "God, what did you do?!“

She worked quickly, her training kicking in. She poured antiseptic over the wound, her hands moving with practiced precision. Your body trembled with pain, your fingers digging into the couch. "God, that burns," you whimpered, tears streaming down your face. "F-Fuck, Natasha, it h-hurts..“

"I know it does," Natasha said, her voice softening. "But I need you to stay with me. I don't have any narcotics, so this is going to be rough."

Your eyes were glazed with pain, your breathing shallow. "Just do it…" you managed to say. Natasha threaded a needle, her fingers slick with blood. She began to stitch the largest wound, her focus intense. Your body shook with each stitch, your teeth clenched to hold back screams. The raw pain was almost unbearable, and low moans of agony escaped your lips despite your best efforts.

"You're doing great," Natasha said, her own voice trembling. "Just a few more." Your fingers clawed at the couch, your knuckles white. "Natasha... please, hurry," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper.

Natasha's heart ached at the sight of your suffering. "I'm almost done," she said, her tone soothing. "Just hold on a little longer."

Your eyes fluttered, your strength fading fast. "Sorry... for your couch...and for everything," you whispered, tears mixing with the blood on your face. "I never wanted it to be like this.."

Natasha's eyes were full with understanding. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Right now, I need you to hold on." She finished the stitches, then bandaged the wounds as best she could. Your body relaxed slightly, your breathing still labored but more steady.

"It's done," Natasha said, sitting back and wiping her forehead. "You're going to be okay." Your eyes closed, exhaustion overtaking you. Natasha grabbed a blanket and covered you, then sat beside you, holding your hand gently. "I'm here," Natasha whispered. "You're safe now. Rest and we’re sorting everything tomorrow out, okay?"

You whimpered softly, your body shaking from the pain and the cold. Natasha gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, her expression tender. "I never thought I'd see you like this," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fluttered open, focusing on Natasha with difficulty. "Guess... I can't always be the strong one.“ you murmured, a weak smile playing on your lips.

Natasha's heart tightened. "You don't have to be strong all the time," she said softly. "It's okay to let someone help you." You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting closed again. "Thank you, Natasha.“ you whispered.

Natasha squeezed your hand gently, "You're going to be alright," she said, her voice filled with determination. "I won't let anything happen to you."

As she sat there, watching over you, Natasha knew that this was a turning point. You had come to her for help, and that meant there was still hope. She would find a way to bring you back from the edge, no matter what it took.

Part 2

[isaacarellanesismyhusband]

i just… i like it

pair: Walker Scobell x reader

summary: y/n(she/her) can't help but play with Walker's hair

masterlist | navigation

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The set was buzzing with activity, crew members bustling around, adjusting lights, and prepping for the next scene. Walker and Y/N were sitting in their chairs, waiting for their turn. Walker had his eyes closed, leaning back, trying to catch a quick nap.

Y/N sat beside him, scrolling through her phone. Without even realizing it, her hand reached out, fingers brushing through Walker’s blonde curls. She twirled a lock around her finger absentmindedly, focusing on the latest social media buzz.

Walker’s eyes fluttered open at the touch, a small smile playing on his lips. He didn’t say anything, just leaned into her touch, enjoying the soothing feeling. Y/N continued to play with his hair, not even noticing she was doing it until Walker chuckled softly.

“What?” she asked, looking over at him.

“Nothing,” Walker said, grinning. “Just wondering when you were gonna notice.”

Y/N’s cheeks turned pink as she quickly pulled her hand away. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t even realize…”

Walker caught her hand and placed it back in his hair. “It’s okay. I like it.”

They were sitting side by side during a press interview, answering questions about their latest movie. Y/N was trying to focus on what the interviewer was saying, but Walker’s hair looked so soft and inviting. Without thinking, she reached up and ran her fingers through it, smoothing down a stray curl.

Walker’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head towards her hand, a content smile spreading across his face. The interviewer noticed and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you two dating?” they asked with a teasing tone.

Y/N’s hand froze, her cheeks heating up. “Oh, uh, no, we’re just friends,” she stammered, pulling her hand back. Walker just grinned, not seeming to mind the assumption.

“Best friends,” he corrected, giving Y/N a playful nudge with his shoulder. “She just has a thing for my hair.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to hide her embarrassment. “Maybe if you didn’t have such nice hair, I wouldn’t be tempted,” she shot back.

Walker laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Well, I’m not complaining.”

It was a quiet afternoon, and Walker and Y/N were supposed to be studying for their exams. They were sitting at the kitchen table, books and notes spread out before them. Walker was reading through a history textbook, his head resting on his hand, his curls falling into his eyes.

Y/N glanced over at him, noticing the way his hair fell messily. Without thinking, she reached out and brushed the curls back, her fingers lingering in his hair.

Walker blinked, looking up at her. “What are you doing?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Y/N pulled her hand back, a little embarrassed. “Your hair was in your eyes,” she said quickly.Walker smirked, leaning closer. “So you were just helping me see better?”

Y/N nodded, trying to look serious. “Exactly. Now, focus. We need to pass this exam.”

Walker laughed softly, going back to his book, but he didn’t miss the way Y/N’s fingers kept drifting towards his hair throughout the afternoon.

It was late, and they were hanging out in Y/N’s room, watching YouTube videos on her laptop. Walker was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his hair falling over his forehead. Y/N was sitting next to him, her back against the wall.

As they laughed at the latest video, Y/N’s hand absentmindedly reached out, running through Walker’s hair. She twirled a curl around her finger, her focus still on the screen.Walker glanced up at her, his eyes twinkling. “You really like playing with my hair, huh?” he teased.

Y/N looked down at him, surprised. “Oh, I didn’t even realize I was doing it,” she admitted, starting to pull her hand away.

Walker grabbed her wrist gently, keeping her hand in his hair. “Don’t stop,” he said softly. “It feels nice.”

Y/N smiled, her fingers continuing to comb through his curls. “Okay, if you insist.”

They were sitting in their trailer, waiting to be called back to set. Walker was flipping through a magazine, looking bored. Y/N sat beside him, playing with the ends of her own hair.

She glanced over at Walker, noticing the way his hair seemed to curl perfectly, even without trying. She reached out, her fingers slipping into his hair, gently tugging at the curls.

Walker looked up, surprised, but a slow smile spread across his face. “Y/N, you’ve really got a thing for my hair, don’t you?”

Y/N blushed but didn’t pull her hand away. “I can’t help it,” she said honestly. “It’s just so soft.”

Walker chuckled, leaning his head closer to her hand. “Well, if you ever want to be my official hairstylist, the job’s yours.”

Y/N laughed, continuing to play with his hair. “I might just take you up on that.”

The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the beach. Walker and Y/N were sitting on a towel, watching the waves crash against the shore. Walker’s hair was tousled from the ocean breeze, looking messier than usual.

Y/N couldn’t resist. She reached over and ran her fingers through his hair, trying to smooth it down. Walker turned to look at her, his eyes soft.

“You know, you do this a lot,” he said, not complaining, just stating a fact.

Y/N shrugged, a little shy. “I know. I just… I like it. Is that okay?”

Walker’s smile was warm, genuine. “Yeah, it’s more than okay. I like it, too.”

Y/N smiled back, her fingers continuing to play with his hair. They sat there in comfortable silence, the sound of the waves filling the air, both of them content.

[afterglowsainz]

guilty as sin? | oscar piastri

summary: you and oscar can't be together, but that doesn't stop either of you from wanting each other

warnings: drinking, mentions of masturbation

word count: 2k

a/n: this song is my hyperfixation rn! also, i don't write smut (which is not what this is) but i had to include the last part of the fic, the nature of the song forced me to!

everyone and their mother knew that you and oscar liked each other, but things were never that simple between the two of you.

oscar being an f1 driver for mclaren in his second year and you being a pr manager for f1, dating within the workplace was a complete no; besides the fact that it just made things more complicated than they had to be, it was also forbidden by your boss. that and also the fact that the two of you were too proud to be the first one to give in, so neither of you did. it was a bit immature, sure, but it was what it was.

so since you couldn’t be together, the only way to fight the feeling was simply date other people, and you both did that well. for oscar it was easy because he usually just went back to his ex, which made you extremely jealous because she was the only woman you thought you couldn’t compare to, they had years of history, and you were the relatively new girl, how could you stand up against her? easy, you couldn’t, or so you thought. finding someone for you wasn’t hard either, unlike oscar, you didn’t date the same person the whole time because you didn’t have an ex, so you just picked a boy of the month and made oscar jealous, which was quite easy because oscar got jealous of every guy who even looked at your direction.

at this moment, at the after-party of the miami grand prix, it was one of those rare moments where none of you were dating and you were both single, but still, not together. you had to admit you’ve been drinking shots of vodka since you arrived at the place and haven’t stopped since, which made you a bit tipsy but not drunk. you were on your way out of the bathroom when you accidentally slipped on a wet patch at the club’s floor and you had to lean on the person closest to avoid falling.

“oh.” a small shocked sound came out of you. “sorry, i’m sorry.” you apologized to the person next to you, who put his arms around your waist to avoid you from falling.

“it’s okay.” you hear your favorite voice in the world and look up to see his face close to you.

“hey.” you smile.

“hello.” he answers with his beloved australian accent.

“didn’t see you there.” you look at your surroundings, the bathroom was in the dark side of the club and not many people were around

“yeah, i was hiding.” he admits. you nod in understanding.

“alone?” you arch your brow after not seeing any of his friends nearby.

“i just need a second.”

you nod again. oscar can get overwhelmed very easily so you knew what he needed.

“have you been drinking?” he asks now. you avoid his eyes, focusing on the people dancing in front of you.

“yeah.” you admit. “that’s not why i almost fell though, the floor is wet.” he chuckles and nods with a smile. “have you?”

“just a little, not much.” you turn to look at him and it was now him who was avoiding your gaze. “where’s your boyfriend?” he asks.

right. you forgot to tell oscar that you broke up with the last guy you were seeing. it was stupid, really, you just didn’t like the way he dressed, he wore skinny jeans and hoodies most of the time and that irritated you for some reason. he was also not oscar.

“we’re not together anymore.” you say waiting for a reaction which you get.

“oh?” he asks, arching his brow and looking back at you. his expression however, stays the same.

a scary thought crosses your mind and you feel sick almost thinking of it, but now that you thought of it you can’t forget it, so you just ask.

“did you get back with lily?” you wait for what it feels like an eternity for his answer, but it only really takes him about three seconds to respond.

“no, we’re not together.”

you felt like breathing out all the air in your lungs in relief, but you didn’t out of respect.

“nice.” you say instead, which earns oscar another chuckle.

“yeah.” he says simply.

you stand by each other in silence, just watching the people around you not having a single care in the world. like it was a gravitational force pulling you to him, you started getting closer and closer until your hands were touching each other. you were feeling bold that night, bold enough to maybe make the first move. when you felt his finger rubbing against your hands you snap your head to look at him, but before you could talk you hear a male voice interrupting you.

“y/n”. they called you.

at lightning speed, oscar gets away from you and you feel like punching the person who interrupted you. when you turn you see the face of one of your best friends who also happens to work in formula 1.

“just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” he says. “you left a few minutes ago.”

you smile at him like you internally didn’t want to kill him.

“all good.” you answer. “just catching up with oscar here.” you tilted your head towards the australian until your friend finally noticed him.

he looks a bit shocked when he realizes he interrupted you.

“hi mate, how are you?” he asks him, a bit shy, trying to play it cool. oscar just smiles slightly at him.

“all good.” he looks at your friend and then back to you. “well i should get back with them.” he tilts his head towards lando and some of the other drivers.

you couldn’t think of anything fast enough to make him stay, so you just nodded. he said his goodbyes and left you two alone.

