#the script for this was written and has been sitting around for months until I let my to-draw backlog get too big

[ghostwaffleheimer]

Lore for the AU regarding Law's full name that occurred as a result of a conversation between me and my partner. It's his birth name but he goes by a shortened version of it technically. Sanji is the only one (alive) who knows.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Starting at the End Ch. 3

Summary: Lily Crawford has been receiving disturbing letters from a worrisome fan. On the advice of an acquaintance she goes to Winchester Private Security and seeks out Dean Winchester to keep her safe. Will this troubled ex-marine be able to save her, and can she save him too?

Series Warnings: Angst. Smut. Fluff. (as usual, of course!) Discussion of war, loss, trauma, PTSD, grief. Stalking. Obsession.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major. Talk of stalking. Shirtless!Dean 😁

Pairing: Dean x ofc (Lily Crawford)

Word Count: 2,559

A/N: This is my Dean "Bodyguard" AU. (Technically he calls himself Private Security and not a Bodyguard, but 🤷‍♀️) I've never written a bodyguard AU before, so I hope you all enjoy this one. It's been a while since I've written an ofc, so I hope you like Lily. I'm enjoying writing her. I know OC's aren't the fandoms favourite, but I really felt like I needed Lily to be Lily in this one. Hope you give it a chance anyway. ❤️

POSTING EVERY FRIDAY! ❤️

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The next four days passed easily for Lily. She went about her usual daily routine, heading to yoga and the gym, reading possible scripts, shopping, doing some ADR for a TV show she’d guest starred on a few months before.

Her new security measures had made her feel much safer, and as the days passed with no letters, she’d even begun to let herself think that maybe her secret admirer from hell had moved on.

She was wrong.

That morning she’d driven into the city to meet with her agent and a producer who was interested in having her read for a horror movie he was casting. The meeting had gone well, and she had high hopes about getting a call for a chemistry read with the lead actor. So she was humming happily as she parked her car in the driveway and walked up the steps to her porch. 

But the song died in her throat and she froze as she saw what was sitting in front of her door.

A plain white, letter-sized envelope was leaning against the door, her name written in bold, black, capital letters. She stared at it without moving for almost a minute. There was a rushing sound in her ears that blocked out the sounds of the neighborhood around her. 

Slowly she came to her senses and turned to try and scan the area the way Dean had, trying to see if she could find anything amiss. But nothing looked out of place - cars drove past, people walked their dog, a dad walked by with a baby in a stroller, someone was mowing their lawn in the distance. She couldn’t see anything that would be a threat.

But she felt threatened. And completely exposed as she stood there. She scooped up the letter quickly and was going to escape into her house but as she reached for the lock, she froze again. What if he’d found a way inside, despite the new locks and alarm? What if he’d gotten past them somehow and he was standing on the other side of her door?

A shiver ran through her at the thought and she spun around, racing back to her car. She looked through her back window, terrified of someone waiting there to pounce on her from the back seat. When she saw it was empty, she got back behind the wheel and slammed the door, immediately locking all of them. She tossed the letter on the passenger seat and started the car, pulling out of her driveway and racing back to LA.

Dean rubbed his hand over his face. The day before he’d taken an easy job doing some surveillance, but it had been an all night job and he didn’t get to bed until almost eight in the morning. So four hours later, he was just waking up, but his brain was still pretty foggy. 

He was in the backroom of his office - which was his apartment for all intents and purposes. He had a post office box for an official address, because zoning laws said he couldn’t actually live there. He was pretty sure the backroom was actually supposed to be file storage. But the sad reality was that rent for the office space was expensive enough in LA, he couldn’t afford a mortgage or more rent on top of it. 

The office had a bathroom, his gym had a shower, and the backroom had a mattress, mini fridge and a hot plate. There was a laundromat two doors down and a great shawarma place next door to that. He was all set.

He wandered into the bathroom and turned the cold water on in the sink. He brushed his teeth and then dunked his whole head under the tap, wetting his hair and shocking his system a bit. He came up reaching for the towel that hung nearby. He scrubbed it over his short hair and then over his face, groaning slightly as he heard the chime telling him someone had come into his office. 

“Coming!” He called out. 

Should have left it locked, he thought as he hung the towel back up and swiped his hand through his hair. He’d unlocked it as soon as he woke up, since technically his office was supposed to be open at nine every morning. But now there was someone, potentially a client, in the office and he had jeans but no shirt on.

He rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Gonna be one of those days, I guess.” He grumbled under his breath before stepping out of the bathroom with a shrug; what could he do? He kept a pleasant smile on his face, hoping whoever it was would be cool about hiring half naked private security.

But whatever sarcastic, self-deprecating comment he was planning fell away as he saw Lily Crawford standing just inside the door, slightly frozen, fear blazing bright in her beautiful amber eyes. 

“Lily.” He said softly. “What happened?” As he spoke, he noticed the letter she had in her hand and he approached her. 

He pointed towards the letter. “From him?”

She nodded, still not speaking. She was staring at him, her eyes darting to his bare torso and then away, her cheeks getting pink. 

“Sorry.” He said, stepping back. “I just woke up. Gimme a second.”

He strode back into the backroom and quickly grabbed a white t-shirt from the top of his pile of clean clothes. He pulled it on as he approached her again. 

“What does it say?” He asked as his head popped out of his t-shirt.

She shook her head, finally speaking. “I don’t know. I didn’t read it. I just kind of jumped in my car and came here.” She blushed again. “I’m sorry, that was stupid. I should have just called like you said to. I just…I don’t know, I didn’t want to go into my house and as soon as I jumped in my car, it just sort of drove itself here.”

Dean nodded. “No, that’s good.” He walked back to his desk and pulled a pair of blue latex gloves out of the drawer there, putting them on as he spoke. “I’m glad you brought it right here. Where did you find it?”

“It was sitting in front of my door, propped up against it. I saw it as soon as I started up the porch steps. I tried to look around and see if I could notice anything, but I didn’t see anybody, everyone was just normal.”

She sounded frustrated with herself, so Dean reassured her. “Don’t worry about it, chances are he stays far enough away that you’d never see him. He’s probably using a pair of really good binoculars.”

Or a high powered rifle with a scope. He thought, but he kept that to himself.

He took the envelope from her and checked it over, looking for anything distinguishing. But the envelope had no markings whatsoever, just her first name in capital letters. Hopefully when she turned it over to the police, they could lift a print, but he doubted the guy was that sloppy, or that they’d be that lucky. 

Finally, he caught her gaze. “Want me to read it?” She nodded.

He grabbed a letter opener from his desk and carefully slit the envelope open. He pulled out the letter and read the words on the page. They were typed on an old fashioned typewriter.

Lily,

Why are you doing this? You must know my love is absolute. It does not need to be tested. If you would stop this silly game, we could be together tomorrow.

But instead, you’ve brought this man into our lives. You’ve brought in this swaggering, peacock pretty-boy, with his slick suit and big black muscle car, to mock me and my love. 

I’m so disappointed.

Believe me, my desert flower, you don’t want to disappoint me again. I’ll end this courtship without hesitation.

YA

“Huh.” Dean said, shaking his head as he felt Lily’s penetrating stare. 

“What does it say?” She asked nervously.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before answering. “It’s about me.”

“What?” 

Dean shrugged and waved her forward so she could read the letter too. “Yeah, he didn’t like that I was there, I guess.”

He felt Lily get more and more tense as she read the short letter more than once. Dean tapped the signature at the bottom. “This ‘YA’, does it mean anything to you? Did he sign the others the same way?”

She nodded. “Yeah, he did. But it means nothing to me. I wracked my brain, but I don’t know anyone with those initials.” She shuddered slightly. “So, he was watching us the other night?”

Dean nodded. “Apparently.” He could see she was incredibly, and understandably, rattled. “The good news is though, that I think I know how we can draw him out.”

Lily looked up at him and he smiled. “I’m gonna move in with you.”

Lily blinked at Dean, sure she’d misheard him. “Excuse me?”

This was the second time in ten minutes that she’d been completely blindsided. She’d walked into the office full of fear and desperation, and then Dean had stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but jeans, and it felt like all the air had left her lungs.

She'd noticed the concern on his face as he approached her, and a part of her brain was grateful for that, while the rest of her couldn't focus on anything except the smooth, broad muscles on display right in front of her.

She was both happy and sad when he pulled a t-shirt on. Not that the clinging, white cotton did much to disguise things. But it was something.

Now, Dean had blown her mind again by suggesting they become…what? Roommates?