“mate!” you finally recriminate your friend and playfully slapped his arm.

the laugh that erupted from him was a mix between amusement and regret.

“i’m sorry!” he apologized, taking you back towards your other friends through the club. “i didn’t know you were together, we were actually worried.”

“that’s fine.” you respond while rolling your eyes. “let’s just drink.”

you spent the next hour forgetting about the world around you and just drinking and dancing with your friends like it was the last night on earth. it was also pretty fair to say that you were already drunk at this point. not embarrassingly drunk, you could still stand on your feet and have a conversation without dragging your words, but you were definitely beyond the point of being sober.

“i have to go to the bathroom again.” you screamed at the ear of your friend and she nodded in understanding.

“do you want me to go with you?” she screamed back at you. you shook your head.

“i won’t take long.” she just nodded and let you go.

this time you weren’t planning on taking as long as it took you last time, you just wanted to go back to your friends as soon as possible to continue having fun. but just like the first time, the only person in the world that you wanted to be with was right there again, next to the bathroom exit and somehow hiding in the shadows, but this time you saw him.

“oscar!” you screamed over the music.

he snaps his head towards your face, always finding you in a room full of people. a smirk appears on his face as you approach him and you can tell by the look of him that he has also been drinking more.

“thought i wouldn’t see you for the rest of the night.” he whispers once you’re close enough.

you take your time to answer, just taking him in.

“hiding again?” you ask.

“too many shots.” he says. “needed to take a minute.”

you bite your lip shamelessly and he notices it, immediately wishing it was his instead. 

“oscar.” you smile and whisper his name.

“y/n.” he whispers back, his eyes fixated on your lips.

you mimic him and lower your eyes to his lips as well. since you were drunk and every ounce of shame left your body long ago, you’re bold enough to touch his chest, your hands traveling all the way to the back of his neck, pulling yourself closer to him.

“oscar.” you whisper again, touching his cheeks, just wanting to feel him. “oscar.”

you felt his arms wrapping around your waist, bringing you as close to him as possible. your face inches away from his.

“y/n.” he whispers again.

you think that is gonna happen, it’s definitely gonna happen right here right now, but everything comes crumbling down when you feel a different pair of arms pulling you away from your waist.

“hey, there you are!” someone exclaims and the connection between you and oscar immediately breaks. “sorry mate, she gets touchy when she’s drunk.” the voice says and you instantly recognize it as one of the friends you came with.

“i’m not drunk!” you defend yourself, facing him with a frown on your face for ruining the moment.

“right.” he says incredulously. “she’s touchy all the time.” this was now directed at oscar.

you felt like screaming at the top of your lungs for having your moment with oscar ruined for the second time in the night, but you controlled yourself, allowing your friend to grab your back and direct you to your friends.

“bye, oscar.” you whisper, waving your hand slightly.

he doesn’t answer back, but you can see the strained smile on his face and the nod he gives you. when you’re far enough, you look at your friend with impotence.

“what the hell was that?” you yell. “didn’t you see i was busy?”

“that was me saving your ass.” he says without major emotion. “you were about to kiss oscar drunk and you and i both know that’s impossible.”

you sighed and crossed your arms like a little girl throwing a tantrum. working in formula 1 was hard, and trying to date in it was even harder, almost impossible.

“is it ever going to be easy?” you ask no one in particular, but your friend answers anyway.

“well, it’s you and oscar, so probably not.” you think about it for a few seconds until he interrupts your train of thought. “come on, we were leaving already.” he says.

you follow your friends to the exit of the club and get into the first uber that’s taking you back to the hotel. the trip doesn’t take long and you just chat with your friend for most of it. once in the hotel you say goodbye to everyone and go up to your room, trying to catch some sleep. 

it shouldn’t be hard to fall asleep considering that you’ve been working all day and you just spend hours at the club, however, there was one thing at the back of your mind that didn’t let you rest. you couldn’t shake the feeling of oscar’s hands in your body back at the club, almost cornering him into the wall, the two of you just feeling each other. you were frustrated for sure, tossing and turning in bed for an hour straight until you couldn’t fight the feeling anymore. 

you bit your lip for a moment, thinking if this was actually appropriate, but soon enough the intrusive thoughts took over your mind and you just think fuck it. 

you touch yourself that night with only one person in your mind, wishing it was him that was making you feel good, knowing that he would make you feel even better; you screamed his name when you climaxed. before you can think of what you just did you decide to go to bed as soon as possible, finally feeling tired enough to sleep.

ten minutes after you went to bed, you missed oscar’s text asking you if you were still awake, which he deleted five minutes after you didn’t answer him.

[clarenecessities]

He-man.org will close in 5 days.

He-man.org has been a staple of the Masters of the Universe community since the early days, originating as an email list that worked to document episodes before anything (not footage, not lists, nothing) was available online. It grew into a sprawling, multi-faceted beast of a thing, including an encyclopedia (an in-house wiki), merch lists, a marketplace, forums, anything you could think of.

Several years ago now, the main site went down for updates/maintenance. For a few weeks, we were told, maybe months. The forums remained open for fans to communicate, and barring a period of downtime earlier this year things were going smoothly.

Yesterday, the owner of the site, Val Staples, announced the site would be closed on November 14th, 2023. Six days later. We are currently attempting to contact him, to see if he’s interested in selling, and if he means closed as in “no new posts” or closed as in deleted entirely. Regardless of its eventual fate, the archiving of these forums is essential to preserving the history of the franchise, the fandom, and the brand.

TO SHE-RA (and MotU) FANS SPECIFICALLY: I have personally used these forums to answer questions that could be answered nowhere else. Had I not had access to them, I would never have been able to prove that Purrsia was fake, or found so much unpublished concept art, or discovered that Scott “Toyguru” Neitlich personally wrote Catra’s MOTUC bio (even if he’s put off answering my questions about it for over a year now). Forum members have conducted interviews with the likes of Jon Seisa, Cathy Larson, Janice Varney-Hamlin—essential figures in the very foundations of POP, and those interviews revealed and recorded priceless information for future generations (me! you! us!) to find. Did you know Cathy Larson named Adora? That she originally pushed for “Dorian”, after her own daughter? We cannot let this treasure trove disappear into the ether(ia).

TO THE UNAFFILIATED: Please help. Pretty please. If you’ve ever liked my art or my writing or my haphazard blogging, ever, at all, consider archiving just one board. Just one page. Literally anything helps. I am spiraling into madness & this is my library of Alexandria. The mythical one that was totally unique and persevered nowhere else and was destroyed in a single cataclysmic event. Pretty pretty please help.

HOW TO HELP:

Archive.org has several ways to upload shit but most of them are longer term than “a few days” so we’re focusing on two (which can be run simultaneously): Save Page Now, and browser extensions. From their help page:

1. Save Page Now

Put a URL into the form, press the button, and we save the page. You will instantly have a permanent URL for your page. Please note, this method only saves a single page, not the whole site.

We want to keep outlinks and screenshots wherever possible. The Archive does not keep your IP address, so your submission is anonymous.

2. Browser extensions and add-ons

Install the Wayback Machine Chrome extension in your browser. Go to a page you want to archive, click the icon in your toolbar, and select Save Page Now. We will save the page and give you a permanent URL.

One plus to installing the extension is that as you surf around, when you run into a missing page they will alert you if we have a saved copy.

More extensions, apps, and add-ons:

Firefox add-on

Safari Extension

iOS app

Android app

I strongly encourage you to use these tools even if you aren’t helping with this project/after it ends. Documenting and preserving information is essential in this day and age & The Internet Archive is at the heart of it. Please support them however you can.

I’m serious about paying you, though I may need more communication with folks I don’t know so we can coordinate/verify shit gets done. I think this is a worthwhile pursuit in itself but I recognize your time is valuable & like, people gotta eat. DM me if you’re interested and we’ll talk. I may need to adjust pay depending how many people bite but I’ll do what I can

[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Part 2)

Agatha takes you out to dinner.

Word count: 2500

Warnings: none (I think)

A/N: this ended up being way longer than I was planning, so hope you all enjoy. Happy Agatha night to all who celebrate!

Taglist: @stayevildarling @i-just-cannot @hazey-g @buttercandy16 @320viada

“You’re home early,” your mom says when you walk through the front door. You check your watch and shrug. 4:15. Granted, if you had come from school, you wouldn’t be back right now. 

After your encounter with Agatha, you had quickly scooped up the broken glass, tracked down Wanda, and then driven her back to school to drop her off. She had asked if you were coming, but you were buzzing with the thought of dinner with your step-mother that night so you knew there was no way you could’ve focused. And there was no point going to seventh period anyway. It was history – your least favorite subject. 

So Wanda went back to class and you went shopping. You didn’t know where Agatha and you were going for dinner, didn’t know the dress code, but you knew how the older woman dressed and you weren’t going to look homeless next to her. 

At the mall, you were able to find a tight black dress that accentuates your curves nicely. The neckline was bordering on inappropriate and the hem came down to your mid-thigh, but it was cheap and it made you look good. You had hidden the bag inside your backpack to avoid your mom asking questions. 

“I have some homework to do and then Wanda and I are getting dinner,” you tell her. Your mom is a bit touchy with the subject of your father and Agatha, so you know better than to tell the truth. 

“Sounds good, hon,” she says, turning back to her computer. “Did you have a good day?” 

You hum noncommittally and then go upstairs. The first thing you do is take a shower to wash the chlorine from the swim you and Wanda took earlier and then you curl your hair. You’re not sure why you’re putting so much effort in to look nice for dinner with Agatha. You tell yourself that it’s just because she always looks like she’s just stepped off the cover of Vanity Fair and you don’t want to appear underdressed compared to her, but a small part of you knows you want to look good for her. You shake your head to get rid of the thought. 

You apply some light makeup on your face and then slip into the dress you had bought. You dig through your closet and find some short heels that pair nicely. Fuck, you hope Agatha is taking you someplace fancy and not just a chain restaurant. 

Your phone buzzes and you look at it. It’s a text from an unknown number: I’ll be there in 20. 

Who is this? You type back, figuring it’s Agatha but just wanting to make sure. You find it amusing that you haven’t saved her number. You get an eye roll emoji in response and you smile. 

20 minutes to spare. You hate to admit it, but you spend most of that time pacing back and forth in your room, wringing your hands nervously. You’re not sure why nerves are twisting in your stomach. Maybe it’s just because you’ve never spent any one-on-one time with your step-mother before. Maybe it’s the way she was looking at you when she was cleaning up your leg earlier, or the way she squeezed your thighs when you were sitting on the counter. 

No, definitely not the latter. 

You finally give up on trying to calm down. You throw a hoodie over your dress so your mom doesn’t see it and walk downstairs. She hardly glances at you from her spot at the kitchen table. 

“What time will you be back?” she asks. 

“Maybe by 8?” you guess. Once again, you have no idea what you’re getting into with Agatha. 

“Where are you guys going?” 

Can’t answer that either. “When she picks me up, we’re going to figure that out.” 

“Well, have fun and don’t stay out too late.” 

“I won’t,” you promise, walking over to give her a kiss on the cheek. She’s been looking older every day. The divorce was really hard on her so she’s been burying herself in work for the past two years and it’s finally catching up. “Make sure you eat something.” You get a text. I’m out front, from a still unknown number. You smirk to yourself. “I’ll see you later, mom.” She pats your arm and you walk outside. 

A black range rover is parked to the right of your house, out of sight from the windows. You open the passenger seat and get inside, tearing off your hoodie. Thank god you dressed up. She’s wearing a dark burgundy suit that dips low, showing some cleavage. Her long dark hair flows down her back and her gold earrings glint in the sunlight. She looks hot. 

And based on how she’s looking at you, she appreciates your outfit as well. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, breaking the silence. 

“You’ll see,” she says mysteriously, shifting the car into drive. The ride to wherever you’re going is filled with awkward silence. You don’t know if you’re supposed to say something first, but she was the one who dragged you along. 

You purse your lips as the minutes pass. You sneak a glance at Agatha and she looks perfectly content. “So, where’s my dad tonight?” you finally ask, not being able to take it anymore. 

She smirks knowingly. “A work dinner. You know how things are around this time of the year.” Suddenly, you get angry. You don’t know. You haven’t lived under the same roof as him in two years. 

“Oh, sure,” you say, voice caustic. “Back when my parents were still married, he was busy all the time. Glad to hear it’s more of a seasonal thing now.”

She shoots you a look, face soft. “Honey–”

“You know he cheated on my mom, right? What makes you think he won’t do the same to you? Maybe there isn’t a work dinner at all,” you whisper conspiratorially, feeling horrible the moment it comes out of your mouth. The divorce has filled you with a rage that is hard to control and it slips out at the worst possible times. And now you’ve undoubtedly made the rest of the night even more uncomfortable than it already was going to be. “Fuck, Agatha, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” 

She doesn’t even seem phased, just reaches over and pats your leg. “I know how tough this must be for you.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes. That’s all you’ve heard for the past two years. But you do still feel bad for your uncalled outburst. “That doesn’t make it okay. Plus he’d be a fool to cheat on you,” you mutter under your breath, blushing slightly when she smirks. 

“How does this sound: tonight, I’m not your father’s new wife. I’m just a woman who wants to get to know you a little better. We can eat, talk, have fun. It doesn’t have to be a step-mother-step-daughter bonding thing if you don’t want it to be.” 

“That would be nice,” you begrudgingly admit. She winks and turns into the parking lot of the new Italian steakhouse that has just opened up nearby your house. “Agatha, this is–”

“My treat,” she cuts you off. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” You trail behind her into the restaurant, gaping at how nice it looks. “Hi, reservation for two under Harkness?” It was always wickedly satisfying to you how she didn’t take your dad’s last name. 

The hostess nods and beckons for you both to follow her. She seats you at a table tucked away in the corner and places menus in front of you. 

“Jesus,” you say, flipping through. 

“The first time is always a bit overwhelming,” Agatha says, your cheeks heating up at the double meaning. “How’s your leg doing?”

You had completely forgotten about the cuts. “Oh, it’s feeling better. Thank you, by the way. For cleaning me up and not saying anything–” You remember her rules and you shut your mouth. She chuckles. 

“Of course, sweetheart. Like I said, our little secret.” 

The waitress comes over and takes your drink orders. You order a shirley temple and Agatha gets a glass of red wine. When she comes back with them, you make a point to stare anywhere but Agatha when she licks her lips after she takes a sip. 

“Are you ladies ready to order?” The waitress asks. Agatha recites some dish from memory and you are sure you look like a fish out of water when the waitress turns to you. Agatha stifles a laugh and orders the same thing for you. 

“What did you get me?” You turn back to her once the waitress is out of earshot. 

“The Filet Portabella. Trust me, you’ll love it.” You’ll have to take her word for it. “So, how is senior year going?” 

You launch into the speech that you give every single time someone asks you that, something along the lines of: school is great but it’s stressful with the college search and no, you don’t know where you want to go yet or what you want to major in. It’s one of your least favorite, yet most-often asked questions. 

Agatha hangs onto every word out of your mouth, asking some follow ups. You do have to admit, it is nice to talk to a grown up and actually feel listened to. 

“So, the girl in the pool with you today. Is she your friend, girlfriend..?” Agatha asks once she’s exhausted the school topic. 

“Oh, Wanda? No, we’re just friends. I don’t have a girlfriend. Wait, how did you know I’m gay?” You’re not sure why you’re so flustered. 

“Your dad mentioned it. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t breaking into my house for a little romantic rendezvous.” Her tone is teasing. 

You blush even harder now. You’re 18 years old and you’ve never had anything close to a ‘romantic rendezvous’ with anyone. “Um, no. She’s just my best friend.” And then because you’re having trouble breathing with her staring at you like that, you try to turn the tables. “You never broke into anyone’s pool when you were in high school just to go for a swim?” 

Her eyes glint mischievously. “Never for anything as innocent as just a swim.”

Your mouth runs dry at the image of a younger Agatha (although imagining Agatha right now works too) skinny dipping in a pool with a lover. And then there’s the thought of you and Agatha in her pool. “Oh?” you manage to croak out. 

Agatha leans in closer across the table, voice dropping lower. “My friend and I got caught one time by my neighbor. He was supposed to be out of town another two days but came back early. You should’ve seen his face when he walked out back to find us making out in his pool. My friend was so scared, she ran out and jumped over the fence. And then I had to explain myself all alone.” 

Your breath catches, mouth opening ever so slightly. “She? You – you’re…” Agatha…likes girls?

A wide smirk slowly spreads across her face. “I don’t like labels. But yes, I’ve dated my fair share of women.” 

“Oh. Cool,” you rasp. Thankfully, you’re saved from having to figure out something else to say by the waitress setting two hot plates in front of you. 

“Enjoy!” she says, and leaves you two alone again. 

You pick up your fork and knife, slicing easily into the meat. You hesitantly pop the piece into your mouth and moan instantly. The filet literally melts in your mouth, giving way to possibly the best thing you’ve ever tasted. 

“This is so good,” you mumble while chewing, looking back up at Agatha, who has a strange look on her face. Her eyes are darker than before and you raise an eyebrow. 

She blinks and then takes a bite of her meal. “I’m glad you like it sweetheart,” she says, watching you dig back in. You both eat your food in silence and when the check comes, Agatha doesn’t even look at the bill before slapping down her credit card. 

“Thank you for dinner,” you say. “I had a really nice time.” 

Agatha gives you a real smile. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve really enjoyed tonight as well and I hope we can start spending more time together.” You open your mouth, maybe to protest or maybe to agree, but at that moment, the waitress comes back with her card. 

“You both have a lovely night. And can I just say, you two are a really cute couple.” 

You choke on nothing and you suddenly are doubled over in a coughing fit. Agatha politely thanks the waitress before coming over to you and patting you on the back. Your throat begins to hurt and your vision blurs with tears, but you can’t stop. She presses your drink into your hand and you take a big gulp, wincing at the burn from the carbonation. You take a few more slow sips. 

“You okay?” she asks quietly, now rubbing circles on your back. You cough weakly a few more times before your breathing returns to normal. You stand up, embarrassed. She chuckles as she wipes the tears from your eyes. “You can’t die on me now, sweetheart.” 

You run a hand over your forehead. “I’m okay!” 

“Is the thought of us being a couple really that unappealing?” Agatha murmurs playfully into your ear as she leads you out of the restaurant with a hand around your waist. 

“What? No! I was just startled. You’re my step-mother.” Are you imagining the hint of a frown on her face or is it really there?

She opens the car door for you and then gets in the driver’s seat. “Any plans for the weekend?” 

You had honestly forgotten today was Friday. “Um, I don’t think so. My mom’s working all day tomorrow so I might hang out with Wanda or something. I have homework I should probably do as well.”

She hums. 

“Do you have plans?” you ask. 

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment. “Your father and I both have some work we need to do. It’ll be a chill weekend.” 

“That’s good,” you say awkwardly. “I am sorry about what I said earlier. About my dad.” 

She glances at you. “Don’t be. I can only imagine how angry and hurt you are.” 

“I’m not angry with you. You’re actually not that bad.” 

Agatha laughs out loud at that. “Wow, thanks so much, sweetheart.” The pet name, as they have all evening, makes your heart skip a beat. 

“You know what I mean,” you grumble. 

The drive back to your house goes quick and soon enough, she’s parking in the same spot as earlier. 

“Thank you for tonight,” you say again. She smiles softly and leans in. You forget how to breathe but she brushes her lips against your cheek. 

“Good night, honey.” 

You get out of the car in a haze, mind spinning. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 17

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: does anyone mind the slightly longer chapters? I feel like I keep accidentally adding scenes in and I’m not sure if it’s too much? Anyway, regardless of length, I hope you enjoy! 🧡💛

word count: 8,024

-Part 16- -Part 18-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Was that necessary, Mor?” 

Neatly groomed brows narrow over hard amber eyes, stood at the edge of the room, still cast in shadow before walking to be stood closer to the bed that’s been pushed so it’s beside the open window. 

“Stay out of it, Az,” Mor murmurs, arms folded over her chest, eyes cast downwards. “You should be focusing on getting better.” 

Azriel is quiet for a bit, his gaze weighing on her but she makes no move to look at him, a hint of anguish in her normally bright expression. He sighs, shifting against the pillows as he glances out the window, inclining his head a little as a light breeze washes over him, sending silky strands of hair fluttering up from his brow. 

“You know she didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says, watching as the clouds shift in composition in the sky, small dots flying in the distance as they arc and dip with the winds. Hazel eyes flick back across the room, but Mor’s head is still lowered, her expression resentful. “You know you were being cruel.” 

“And you’re in a position to criticise me?” Mor replies quietly, hard amber piercing into him. “You’re the reason this became such a mess. You should have said something. There’s no way you couldn’t have noticed.” 

“I made a mistake,” he concedes reluctantly, holding her gaze. 

“You made more than a mistake, Az. Now we’re all hurting because you—”

“Mor,” Azriel interrupts. She stiffens but doesn’t yield, that look of reproach returning to her expression. “You can’t lash out at us whenever you hurt,” he says thickly, still watching her. Silence stretches between them, centuries worth of history pulled taut in the quiet. 

“What does Rhys think?” Mor diverts, successfully switching subjects. Azriel sighs, leaning back into the pillow, “about which part?” Mor’s brows narrow a little, “all of it, I suppose.” Azriel’s jaw works, glancing briefly out the window again to peer up into the sky, the winds calling to him and his wings move subtly at his back, repositioning themselves against the large stack of cushions placed to prop him up. 

“He’s furious that it got this far,” he replies, features carefully neutral as he answers the question. Amber eyes observe, offered insight through those years of friendship that others might struggle to pick out—the guilt he feels for failing. Not just her, or Mor, but Rhys and Feyre. For inadvertently allowing a situation to unfold where his brother would be forced to remember those months…years of grief after his family was slaughtered. After his sister was murdered. The whole situation is dredging up unwelcome memories, for all of them. They can’t let another one be lost. 

“He wants to know how Eris even got to her in the first place,” Azriel admits, glancing warily at Mor to gauge her reaction. “You don’t know?” She asks, pushing past the tightness in her throat at the mere mention. But the Shadowsinger shakes his head. “There wasn’t really time to ask,” he supplies quietly. She wasn’t really even in the right mindset to be asked. 

“What about Cassian?” Mor queries, but Azriel shakes his head. 

“You know I won’t tell you.” Because to know Cassian’s thoughts on the matter would likely be to know Nesta’s, and that isn’t the kind of emotional intimacy any of them would be comfortable with. It’s strange how emotions intermingle like that, how swiftly things can complicate themselves when new figures are added to the equation. 

A beat passes, then Mor’s shifting on her feet. “You know, there was a time when we shared everything between us. Wasn’t that easier?” She asks neutrally. 

“Mor,” Azriel warns lowly, causing Mor’s upper lit to curl slightly. 

“Don’t take that tone with me, Az,” she mutters, resting her full attention on the injured male. “Don’t act like you’re completely blameless.” 

“Assigning blame won’t fix anything,” he replies shortly, hazel eyes losing a little of their softness. “I’m sure that narrative suits you well,” Mor counters sharply. “I think you’re glad that I said those things to her so that you have a chance to redeem yourself by condemning me. You’re the one who started this whole mess, so—”

“Mor.”