Dean lifted his hands, as though already warding off her objections. “I realize that seems a little extreme, but-”

Lily laughed disbelievingly. “Uh…a little?”

“But,” Dean continued, “this guy had a big reaction to me; I pissed him off. Meaning there are two ways we could go about this. One, I keep my distance. We can try and meet in secret places, and hope he doesn't  find us, and I’ll attempt to surveil things from afar.”

He shook his head. “But, there’s no guaranteeing he won't find out about us anyway, and no telling how long he’ll keep floating around the edges of your life.”

Lily felt a sense of dread full her chest.

“Or…I can move in with you. I noticed the last time I was at your place that you have two extra bedrooms, but you didn’t mention a roommate, so I know you’ve got the space.”

He paused as though waiting for confirmation, and continued on when Lily nodded.

“My living there would be a two-prong approach. First, and most importantly, I’ll be able to be close to you 24/7, which is going to keep you much safer, and also give you a lot more peace of mind.”

Lily felt her objections begin to melt away as he spoke. Maybe it was crazy, but the idea of having someone near her, immediately there to keep her safe, spoke directly to the pit of fear in her stomach.

“Secondly,” Dean said, ticking points off on his fingers, “my being around you will seriously piss this guy off, which is much more likely to make him come out into the open, and quite possibly make a mistake, which will help us catch him that much sooner.”

Her instincts were telling her to pick option number two, but her logical mind was telling her that trying to keep herself safe from a strange guy, by bringing home a different strange guy was a terrible idea and made no sense.

Seeming to guess her train of thought, Dean waved her over to sit beside him on the edge of the couch. 

“Look, I absolutely get it. What I’m suggesting is strange, and if you wanna do the distance surveilling instead, I totally get it. But I think that me staying near you is the much safer option and the one that’s the most likely to yield results quickly.”

Lily nodded to show she understood what he was saying, although she still didn't have an answer to his offer. A thought occurred to her, something that might make her feel more at ease with the idea. 

“Hey, um, do you have a license?” She asked.

“Uh…yeah.”

“Can I see it?”

Dean shrugged and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He opened it and passed it to her. There were two clear ID slots, one of which held Dean’s driver’s license. She smiled slightly. 

God, how does this man look good in his goddamn DMV photo? Lily wondered.

She looked back at him and chuckled. “No, I meant, like a…P.I. license or something.” As she was handing the wallet back, a different piece of ID in the other clear slot caught her attention and she did a double take.

“Hey!” She pointed at the ID. “Does this mean you were a Marine?”

Dean’s expression tightened and he snatched the wallet back a bit brusquely, tucking it away in his pocket. Lily could feel the tension rolling off of him. She was about to apologize for snooping a little when Dean nodded. 

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, “Yeah, I was a marine for fifteen years, served three tours in Afghanistan.”

Lily nodded. “Well…thank you for your service.” The words felt a little hollow, but Dean smiled tightly.

“Thanks.” He tried to widen his smile. “And I don’t have a P.I. license, cause I’m not a Private Investigator. But I do have a Proprietary Security license.”

He pointed behind her. She turned to see a framed, official-looking document with the governor’s signature and the words Proprietary Security emblazoned across the middle, hanging on the wall behind the door. Right beneath it was another frame holding Dean's firearm permit.

“I can show you my conceal and carry permit as well, if you'd like. I can also provide several references, to try and put your mind at ease.”

Lily waved at him. “No, I mean, I’m sure you can…I just…” She sighed deeply. “Do you really think making him angry is safe?”

Dean shook his head. “No, not at all. Safe isn’t the right word. Safe isn’t a word you could associate with this guy, no matter what. But I believe wholeheartedly that, provided I’m there to keep you safe, egging him on, and frustrating him is the surest way to make him screw up, and reveal who he is. It’ll draw him out into the open, where I can take him down.”

His resolve was obvious in every line of his face and his deep voice rang with sincerity as he finished. “And I promise you that I will get him out of your life, and you’ll be able to go back to normal again. No more fear.”

Lily felt some of the terror that had been chasing her ever since she’d walked up her porch steps, ease slightly. 

It was a mad idea, but her entire world felt a bit crazy at the moment, so she simply listened to her instincts and shrugged.

“When can you move in?”

@lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

@alwaystiredandconfused @jzackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly

@candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora-95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma @luvr4miya

@arcannaa @viviwatchestv @winharry @ladysparkles78 @kr804573

@whimsyfinny @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @safiyas-world

@aylacavebear @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl

@hobby27 @waywardcheshire @livya99 @k-slla @leigh70

@eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @deangirl96 @stoneyggirl2

@fanfic-n-tabulous @traiitorjoe @lastcallatrockysbar @b3autyfuld1sast3r

[mayasaurusss]

Chapter two: Saint Lawrence's martyrdom. A/N: This took me far longer than I thought it would😅. I am very sorry about the delay. I hope my writing and storytelling has evolved since one year ago. ! This chapter in particular had three dream scenarios. I know it might get old fast, but given the trauma it leaves on the reader, I'd challenge everyone who wouldn't have a fever dream trip. I hope you guys will enjoy this installment of Curses! Edit: I realized I accidentally exchanged two moments in the episode, but I don't think it'll break the immersion; if it does, let me know so I might work around it.

Contains: heavy description of wounds, dead dove do not eat.

Today the world seems bigger, larger, louder and hotter than usual. Loud sounds fill your ears, disturbing you as you try to draw the perfect circle on a sheet of paper, but failing to do so; your hands are too small and clumsy, and you have trouble trying to control the flow of the colorful wax.

You huff, angry and impatient, but suddenly you're taken up, the world now distant from your eyes.

Someone takes you in their arms; your dad is laughing, you still feel so very small in his giant arms, like a kitten. You can't really see his face, his young self erased by time, only his voice recognizable. He moves, walking too fast for your liking, and you watch as the white walls of your home are replaced by green and blue hues.

Dad places you near his seat, where he can have you under his eyes, protected by all the evils in the world. You feel something soft under you; two coloured pillows, as fluffy and comfy as they can be aid, placed so you can reach the table. Its surface is covered in a cheap paper cloth, so white that it could blind you.

The grown ups are always so loud when they talk, discussing meaningless things, things that kids your age don't think about. You don't listen to them, watching with amazement as a ladybug crawls on the table, its shape and colours isolating it from the endless white paper. "So, how old are you dear?" the old woman at the end of the table asks you, her eyes smiling under her glasses; how long has it been since you've seen her? Days? Weeks? Months?

"Four. She's four". Ah, that's right. You're three. Your teacher had taught you to count till ten, but sometimes you still forget how old you are.

You're four, it's summer and you are happy. The wind is blowing through the trees of the park your dad takes you to every day, the sun high in the blue sky.

You're four, it's summer, and you are happy.

You still hear your dad and the old woman talk, countless voices joining and swirling together, too loud to track in between the cicadas buzzing.

When mom arrives, she sits next to you, smiling as you laugh and clap your hands when she gives you a plate full of your favorite dish. As much as you're happy about finally eating, the plate in front of you looks weird: you can't see anything, only smell it. Colours mix where the food should be, making it unrecognizable to you.

"Sweetie, aren't you going to eat?" despite how strange things seem to be, you take your green plastic fork, following a script that has already been written.

The fork can only dig so much in, until the food spills all over the tablecloth, colouring it a deep red. You discard the fork, leaving it untouched and reach for the food with your hands, before dad comes in and helps you. He is strong enough that he manages to pierce the food -something that you still have trouble with- and with his hand, aids you into eating. Learning the movement is difficult, but after your dad so graciously helped you, you mimic him, taking the fork in your hand and beginning to eat again.

You finish your plate, the food satiating a hunger you didn't think your little body could feel. But you want more. You ask for more.

The blood tinted snow doesn't bother you too much, but the idea that they could get more of her than you makes a heavy jealousy pull at your heart and stomach. You dig in again, ignoring the feeling of her lungs touching the back of your hands,

Something stings you, just a couple of inches from your elbow. You don't mind too much, until it starts to get hot; hot, hot like lava, like molten sugar on your skin, like sunshine burning an ant nest. Your body can't handle it, every cell, every nerve screaming at you to smite it, to just take it off of you. The scream that leaves your body could have been mistaken for a banshee, alerting everyone at the table. Your body is taken up, frantically checked for anything out of the ordinary, but nothing is there. You scream, scream scream scream until no air is left in your lungs, until the world fades to a charred black, until every limb of yours lays motionless. The burning travels up your arm, up, up, up...

"There, it's all good. It was just a ladybug bite, nothing I can't handle".