“Shut up, Az,” Mor hisses, warmth vanishing from her face, eyes hardening as shields rise. “Don’t you dare try and twist what happened. You made mistake after mistake because you were too busy chasing Elain, and too busy ignoring what you didn’t want to acknowledge by hiding behind your work instead. At least I had a damn reason. What was yours?” 

Azriel gives nothing away, his expression cold and blank. 

“I tried to help her, I reached out my hand and offered her a chance. And she repaid that by going to Eris,” Mor hisses, unable to help the stark pain that bleeds into her fury. “She could have come to any of us. It’s more than we ever had, and yet she ignored it. Then tries to pretend it away? I’m not immune to that. If she can’t even be bothered to care about my pain why should I give a damn about hers?” Mor breathes, eyes feeling hot as the words gush out. “It is nothing compared to what we endured.” 

————

You manage a small smile as Madja enters your room, Elain closing the door behind her as she takes a seat at your bedside. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks as she settles in the chair provided for these visits, a kind look on her face that you know you should be grateful for, but it’s difficult to summon anything when you know she can’t do anything. All this is, is documentation. An observation to see what happens to you. Because it’s undeniable something is happening. 

You swallow thickly, but nod your head. “Good, for the most part,” you answer, truthfully. “I’m still feeling generally fatigued, but I wouldn’t say it’s particularly interfering with my day? I’ve had some pains in my stomach and back though, but I think they’re just…you know…” Madja raises her brows in question, silently asking you to continue. Heat rises beneath your skin and you avert your gaze, hands wringing together beneath the duvet. 

“Would it be more helpful if it were just the two of you?” Elain suggests carefully, and teeth push into your lower lip. Then you give a small dip of your head, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. But she doesn’t seem to mind, telling you’ll she be a few rooms over, and will return once the examination is done. Madja looks patiently at you, a kind expression on her features that soothes you slightly. She’s a healer, surely she’ll have seen and heard worse… 

You clear your throat, peering into your lap to avoid looking at her. “I think they might just be…” you trail off, glancing at her then gesturing vaguely to your stomach, hand hovering over your abdomen. There’s nothing impatient in her smile as she speaks, “your cycle?” You snap your eyes away, a flush of mortification rising to your skin, shoulders tightening as you stare into your lap but force yourself to nod. 

“It’s perfectly fine to speak about that with me,” Madja says gently, “it’s a normal occurrence with females, there’s no need to be embarrassed about your own body. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You nod again, just to try and appease her, but in truth you’re desperate to escape the subject. “I’m sorry, I just— I find it hard to believe you aren’t…uncomfortable, discussing such topics.” 

“Well, I’ve been a healer for most of my centuries in this realm,” she says calmly, and you can imagine that kind expression on her features, peaceful and infinitely patient. “I’ve worked during both wars, not to mention helping with your sister’s pregnancy. There’s very little that could ever cause me discomfort in regards to how the body works, so you don’t have to concern yourself.” 

You shift again in the bed, but manage to nod your head. Madja seems to be satisfied with the response, smile broadening, and a slight bit of tension is relieved from your shoulders, breath easing into your lungs. “So you’ve been experiencing some abdominal and back pain?” She questions, and you nod again, feeling a little useless. “Can you describe it to me?” She asks, and you swallow thickly. “I…it’s like a dull ache in my back, near the base of my spine but a bit to the right. Then it’s quite sharp in my…abdomen. It doesn’t happen often, but I thought I should mention it…” 

“I don’t think you should be experiencing any pain at all,” Madja replies. “And may I ask when you’re next due for your cycle?” You look away briefly before again meeting her gaze—nothing to be embarrassed about, she’d assured. “In about three months,” you answer quietly. 

Madja nods in approval, and you begin to relax back into the pillows. “And have you noticed any bleeding at all?” She asks gently, and you freeze in the bed. 

“No,” you answer hurriedly, without thinking, “no. Not from— No.” 

“Alright,” she smiles calmingly, “anywhere else? You have some scabs on your hands, isn’t that right?” Your throat rolls but you nod, releasing your tight grip on your nightgown, bringing yourself to raise them from beneath the duvet so she can examine them. “And these bumps,” she inquires, “can you tell me how long those have been there for?” You blink, trying to remember—they’ve been there for months it feels like, but it can’t have been that long, can it? How long has it been since you first told Azriel?

“I think…” you hesitate, unsure of yourself, “maybe a month? Two? They don’t hurt, but they do sometimes…bleed.” 

“Okay, would you mind if I had a look at them?” She requests, and you silently offer her your hands for her to take. That tingling warmth feathers beneath your skin, as if the flesh has fallen asleep, and you watch curiously as she probes along your knuckles, examining your palms, grazing your wrists. “And may I look at the area you experienced the pain in?” She asks, and you stiffen but nod. It’ll be the same thing as last time, you hope, and that wasn’t too bad since she had managed to work through the fabric of your night gown. The duvet is rolled back and you sit straighter in the cushions so she’ll have better access. 

“Can you point out where exactly you were feeling the pain?” She requests, and you gesture to a horizontal strip of skin below your middle. “It was the sharpest here,” you answer, “but I sometimes get a small ache further to the left or right.” Madja doesn’t reply, her expression showing concentration as she moves her hands across your stomach, gently pushing at the parts you’d mentioned as that warmth settles pleasantly into you. You can’t help as your attention drifts to your own hands, how flaky and lumpy they are in comparison to her tender set. It’s so dry, small scabs where blood had leaked from…you wish at least the bleeding didn’t happen. So many pairs of gloves you have to wash repeatedly to make sure there aren’t any stains. 

It’s become such a normal part of your life it had slipped your mind that pain shouldn’t be a normal part of it, nor the bleeding. 

The bleeding… 

A cold feeling washes over you, like you’ve had ice tipped down your spine as you remember the scare you’d experienced in the Autumn Court. 

If Madja notices how you’ve frozen, she doesn’t mention it, but a slow feeling of slippery dread unspools in your stomach as you recall the blood you’d noticed when visiting the washroom one morning. You’d thought it was your cycle—the slight pains had added up and the night sweats had made sense—but then nothing had happened and you’d forgotten about that blood. 

Nausea churns in your stomach, a district feeling over lightheadedness overcoming you and you force the calm breaths into your lungs…deep, and steady. You choke on saliva and your palm flies over your mouth as you twist your head to the side, coughing. 

Madja glances up at you, brows slightly pulled together from concentration. “Have some water—are you remembering to keep yourself hydrated throughout the day?” She asks, handing you the glass that rests by your bedside table. “For the most part,” you answer after taking a few sips. Madja pauses briefly, a look of consideration passing behind her eyes before speaking, “would you mind if I checked your lungs? It’s likely nothing, but might as well be sure since I’m here, don’t you agree?” 

You blink at her, looking slightly perplexed but you suppose there’s no harm in it, so you nod your confirmation, handing her back the glass before settling into the cushion. That familiar warmth tingles in your skin as she tentatively lays her fingers just below your collar bones before pressing down a little firmer and making her way from one side to the other. Her features remain set in an expression of concentration and she returns to the tops of your sternum before going a little lower. You tense, but understand she’s performing a medical examination. 

“Can you sit upright a little more? I’d like to search a little lower, just by your ribs,” she adds, seeing your startled expression. You nod, understanding, sitting more upright independent of the cushions. “Now if you can raise your arm?” She requests gently and again you follow, raising your left arm so she has access to the side of your ribs. The tingling sensation returns and you think you can feel as it searches through your body, though it doesn’t feel invasive like you had expected. 

Madja’s fingers pause, before she’s pressing noticeably firmer and you have to steady yourself so she does upset your balance. The sensation becomes more acute, able to feel as the tingling feeling concentrates near the middle left of your lower ribcage. When she retracts her hands she looks a little confused. 

“Is everything okay?” You ask nervously, uneasy by her expression. 

“There’s what feels like a small lump connected to the tissue of your left lung,” Madja explains calmly, and you nod your head. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to try and purge it. I haven’t seen it in any other patients, and there’s no reason for it to be there—it isn’t a natural part of your body. Would that be okay?” 

You nod your head—if she’s found something wrong with you, that sounds promising…? And if she thinks she can…purge it, that seems even better. 

“Alright, if you lean back into the bed to keep your upper body relaxed that would be perfect,” she guides and you settle down. “Okay, I’m going to apply my magic to the growth. You might feel a sudden heat or a ticklish sensation but if you can avoid coughing that would be helpful,” she explains, and tension rises in your chest as she again puts her hands against the side of your ribcage.  

Sure enough, a sharp heat fills a spot on your lung, and you press your lips together to prevent from coughing or inhaling suddenly despite the abrupt tickle that’s manifested in your throat, an intense itchiness in your lungs…an itchiness growing in the tips of your fingers…growing hotter…and hotter…beginning to burn, and… 

Madja pulls away, a gentle smile on her face, “all done. You did well not to start coughing in the middle there, it helped make the process much easier for me.” 

“So, it’s gone?” You ask perplexedly, hand gingerly rising to press into your ribs, testing as you inhale. Sure enough, the tickling feeling has gone, and so has the tightness in your throat, suddenly feeling much clearer. Like when you’d had a cold as a human, feeling the distinct relief once you were able to breathe freely again, having to become reliant on inhaling via your mouth rather than nose. One never appreciates how seamlessly their body works until it’s compromised.

Madja smiles, “it’s gone.” 

A hesitant smile makes its way across your mouth, peering down to where you hand is settled. 

Maybe it isn’t as bad as you’d been telling yourself. 

————

Golden eyes gleam from within the home, the scent of rosemary so familiar emotion swells in your chest. 

“Hey, Bas.” 

He pauses briefly, and you hesitate, waiting to see what he’ll do. Then he’s shifting in the doorway, opening it wider cautiously as he take you in, taking up most of the entryway. “You’re back…” he greets, but the note of caution in his voice has you hesitating again. But you push a small smile to your mouth, remembering yourself. “I’m back,” you agree, nodding your head slightly, “how… How have you been? Everything okay?” 

Bas is silent, simply watching you with an indistinguishable look and you resist the urge to move beneath his attention, instead waiting it out, wondering what he’s thinking. 

“Where were you?” He asks, catching you a little off-guard with the question. You hadn’t really considered he might question where you went. “I was… I visited another Court. Temporarily. Just to see more of the world, I guess…” You peer up at him—he isn’t moving from the doorway, remaining blocking it instead of inviting you in like you’d anticipated. Things feel strange, to how you remember them. “Is everything…okay?” You hedge. 

“Is everything okay?” He repeats softly, as if to himself. His golden eyes regain awareness, pupils tightening as they look at you. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

It’s enough to have you faltering, temporary confidence stumbling as you peer up at him questioningly. “I…what do you mean?” You ask, unsure what he’s asking after. 

“I mean, why did you disappear like that, huh? You just— went. Without telling me where, without telling anyone where, apparently. Do you know how dangerous Prythian can be? Especially for someone like you, and you just decided to leave? What were you thinking?” Bas asks, his patience steadily slipping as he speaks, thoughts pouring from his lips. “Someone like me?” You repeat faintly, pinning him with a look, “what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re smart. Not strong,” he answers succinctly, but bluntly, “you should know what sort of creatures are out there.” 

“That didn’t seem to bother you the night I left,” you counter, a note of disbelief in your voice. 

“Because you’re smart,” he repeats as if it’s obvious. “You’re smart, so I assumed you’d make a smart choice. Not just go out into Prythian on a whim. You don’t even know how to fight. Do you understand what could have happened to you?” 

“Bas, I’m fine,” you reassure, trying to understand his temper is coming from a place of concern. “I…I went to meet someone. I didn’t just go out into the wilderness, you don’t need to worry,” you explain, knowing it’s best to keep the details vague. 

“You know your family came to visit, right?” He asks, again catching you off guard as you stare at him. “No,” you answer, quietly, “I didn’t. Who—… What happened…?” Bas shifts in the doorway, settling to lean against the threshold of the entrance, and a small grain of relief passes through you at the distinctly familiar gesture. “Azriel visited first, and I told him he wouldn’t get anything out of me because I had decided to trust that you knew what you were doing. And you know what he told me?” Bas asks harshly, shaking his head and not waiting for reply. “He told me I was interfering with Court affairs, that withholding information might result in the High Lord personally questioning me. And I still didn’t tell him anything.” 

“I…I’m sorry, Bas,” you manage, guilt at last beginning to rise in your chest, head lowering slightly. “I’m…thank you. For trusting me.” 

“I’m not done,” Bas says quietly, but firmly, causing you to glance up at him questioningly. “He came back, that time with Mor.” There’s no way for you to conceal the pain and conflict that passes through your expression. Even if you could, even if you knew how to hide your emotions like that, you have the distinct impression he knows you well enough he’d be able to see through it, and the thought is surprisingly uncomfortable for you. Knowing someone so well they could see through your lies…that kind of vulnerability… 

“She was the one who convinced me to admit I had no idea where you’d gone. She was clearly worried, and I had to look at her and tell her how you hadn’t trusted me enough to say where you’d be going, but that I had decided to trust you enough that I’d been fine not knowing.” His voice has lowered, becoming rougher, and your shoulder slope with shame. “Can you understand that? To realise you’ve been deceived by someone you cared for like that? To admit that to people who had been smart enough to know better?” 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, raising your eyes to meet his, gloved hands wringing together. “I didn’t mean for it to seem like I didn’t trust you. I do.” 

“Then where were you?” 

You raise your head to look at him, then. Heart sinking because—you can’t tell him. You’re in enough trouble as it is, with Rhys, with Mor, with Azriel. Probably with your sisters too, they just haven’t shown it yet. You can’t cause more problems. More problems for them is more consequences for you, and you have a long list of things to make up for. Dauntingly long. Almost unbearably… “Bas…I…” 

“Can’t tell me?” He finishes, his tone telling you it’s exactly what he anticipated. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say softly, holding his gaze imploringly. “You know I trust you. That I’ve told you things I could never—… That I could never tell anyone else…” 

“Then why can’t you tell me, huh?” He asks, a touch more gentle, sounding as helpless as you feel. 

“Just…I need you to…”

“Trust you?” He scoffs, shoulders jerking in an unnaturally sharp movement. 

“You’d made it sound like they didn’t care about you,” he says quietly, and you look at him wearily. “I thought you were on your own, you know.” Like me, is what he leaves out, but you can hear it clear enough. “I have my ma, and you have your sister, but beyond that I thought you had no one but me.” And I had no one but you—again, you can hear those words he’s not saying. “That we were going to be there for each other because we understood what it was like. But they care for you.” A strange sense of shame settles heavily on your shoulders, and your head lowers, but you don’t look away. 

“It was obvious,” he murmurs, his brows curving almost imperceptibly, a kernel of pain passing behind sharp golden eyes. He sighs, shaking his head, pushing up from the doorframe and you watch silently as he begins to draw the conversation to a close. “I won’t begrudge you of that. I’m glad you have people. Family. But I…” You lied. 

“I don’t—” You say abruptly, rushing into speech, hurting without thought, just needing to explain yourself, even if it opens up something you aren’t ready for. “They don’t,” you breathe. “I—… It might look like they do, you might know they do. Maybe they really, actually do.” You stare up at him, feeling that emptiness lethargically blink itself awake, mouth yawning open in preparation to begin swallowing you down again. Pulling you into that inescapable state of overwhelming darkness. “But I can’t believe it,” you whisper, feeling as your eyes fill with wetness, and something hot spills down your cheek, another following when you blink to clear it away. “I can’t…” you breathe, trailing off. “It doesn’t matter what happens, Bas. I just—…I can’t believe it.” 

“And I should believe you?” He asks quietly. 

You stare at him helplessly. There’s nothing else you can say. You’ve tried to convince him, you’ve been as honest as you can physically tolerate, and it…it just isn’t enough. You aren’t enough. 

Your heart doesn’t plummet like you’ve learned to anticipate. Instead a vague feeling of disappointment calmly soothes your skin, glum pessimism setting in as the high emotions fade into watery greys. Desaturated, and bearable. 

“I don’t know what else to say,” you tell him quietly. 

“Just tell me the truth,” Bas asks, golden eyes showing his hurt. Another case of betrayal you’ve brought upon yourself. 

Would it be unfair to ask his forgiveness? 

“I’m sorry,” you give as your answer. There’s nothing else you can say. 

Bas’ eyes dull slightly, and you understand how you’ve let him down. 

His jaw works, looking away briefly before returning his attention to you. “I’ll see you later.” 

————

The wind breezes through you as you walk along the cobbles, the sun long since dipped down beneath the horizon, leaving a chill in the air that manages to sink through the silky orange material of your scarf. 

You can’t bring yourself to try and tackle the emotional conflict with Bas yet. You’re drained, and tired from the past months—maybe longer—and you don’t want to put yourself through more self-inflicted sadness. If you really need to release some bottled up emotion, you know you’ll have no choice in escaping it. If you have the option to keep yourself from hurt, you’ll take it. At least for the moment. 

Bas had said he’d see you later—you have to trust him. As a friend, as someone who’s been there for you, and you for him—you have to believe you’ll be able to fix this. There’s good in the world, Feyre had told you, you just have to trust that you’ll find it. Even if it’s seemingly alluded you until now, in the moments you’ve needed it most. 

A silhouette seems familiar in your peripherals, a distinctly fae sense recognising the shape, or…something, of the figure, and you glance over. 

Cassian raises his hand in greeting, his expression clear and untroubled as he walks over to where you’ve paused, wings kept neatly tucked at his back to keep them from bumping into things. “You know, I’ve been told you’re supposed to be staying in bed,” he greets in his deep voice, tone similar to one someone would use when catching another doing something they aren’t supposed to, but considering joining in anyway. It’s very him, in a way. 

“I…” you begin, about to mention Bas, but then decide otherwise. “I’m feeling okay today. I thought a walk might be nice. Fresh air’s supposed to be good for you, right?” You ask lightly, volume low. Cassian’s quiet for a beat, unnervingly sharp hazel eyes weighing into you calmly. Then he sighs, shrugging his shoulders a little before shifting on his feet, making to turn around, to lead you somewhere. “I suppose I can’t fault you for keeping things to yourself.”

You watch as he turns, obviously expecting you to go with him, but the moment caught you off guard. “…keeping things to myself…?” You hedge, managing to get your feet moving to walk a little behind him, not particularly wanting to go with him but knowing it would be unreasonable to turn away. Especially after all the trouble you’ve caused—like having such poor control of your—

You halt abruptly, staring up to the cliff-face that contains the House of Wind. Sure enough, even from so far below, you can spot the large break in the rock-face, able to pick out what had been your bedroom, and the sides of the rooms either side of it. You feel as the blood drains from your face, shock icing your body as you’re unable to look away—you caused that. “Something wrong?” Cassian asks, calling back to you a few steps away. 

Words have left you, unable to figure out what to say, mind struggling to wrap around all of it. Another thing to make up for, and that one’s pretty big, too…your shoulders slope as you stare at the hole blown out of the rock. The damage you’ve probably caused the interior too… How much will it take to repair that? Isn’t the building itself old? Even to fae standards? 

How can you ever make up for something like that? 

Cassian walks back over to you when you don’t reply, pausing at your side, hands on his hips as he follows the direction of your gaze. “Pretty impressive,” he says conversationally, “you’ve got a way to go before you can manage an entire building, though.” Then he pats you lightly on the shoulder, wing curving round your body to get your legs moving as you’re pulled away, view with the House broken. 

“I—…” you choke out, “did…did I do that?” You manage hoarsely, looking up at him as your feet start moving one in front of the other, subconsciously wary of bumping into his wing. “Sure did. Blew right through that noise cancelling ward Feyre put up,” Cassian answers, keeping his attention ahead as he leads you through the city streets, people automatically making way for the familiar face. “I told her she’d been slacking off in practising her magic,” he murmurs under his breath, but you aren’t paying much attention, too overwhelmed with debt to really engage. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, feet hesitating as they move over the cobbles before stopping firmly, shoulders bunched as you glance up at him. “I’m so— I didn’t mean to make such a mess— I just— I just didn’t— I didn’t know what to do. And I thought he was going to—”

“It’s okay,” Cassian says firmly, standing in front of you so there are less places to look away to. “It’s Rhys’ anyway. You don’t need to apologise to me.” 

“But…it was given to you,” you hedge, staring up at him—and if it’s still Rhys’, that’s so much worse. So, so much damage. 

“Would you feel better if someone was angry with you?” He asks seriously after a moment of pause. You freeze, startled by the question. “…what?” 

“Would it make it easier?” He repeats, watching you solemnly, “if we acted how you’re waiting for us to?” 

You stare at him, struggling to pull together a reply, startled from the strange clarity of his questions. Seconds pass and all you can do is look at him, too afraid to answer—not of him, but…something. 

Cassian breaks the connection, glancing away, half turning his body to face the direction you’d been walking. “Maybe that question was too much,” he says, almost to himself. He sighs, eyes closing briefly, before he’s glancing at you, wing opening as if to guide you along again. “Come on,” he says, voice having lost that solemnity, back to the familiar timbre, “we’ll be late.” 

“Late?” You manage as you somehow get your body to fall into step beside him. “What…where are we going?” 

He looks at you strangely, as if the answer’s obvious. “Dinner, of course,” he replies, returning his attention to the streets ahead, sure enough taking the path that will lead directly back to the River House. “They’ll start without us if we aren’t there on time.” 

“Dinner?” You ask, feeling lightheaded. Too many new components being dropped on you for you to entirely keep yourself together. You swallow thickly, fumbling for excuses because you can’t do a dinner as you are—not after yesterday. “I’m not feeling too great, actually,” you say hoarsely, “besides, if I eat this late I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it…” you trail off, realising he probably doesn’t want to hear about you throwing up meals every now and again. 

“Madja’s told us you need to keep your strength up,” Cassian replies, and you’re unsure if he’s intentionally chosen a counter-argument you’d have trouble escaping or whether it was  inadvertent. “Eat what you can—it’s important during recovery, even if it might feel insignificant, or pointless.” You glance at him again, that strange feeling creeping into your chest at his wording—is it some kind of intuition that’s leading him to say these things? 

“…Will everyone be there?” You ask quietly, trying to calm yourself as the River House comes into view, not far away now. “Az will probably want to eat in his room,” Cassian answers neutrally after a temporary pause, “but everyone else will. You’ll be sitting besides Elain.” There was no reason to add that on. 

You can’t manage it, but you can’t figure a way to escape. There’s no out you can find—saying you aren’t hungry, or you’re tired won’t get you out of it, he’s already said to just eat what you can meaning you have to have at least a bite or two. But the idea of sitting with all of them, when everything is still so unclear…You can’t. 

The River House looms before you, and you can swear you feel a cold sweat appear on your back, hands turning unnaturally clammy, so accustomed to the skin being dry and flaky that to feel the dampness on your palms has slippery discomfort roiling in your stomach. 

Cassian walks up the steps, hand settling on the door, and you watch in motion slower than usual as he begins to turn the handle.  

A slight breeze blows, pulling strands of your hair forward, as if trying to push you into the House, and Cassian pauses, door opened only a few inches. Beats pass, but you keep utterly still, both wanting the moment to end but also desiring nothing more than to run from the oncoming meal. 

Strangely observant hazel eyes flick over a broad shoulder, meeting your own set and you tense, hairs rising at the nape of your neck, getting that same feeling you’d had when speaking with Rhys, that he can somehow see through you too clearly, like you’re too easy to read. Fearing what he’ll be able to find before you’ve had the chance to discover it. Watching you fumble in the dark for something that was so easy to locate. Struggling with a problem embarrassingly simple to decipher. 

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says, holding your gaze. Are you really that easy to see through? But then he continues, and the surrounding world warps a little. 

“You have a right to be at that table as much as any of us,” he says, those keen hazel eyes remaining steady. “Keep that in mind, when you go in.” 

Then the door’s opening wider, and the smell of a hot meal wafts out into the night. You trail behind him, latch clicking at your back, following as he makes his way to the dining room. He had believed the words he’d told you, that you were deserving of a seat at their table. You can’t really bring yourself to believe it, but his sincerity has shaken your ground a little. 

His expression shifts when he rounds a corner, brows rising as his lips part in a broad smile, voices rising in greeting and you can see why Feyre treasures his company. He’s surprisingly gentle, oddly perceptive. 

They probably all already knew that, though. It’s your fault for casting roles on them before really even getting to know them, assigning characters after only a handful of proper conversations. If only you’d made the effort to step out of your own little circle, maybe the circumference wouldn’t be as strangling as it’s become. 

If you’d stepped out sooner, could you have been first choice? 

But, glancing again at Cassian, his profile captured in a look between irritation and affection, turning the corner into the dining room and seeing the scrunch of Feyre’s brow as she replies to whatever he’d said…no. It wouldn’t have mattered. 

But it’s not the end of the world that you weren’t made that way. 

————

It’s good to see her smiling again, he thinks. 

With the past months having been so draining, the symptoms of her restlessness only exacerbated in the last few days given the turmoil they’ve all been thrown into, it’s good to see the light in her eyes gleaming again. More than just good, but there isn’t quite a word right enough to express the soul-deep relief he feels at seeing her smile. A strange conviction that everything will be okay now that she’s on the way better. 

Her ears twitch once before she’s shooting him a half-glare, having felt his gaze roaming over her. “Family dinner, Rhys,” she snaps under her breath, but he can see the heat in her eyes, the silent agreement that’s exchanged in the brief moments their gaze locks, and Rhys’ mouth curves suggestively, his brows rising in feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmurs, looking down at his mate with an intensity he knows she adores. And yet she lightly smacks his thigh anyway. 

“I’m serious,” Feyre warns, that heat dissipating as Cassian picks a seat at the table, dragging the feet across the floorboards with a grating noise that’s thankfully drowned out by chatter while a smaller figure quietly follows after him, taking one of the two remaining open seats. Unlike Cassian, she lifts her chosen seat from the floor, trying to keep as silent as possible and blend into the background as she sits beside Elain. “Don’t scare her off,” Feyre murmurs under her breath. Rhys hums compliantly, eyes twinkling as he spends a few extra moments looking at his mate. Moments he thinks he might at long last be beginning to lean into.

“Where’s Mor?” Cassian interrupts, and Rhys reluctantly shifts his attention to his brother, who has taken the seat opposite Feyre. He sometimes wonders if Cassian choses moves like this intentionally, whether they’re conscious decisions or whether these actions result from a wish to have his family united. Cassian isn’t like himself or Az, wasn’t taught to conceal his emotions as they were—well, in his own case it was taught. For Az it was a matter of survival. 

“Taking supper up to Az,” Nesta’s voice cuts through the previously enjoyable atmosphere, the noise similar to recognising the hiss of steel being drawn within a temple. A few centuries ago, his ears might have twitched at the distinctly unpleasant intrusion, but Cassian’s eyes have already left his own to seek out the icy silver of his mate’s, softened at their edges. 

“More than just supper,” Amren comments, one space over to Rhys’ right, sat at a corner seat. “She took an entire bottle of wine with her.” Laughter rises, and Rhys allows his attention to briefly sweep over across the table where the two sisters are involved in conversation, as if there’s no one else to speak with. He supposes one of them might very well believe that, and with a fraction of a thought swiftly removes the precautionary enchantment of the silverware so they won’t vanish if she reaches for them. 

At least she’s there, though he’s fairly confident Cassian has something to do with it. Rhys can picture how the light in Feyre’s eyes might flicker learning she had found a way to shut herself away in a house where avoiding others was almost impossible without intent. No amount of luck or coincidence would keep her entirely hidden. Especially over meals. 

Violet eyes return to his left, feeling the familiar ease that settles through him at the reminder of Feyre’s presence. A deeply-treasured reprieve from the strain and stress that’s been thriving amongst them as of late. 

————

“How was the check-up with Madja, by the way?” Elain asks, using one of the large wooden spoons to shift a few roast potatoes onto her plate. 

You nod slightly, lips pressing together in a small smile that you hope is reassuring. “Good, for the most part,” you reply. “I think she still wants to observe what happens for now, but she did…do something, which might have helped?” It reminds you of the lightness in your lungs, the strange openness of your throat and you instinctively take in a deeper breath, basking in that odd clearness. Elain hums in question, silently offering you the spoon for potatoes, but you shake your head politely. “I’m not sure…I don’t think dinner is the best place to discuss those check-ups,” you say quietly, a half-smile on your mouth. Elain’s lips curve, eyes gleaming as she nods in agreement, “you’re probably right.” Then she glances across the table before returning her gaze to yours, a new, preempted question already rising to her mouth. “What are you going to eat?” 

The smile on your lips becomes strained, gloved hands shifting in your lap as you keep the orange, silk scarf pulled over your arms to conceal the wretched skin. You wish you’d at least had the chance to change before coming here—your mind will mostly be preoccupied with making sure none of them are forced to see the state beneath the silk. “If I’m honest, I’m not really that hungry…” you hedge, but Elain gives you a look that tells you she won’t stand for it. Although it comes from a place of care and love, you can’t help feeling a little suffocated. 

“Just have a couple of bites, okay?” Elain reasons gently, “Madja’s told us it’s good for you to eat, it’ll help you recover.” 

“Apparently Madja’s been saying that a lot,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Madja’s a highly respected healer,” Amren cuts in from across the table, her eyes sharp as they pierce into you. “If she’s said you should eat, you should eat.” 

You aren’t sure if you imagine the way the noise level seems to drop at that, but the familiarly dull pain of humiliation flickers across your chest, ashamed to have sounded so ungrateful. Your head lowers a little, unable to think of a reply as your hands wring together beneath the table, tucked away in your lap. 

“Unless you really feel sick,” Elain interjects a little defensively, her hand subconsciously placing itself on your upper arm in what you’re certain she intends to be a comforting gesture—in truth it causes your flesh to ache, but you keep your mouth shut. “I’m sure I can manage a bite or two,” you get out with a small smile and you hate that you know it won’t reach your eyes, so keep your head slightly ducked as you put a few potatoes on your plate. You can come down later, once everyone’s gone to bed if you’re still hungry. 

A beat passes, and Elain shifts at your side, a fresh smile on her face, trying to brighten your mood—you dip a little lower at that, that she feels responsible, but if you don’t pull yourself together she’ll keep doing it. “How did you and Cassian bump into one another?” She asks, reaching for something else on the table that you don’t look at. Cassian doesn’t make to answer, so you have to, feeling the distinct weight of the table’s attention. “Just coincidence, I suppose,” you reply, managing a faint smile, keeping your eyes on your plate as you slice one of the roast potatoes in two, steam wafting up from the hot centre. 

“Went out for a walk?” Elain asks. There’s an almost unnoticeable tone of relief in the question—you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t as close to her as you are. Is that how easily she can pick out your own thoughts? “Fresh air’s probably good for you, right?” She says smiling, causing your own lips to curve at their edges fondly. “I think so,” you murmur in reply. 

“Have you had a chance to read any more books recently? I haven’t seen any in your room…I could get some if you want?” Feyre speaks from across the table, and you bite down on the way you want to shrink into yourself as the conversation is drawn over to you. “I haven’t, and it’s fine, thank you. Have you been painting recently?” You ask, swiftly shutting it down and shifting the conversation back to her, hoping you’ll be left out of it now. 

Rhys’s attention flits over her a split second before something passes behind Feyre’s eyes, but she swallows and nods. “There hasn’t been as much time as I’d like, but I’m finding moments,” she answers, but goes no further. You’re glad she’s still getting time to herself in spite of being High Lady and more importantly, a mother. You can’t imagine how difficult it must be if it’s taking up that much of her time…and you probably hadn’t helped…she’s been visiting each day… You should have succeeded. 

The passiveness of the thought catches you a little off guard. Since when had thoughts like that become so habitual? So flippant? You spear a piece of potato with your fork, bringing it to your mouth. It was just a fleeting thought, it’s fine. Weird things happen in the mind anyway, as long as you don’t mean it, you’re okay. 

“Would you…” Feyre’s asking, “be interested in joining me? We could have an easel set up in your room?” 

A part of the potato goes down the wrong way as you hear the question, hand grabbing the napkin as you cover your mouth, coughing. You clear your throat when you’re done, making sure to wipe your lips subtly as you pull the napkin away, sipping on the glass of water to help clear your throat. Once you’ve recovered, you remember her question. 

It would be nice. Really nice, actually, but… “it’s fine, please don’t worry. Painting’s your thing, and I think…personal, to you. Besides, I have my books,” you excuse, heart sinking a little, but it’s for the better. She’s already short on time anyway, she needs to keep that for herself, even if you can’t help but want it. 

The same look passes behind her eyes, and you now wonder if you can’t figure it out because…because you might no longer know her well enough. 

“It’s probably for the better,” Rhys announces, bringing the moment to a swift end, “Feyre’s nude models would probably upset your delicate sensibilities, anyway.” 

Your eyes widen and you nearly choke on air as wild, ferocious heat swarms your features, staring ahead, bewildered. 

Rhys grins as a fuming Feyre smacks him on the shoulder, indignant rage lighting her eyes. “Lies! All lies,” she snaps, before sparing you a somewhat apologetic glance. “He’s joking, obviously,” she reassures, shooting a glare Rhys’ way at that last part. “His humour’s apparently a few centuries out of date.”

“Speaking of things on the old side,” a golden voice calls from the hallway, parading into the dining room in heels tall and thin enough to potentially run someone through. “Rhys, is there another case of this stuff? Az wants some more.” 

The High Lord rolls his eyes, amusement clear, Feyre settling at his side, feigned anger dissipating as if it were never there, her eyes twinkling again. 

“We all know you finished off the bottle before you even reached Az’s room,” Amren snipes, thickly-jewelled fingers sparkling as she nurses her own glass, laughter rising from the table. 

“Oh, like you’re any better Amren. You could polish off bottles of blood in the time it took me to eat an appetiser,” Mor replies, heels clicking across the floor as she sweeps through the room in a flurry of vibrant red and stunning gold, taking her seat opposite Elain—between Amren and Rhys. 

One seat and across from your own position. 

The meal fully commencing now all able players are assembled at the table. 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[alostwanderernotfound]

The Dangers

Many years ago in my studies I worked with many people. We all eventually started to disagree on a variety of things.

Latin was one of the few languages I was taught & to a degree retained at the time. Music was another study encouraged. To some holy families this was a practice to be whole & for others it was considered an opportunity- “a tool” as it was described. I was taught a lot as a child under the guise of just trying to learn of the world, but quickly others intervened. They were trying to teach me sorcery & I didn’t even know it.

The angels were fractionated by “rank” & “power”. Witchcraft & asking for the power of other things outside of us started to become a secret ambition of some. Some of us wanted to prioritize peace & harmony. Others were focused on the attainment of the most power possible for our survival.

Latin as a language is apparently spoken by a lot of different beings. Communication between beings that have different technology/skills/power/etc apparently had occurred at least somewhat enough of other beings to know of angel existence.

One specific group that shall go unnamed spoke Latin & to speak to them you played certain notes in a certain way. Like an intro song & then they knew you were speaking to them.

Some were asking for power & attempting to bargain.

This was one of the huge dividers that eventually led to angel banishment out of the clouds.

I do not think Latin is translated correctly & I think that’s for a very scary reason.

I also think I asked and wrote down pretty specifically if you did Latin mass to not sing.

That is because you never know who is there leading you to deceive you.

I remember walking into one of the first Latin masses given and as soon as I entered- I remember being taken aback because they were singing.

I looked at the sheet music and was horrified in its familiarity.

The sheet music had the chords for speaking to this other type of being that asks you to sacrifice your body to it for its power. And I watched as an entire congregation sung a chant to other things not of our God that was asking for a specific person’s protection for them. These beings heard the chant & I can only assume lent that person some of their power, for your words said that is what you asked for.

The antichrists/people in hell’s power is supposedly derived from these types of practices. They bargain & gossip with other beings to get favor & then ask for their enemies destruction. A lot of power comes from the manipulation of people trying to do good.

God told me a long time ago I had to warn when I saw this & I did. Many times. But they did not care. I was in the minority. These practices were apparently essential to others, but all I saw was the chaos & the suffering & the pain.

And I realized a long time ago me & you, we’re nothing more than an infinite sacrificial token to them. They’d flood the world & crucify me & keep going as long as they get to stay in power.

And that’s why the Bible & Christianity & all these religions & mythical stories were life and death & why we didn’t stop fighting for so long. Why they were the most important things in the world & you were begged to please just listen because we don’t know who or what we were angering.

This is the story of the never ending fall & all the things people have done for all of history that led to what we called the inevitability of eternal suffering for us all.

They seek to continue to erase memories because they don’t care if they destroy this world & they don’t want anyone to even consider stopping them.

I remember now the ones so many years ago that asked for my skin & my flesh & my body. And I cried.

And the other angels, spiritual beings, & their followers gave me to them- to make themselves more powerful.

[earlysunshines]

the nearness of u

chou tzuyu x fem reader ; fluff, smut

synopsis: tzuyu finds her girlfriend at her window and her night a little steamy

warnings: so sweet you’ll have a cavity ; soft smut! ; first time w tzu ; tzuyu receiving + reader giving ; my baby ; my LOVE ; fluffy aftercare ; just soft intimacy ngl ; not proofread

wc: 3.1k

a/n: NOT my best i didn’t proofread LOL enjoy tho!! It’s been a while since i’ve written smut, has it? I can't rememeber

tzuyu’s oblivious to the knocking at her window, her earbuds drowning out everything around her.

you let out a groan. the thought of someone spotting you outside the window and on the small roof makes you anxious. the trees give you some cover, but you can't shake the feeling that you might be seen, especially since you're some girl loitering outside a window, which could easily raise suspicions.

“c’mon chou, just turn to the right…” you mumble to yourself, pouting as you knock once more.

in a desperate attempt to catch her attention, you grab the phone in your pocket, then repeatedly turn the flash on and off until tzuyu’s head perks up.

her reaction is priceless.

she turns away from the book and paper on her desk, tzuyu's attention is suddenly drawn to you, your hand pressed flat against the glass as you bang against it once more. she practically jumps in her seat, her jaw dropping and brows furrowing in confusion and concern as she hurries over to the window.

tzuyu lets you inside, giving you space to climb in.

“what are you doing?” her voiced is hushed and she’s scolding you in a way, watching as you fix the jacket you have on and your loose hair.

you close the window behind you, then lock it.

“i need a reason to see my favorite girl?”

she looks at you unbelievably, “y/n, my parents are still home.” she looks worried now, head turning to glance at the door handle. “you could get caught and i could— no, we could be in serious trouble.”

“i’ll be on my best behavior, i promise. you said they were leaving tonight anyway.”

tzuyu sighs to herself and purses her lip. after seeing the apologetic smile on your face, she decides that she’s going to let you off the hook. she really can’t be mad at you, not when you’ve done all this to see her. it’s kind of very charming, adorable honestly.

she huffs and turns to look at the digital clock above her desk. “they’re leaving in ten minutes, so you better—“

“tzuyu honey! you still studying?”

tzuyu freezes, and so do you as soon as you hear the shout coming from downstairs. her dad’s voice rings throughout the house.

quickly, tzuyu pushes you towards her closet, nearly making you trip along the way. she looks at you with a serious expression, eyes drilling into yours while she keeps a hand on your shoulder.

she whispers in a rushed, cautious manner, “you need to be as quiet as you can, no sound at all. if you ruin this then we’re both—“

"relax, relax, i know," you whisper back, unable to contain the smile spreading across your face. "lips zipped–" you gesture with two fingers pressed against your lips, mimicking the action of zipping them shut. "--now."

she laughs at you like you’re an idiot (her idiot), then looks back at the closed door. quickly, comparable to the speed of a bullet train, she pecks your lips—then pushes you deeper in her closet and shuts the door. you nearly stumble over from how aggressively she shoved you, and the feeling of her lips on yours.

tzuyu fixes her hair, then rushes to sit down at her desk and get back into the position she was in before: eyes focused on the book, pencil in her hand, and earbuds in her ears. 

less than a minute later, the door opens. tzuyu pretends to be surprised, turning toward her mom creeping in as she takes an earbud out.

“hey sweetie, studying?”

tzuyu nods. ���yeah, were you and dad leaving?”

“mhm.” her mom hums, “your dad was calling you from downstairs, seemed like you didn’t hear.”

“oh, yeah, sorry.” she apologizes, rubbing her neck. “i was just finishing up this history assignment.”

“it’s alright honey, come down and say bye to your father and i.”

“yeah, of course. hold on.” tzuyu responds, watching her mom smile at her before heading out her room.

she steals a glance at the closet, hoping you caught the conversation through the door, before heading downstairs to bid farewell to her parents and tend to her dogs.

-

when tzuyu returns to her room thirty minutes later, she finds you sitting against her bed, scrolling through your phone. a blush spreads across her cheeks, she can't help but find you effortlessly cute in that moment.

as you notice the door opening, you look up at her and offer a warm smile. you're just sitting there in loose sweatpants and a cropped tee, your hair clipped up lazily. still, tzuyu can’t get enough of you. 

“welcome back!” you beam, getting up from your spot.

tzuyu rolls her eyes at you playfully before you approach and wrap her in a hug, your arms encircling her neck. you pull back slightly, noses almost touching, and the two of you simply sit there, basking in each other's presence. then, you turn your head and press a gentle kiss against her lips, mumbling against them when you part away.

“you look really hot, by the way.”

tzuyu giggles softly, trying to ignore how bad she wants you right now, then playfully mumbles, "shut up," before leaning in to kiss you once more. her hands find their place on your waist, fingers gently grazing against the skin revealed by your cropped tee, wanting to go further.

the two of you continue to kiss for a while, savoring the intimacy between you. it's something you've always cherished – just the two of you lost in the moment of kissing. whether it's in the girls' bathroom during free periods, in empty classrooms, or your car – literally wherever you find yourselves, the two of you share kisses as if each moment is going to be stripped away from you.

as you deepen the kiss, tzuyu groans, trying to compose herself while you play with her hair and rub your body up against her dangerously close.

you pull away, then hold her face in your hands. “so, what’s the plan for tonight?”

“if someone had texted me that they would be at my window, maybe i’d have one. but im stumped, what do you want to do?”

you take one hand off her face, then use your pointer to tap at your chin. “hmmmm…”

tzuyu chuckles, then quickly steals a kiss from you. 

you pout when she pulls away, she giggles again.

your girlfriend's face lights up suddenly. “do you want to watch a movie? what’s that one movie you were rambling about–”

“ten things i hate about you! oh my god, baby we have to, please it’s so adorable.” you plead, looking at her with puppy eyes.

“okay, okay. let me put my stuff away and shower.”

smiling warmly, you gently push tzuyu's hair behind both ears, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks at the sight of her ears sticking out a little more. you then kiss her deeply and nod in agreement, stealing a few more pecks to her face before she heads off to the bathroom.

-

tzuyu finishes showering and sits in her bed, scrolling to find the movie you wanted to watch.

momentarily distracted from her search, tzuyu's attention is captured by the sight of you standing in front of her mirror, concentrating on putting her little butterfly clips in your hair. a smile spreads across her face as she admires you, enjoying the view from the comfort of her bed.

then you turn to her with a toothy smile. “do these look good on me?”

“you look cute.” tzuyu shyly responds, making you laugh. 

“not as cute as you.”

“you’re so corny.”

"you're literally in love with me though, so does it matter?" you retort playfully, earning another roll of tzuyu's eyes.

looking into the mirror again, you're struck with an idea. you turn to tzuyu, taking a few steps to the bed and grabbing her hand, pulling her up gently and guiding her in front of the mirror. with a cheeky smile, you take out the clips from your hair and settle tzuyu down on her chair before standing behind her and placing the clips in her hair. she simply lets you take charge, laughing as you work your magic.

“hold this, my hairs getting in the way.” you mumble, handing a clip to tzuyu. you pull your hair up and clip it again, then part her hair again. “also, why didn’t you just tell your parents i was coming over later, you didn’t have to shove me in the closet. we’re out, you know.”

tzuyu giggles at your little joke that you’ve thrown in, then shrugs. “i was just freaking out in the moment. y/n, you showed up at my window, how did you even get up there?”

“don’t question it.”

“whatever.” tzuyu says, feeling you rake a hand through her hair. “besides, what would my parents think about their daughter and her girlfriend alone in their house, no adults in sight. they’ll probably think we’re like, y’know.”

you pause, looking at her through the mirror and quirking a brow. tzuyu widens her eyes a bit, feeling the rush of heat flooding her cheeks.

“are you implying–”

“no– wait–”

"no, you're definitely implying something," you cut her off, a smirk playing on your lips now. with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you spin the chair around, making tzuyu look up at you directly. "what would two girls be 'like, y'know-ing', tzuyu?" you mockingly repeat her words, teasing her further.

your girlfriend shrinks under you, and then her eyes betray her in the moment, looking down at your chest, and then the exposed skin, the curves of your lower torso.

“tzuyu, what are you thinking of? what would they think?”

“i– um,”

“oh my god, you’re adorable.” you sigh, smiling at her. “you think your parents are going to think we’re fucking, don’t you?”

she goes silent, trying to think of an excuse and make up a lie to cover the fact that yeah, she does think that; tzuyu wouldn’t be opposed to actually fucking you either, but she’s far too timid to initiate anything as intimate as that.

your girlfriend doesn’t want to admit the fact that there’s a little pulse in between her legs every time you two make out, too embarrassed to admit how easily you turn her on even if it's just kissing for minutes.

“oh my god, do you think of us fucking then?” you question, raising your brows. “you are, aren’t you?”

tzuyu can barely conjure words, far too embarrassed to and also really horny after hearing the tone of your voice change into a teasing one. she can only nod at your response, tearing her eyes away from you.

"baby, tell me," you begin, enjoying watching her squirm a little. with a pitiful look, you kneel down, meeting her gaze as she looks down at you, biting her lip nervously. your hand gently rubs her thigh, adding to the tension. “do you want to watch that movie or do you want to do something else? what’s on your mind?”

there’s a moisture forming in between tzuyu’s legs when you talk to her like that, when you look at her like that, when you touch her like that. 

“i– um, baby, please…”

“please what tzu? you know what, why don’t you tell me on the bed. sit down over there for me will you?”

“y-yeah.” tzuyu chokes out.

now she’s on the bed, looking at you desperately, eagerly. she’s adorable.

you shift yourself onto the bed, placing both hands beside tzuyu as you draw closer, your lips inching toward each other. she’s the first to give in, craning her head forward to kiss you.

a hand reaches out to cup tzuyu's cheek as you begin to straddle her, settling both legs beside her. she sighs into you as you deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing together. the ache between her legs becomes unbearable the more you touch her; your hands slide under her tank top and pinch at her skin, earning sounds much more pleasurable than a simple groan.

when you two part, you slide down her body. 

first, you leave delicate kisses along tzuyu's neck, savoring each spot that elicits a reaction from her. you take your time, enjoying the sensations of her responses as you explore her, grow accustomed to her. then you’re sliding her shirt off eagerly, thankful that there’s nothing to cover her chest.

she feels your thumb sliding over her nipple, throwing her head back against the headboard when you do so.

“y/n, ah- keep going, please.”

you press a kiss just under her boob, then suck lightly to leave a slight mark. “of course baby.”

kissing down her body, you meet her shorts, sliding them off immediately with your eager fingers. the next – and last – article of clothing is her underwear. before you slip it off, you look at tzuyu, her brows scrunched and lips parted. you silently ask for approval with a tilt of your head, the small gesture managing to convey a “is this okay?” which earns a nod from tzuyu, a silent way for her to respond, “please.”

in seconds it’s just you and her. her eyes look down at you desperately, anticipating your next move, begging for you to do something about her throbbing cunt. 

tzuyu doesn’t need to ask for you, you seem to read her mind.

a chaste kiss is pressed to her pussy before you lick up her folds, earning a high-pitched whine from her. then you latch your lips onto her cunt, slowly finding what makes her hand tug at your hair harder, which spot she pushes you deeper into, and what pace earns better reactions. 

she likes it when your tongue goes flat against her and right after when you swirl your tongue around her clit teasingly before sucking harshly – that’s what makes her moan the loudest, what earns a stronger grip in your hair.

and so you alternate between your tongue teasing the lips of her pussy, barging in so her walls feel your overwhelming touch, and stimulating her clit. all of it leaves her breathy, craving for more until she’s at the edge.

tzuyu ‘s moans get higher pitched, needier, and god, the mantra of your name encourages you to leave her weak. you look up a few times to make eye contact with her or see her with closed eyes and her bottom lip desperately trapped under her teeth.you can't help but marvel at her beauty, feeling that she's everything and more to you.

“y-y/n–”

she tries to gulp down a loud moan, instead failing and you hear her practically scream your name out. her hips jerk uncontrollably as she finally reaches her high, choked-out variations of your name filling the room as her arousal lands on your tastebuds. you don’t waste time with her, savoring her climax and helping her come down from her high. she’s sweet, you could get used to this.

tzuyu gazes down at you, her nails digging into the skin of your shoulder, leaving behind marks that would linger for a while. despite her trembling, your thumb continues to rub soothingly against her skin, offering comfort and reassurance. you treat her with tender care, paying careful attention to every aspect of her being, indulging in every sense and sensation. 

“shhh, shhh baby,” you mumble against her inner thigh right before placing a kiss. crawling back up to meet her, you wipe a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “are you okay?”

“yeah, god, more than okay.” tzuyu breaths out, meeting your lips lazily. “so good.” she sighs.

“good, you did so good baby. so adorable.” you look at her with a proud smile, admiring the flush of her cheeks and the hair sticking to her forehead. “let’s get you cleaned up?”

she shakes her head before placing a hand on your cheek. “kiss me a little more.”

you giggle at her eagerness. “anything for you.”

-

both of you lay beside each other, breathing heavily, each trying to catch the other's breaths in the aftermath of it all. tzuyu leans against you, hiding her face in the crook of your neck as her bare body tangles with yours.

she mumbles against you, “did you still want to watch that movie?”

you can only giggle before kissing the top of her head. “no, i’m tired. i know you are too.” you respond, hearing the drowsiness in her voice, a product of your intimacy.

“yeah, a little.”

“i know.”

…

“y/n, are you okay?” 

“i’m great, what about you baby?”

“even better.” she mutters, brushing her fingers against your ribs. “did you like it? i did.”

“i loved it.”

“me too.”

“me too.”

…

you let the silence envelop you for a moment, allowing the quiet to settle between the two of you, your breaths filling the air with a sense of calm. there's no awkwardness, just a deep comfort in each other's presence after everything.

“i love you tzuyu, so much.”

“i love you too.”

you wait until she falls asleep first, waiting for her breaths to slow and stay at a steady pace before you let your eyes shut. she’s asleep, but still manages to slip herself closer to you, groaning lazily against your neck. 

you might melt.

-

the next morning, you find yourself lying on your stomach, head tilted to the side as you process the sunlight hitting your eyes. you let out a groan, feeling a trickle of drool slipping from the corner of your lip.

you feel the bed shift slightly as someone sits on the edge of it, and then a comforting hand begins to run through your hair, gently soothing you awake. 

tzuyu.

“awake yet?”

“five… minutes…?” you ask, barely registering her voice. you hear a faint giggle, and then feel a press to your forehead. 

“alright.”

your girlfriend sits down beside you, gently moving your head so that it rests on her lap. she continues to massage your head, the soothing touch lulling you into an even drowsier state. 

tzuyu lets you doze off for a while longer, simply appreciating the moment after a long night. you're now wearing one of her shirts, one she put on you while you were still asleep, and it makes her grin wider, dimples and all.

“breakfast can wait, i guess.” tzuyu mumbles quietly, letting you sleep in for a few more minutes. “sleepyhead.”

she smiles; there’s nothing wrong with admiring her girlfriend – or the dark mark on her neck for a while more anyway.

[caitified]

can you please write a paige x reader. where paige used to date azzi and reader feels insecure about the relationship but paige comforts her. just a big thing of fluff.

history

paige bueckers x reader

warnings:none

the gym buzzed with energy as you wrapped up another intense practice with your uconn teammates. you were proud to be part of such a talented group, but there was a weight on your heart that you couldn’t shake. your relationship with paige was blossoming, yet her history with azzi, her former girlfriend and your close friend, made you uneasy.

the two of them shared an undeniable connection, full of inside jokes and laughter, and it was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy whenever they interacted. they were just friends now, you reminded yourself, but every playful glance and shared laugh left you questioning your place in paige’s heart.

“you okay?” kk asked, nudging you as she noticed your distracted gaze lingering on paige and azzi. they were deep in conversation, sharing a moment that felt too intimate for your comfort.

“yeah, just… watching them,” you replied, forcing a smile.

kk followed your gaze, her expression turning sympathetic. “i get it. but you know it’s all in the past, right?”

“i know,” you sighed, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “it’s just hard to see them like that.”

just then, paige caught sight of you and sauntered over, her energy lighting up the space. “what are you two talking about?” she asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“just girl talk,” kk said, a playful grin on her face.

you shot kk a warning glance, not wanting to reveal your insecurities in front of paige. “nothing important.”

paige raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but she leaned closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. “you know you’re the only one for me, right?”

you nodded, though doubt still crept in. “but it’s hard sometimes to see you two together.”

“you mean azzi?” paige tilted her head, concern softening her features. “i get it, but really, we’re just friends now. our history is behind us.”

“it’s easy for you to say,” you murmured, vulnerability slipping through. “what if you realize you miss her?”

paige’s expression grew serious as she took your hands in hers. “i’m with you now. you make me happy. you’re who i want to be with.”

“are you sure?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “i don’t want to be a rebound or someone to fill a void.”

“you’re not,” she said firmly, her eyes locking onto yours. “what we have is real, and i want you to feel secure in that.”

as if on cue, azzi approached, catching the end of your conversation. “everything good here?” she asked, her tone light.

“yeah, just girl stuff,” paige replied, maintaining her smile. “but let’s focus on our game plan for the weekend.”

azzis’ expression shifted to one of support. “definitely. we’ll crush it, as always.”

as the conversation moved back to basketball, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you. paige’s reassurance lingered in your mind, reminding you of the connection you shared.

once practice concluded and the team began to disperse, you pulled paige aside. “can we talk?” your heart raced as she nodded, concern etched on her features.

“of course. what’s on your mind?” she asked, her attention fully focused on you.

you took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “i just want you to know how much you mean to me. i don’t want to compete with azzi or her memory. i want us to create our own history together.”

paige’s face lit up with a warm smile, and she stepped closer. “we will. i want to make new memories with you, ones that are ours alone. just trust me.”

[princessconsuela120]

☁ HOLD ME CLOSE AND HOLD ME FAST ☁

— ☁

Summary: You fall asleep on Ominis' shoulder during class.

Warnings: Cursing, fluffy fluff fluffy

Author's Note: I love this so much. @clownfacepancakes120 this one's for you :}

— ☁

IT WAS A WELL KNOWN FACT IN HOGWARTS THAT HISTORY OF MAGIC CLASS WAS INCREDIBLY BORING. So boring in fact, that when you begun school, Professor Fog warned you to purchase a pillow in hogsmeade for said class. You didn’t understand him at first, but now as you sat in class, listening to the gravelly voice of professor bins as he floating through the aisles, your eyes straining to stay awake, you wished you had brought your pillow.

“You know you’re incredibly slick, darling.” Ominis said sarcastically, causing you to shoot your head up at the sound of his voice.

“Hmm?” You mumbled, already feeling your eyes grow heavy again.

“I can’t even see you and I can hear the way you're trying to stay up right now.”

He chuckled to himself, hearing uou scoff as you shifted in your seat.

“Am not. I’m just, focusing super hard.” You lied, your head already falling into his shoulder.

“Mhmm.” He teased, before you scoffed, not having the energy to fight back.

Ominis couldn’t help but smile at the feeling, loving everytime you’d lean your head against his shoulder. The two of you started dating in your 6th year, not noticing your feelings until after you defeated rankrok. Ominis realized the fear he felt when you fought came from love. You two had been dating ever since, after Sebastian forced the two of you to get together, insisting that Ominis wouldn’t stop mopping about his love for you.

So now here uou we’re, sat with your head against his shoulder, fast asleep as Professor Bins muttered none sense.

“Darling?” He whispered, turning to look at you when he heard your soft snores from beside him.“Silly girl, you’re drooling.” He chuckled, wiping your chin as you shifted against him. He placed a soft kiss against your head, jumping slightly when Sebastian laid against his other shoulder, a loud ground shaking snore erupting from his chest.

“Wake up you oaf! You’re snoring like a troll!” He yelled, shoving Sebastian, trying not to wake you in the process.

“Hey! Why does she get to sleep?!” Sebastian yelled, looked at Sebastian angrily as he threw a hand out at you.

“Because I love her.” He replied, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious.

“Unbelievable. You know, I used to be the one who got to sleep on your shoulder.” Sebastian grumbled, huffing angrily as he folded his arms.

“I never let you sleep on my shoulder.” He said, furrowing his eyebrows at Sebastian as the freckles boy pouted, slamming his chin in his palm on the table.

“Yeah well, what happens while you’re sleeping can’t hurt you.” He grumbled, making Ominis roll his eyes.

“You’re such a pillock Sebastian.” Ominis. teased, running his fingers gently through your hair.

“And you my friend, are incredibly whipped.” Sebastian said, patting Ominis’ shoulder, making him smile.

“I know.”

Ominis smiles down at you as you snuggle closer into his shoulder, hiding your face in his neck. Your soft snores filth is ears, a much better sound in his eyes than Professor Bins mumbling, as butterflies grew in his stomach at the warm feeling you radiated.