Dad takes your hand and gives it a kiss, shooing the pain away. "Yes dear, everything is alright" mom gives you a kiss, smooshing your little cheeks in her hands. There, cuddled between them, you are safe. The world is warm, full of love. It's summer, you're three; everything will be fine. "Mom...Dad!"

Everything will be fine.

Mom... Dad…

"...lp! Someone! Pl-..." smoke fills the interiors of the plane, pitch black, so dense she can't make out the shape of the body next to her. Vanessa feels weak, her fingers unsuccessfully fiddling with the seatbelt, trying to tear it open. Her body is pushed against the seat in front of her, plastic pressed against her throath. Her teammates have all abandoned her, all of them. You grunt, just now coming back to the world. "We- we have to get out!" searching for the opening of the seatbelt, Van pulls hard, to no avail. Desperation fills her heart, like a parasite eating at her lungs. The fire is getting closer; blazing hot, burning the oxygen in the plane. As if somehow God himself helped her, Van manages to push her legs beneath herself, cramping nerves and blood vessels and slips free. Fire burns the floor faster, and despite feeling terribly guilty, Van runs, escaping and leaving you behind. You don't wake up. The only thing that exists is heat and darkness. As the fire travels up your arm, you are suddenly brought back to the world violently, smoke filling your brain and burning you alive. You scream, scream as loudly as your body can, marrow melting inside your bones, nerves dying, blood pooling at your guts, body decaying. You scream for your father, you scream for your mother. Why aren't they here? Why can't they save you? Someone takes your arm, tugging you with their whole force from the seats in front of you, slipping you free from the fire's cruel grasps. They run with you, dragging your burning body with them. Vanessa emerges from the plane's door, her voice strained and tears flowing from her eyes. "Somebody, please help!" you are immediately thrown on the forest floor, its coolness a welcomed feeling; then, someone repeatedly hits you with a cloth until the last flame has been smithen.

"Find water! Anything at all!" steps and screams echo in the forest, as people scatter around to look for anything to use as aid. Some find a bottle of water, shirts that can be ripped open, a makeup cleanser, a bottle of cream... anything to save you. For the past minutes, Misty has been running up and down, medicating everyone that needed help, cleaning blood, stitching skin. Anything that might've helped her teammates. Misty, in these moments, has the fate of everyone on her shoulders. That cold, calculating side of her came in handy for this situation, but despite the things that she had to do and saw, this might be too much for her.

Fire has eaten away at your skin, exposing the red bloodied meat underneath, made all more disgusting by the charred black skin at the borders. Your flesh is littered by pustules, forming disgusting constellations across your body. But what's worse is the smell; acrid, putrid, like burned up pig meat, like waste and grease. Misty can't do it. She can't. This is far too much for her, this is too much. For a moment, she wishes you would just die. How can a life after this be truly lived? You'd be more helpful to all of them if you just died. Someone grabs at her shoulder, shaking her out of her trance. "Misty!" Vanessa cries, tears straining at the corner of her eyes. Her teeth clatter against each other, adrenaline coursing through her. "Can't you do something?!". Misty looks back at you, her brain unable to process what is happening. She sees herself out of her body, everyone surrounding her, the life of someone in her hands. She can. She can do something.

"The cleanser, the cleanser. And the bottle of water" she uses the leftover makeup cleanser on your worst wounds, careful to use every last drop of it. Then the water, dumped all over your skin. With the strand of cloth given to her, Misty wraps up all of your wounds, from smaller to larger. Your arm and hand, ribs and stomach, hip and shin. Your face remains last. The burn runs from your jaw across the cheek, almost reaching your eye. Small pustules pulse near the burn. Contrary to your hand and arm, in far worse shape, your face was subjected to only a second degree burn. It wasn't going to scar; not too deep, at least. "What do we do now?" a small voice asks, weak in the silence of the forest. "We wait; and hope she'll wake up".

Endless darkness. That is what you wake up to, your body a sharp contrast against this bidimensional space. Where am I?

You try to move, but find your legs submerged into murky waters, waves of black goop staining you. Walking proves more difficult than you'd thought, strings of that sticky substance keeping you in place, snapping and mixing back with its body of origin. You don't know why you walk, you don't know where you're headed, but you simply do, following a script that had already been written for you. Minutes, hours, years and centuries go by, and the space stills, as if whatever this is, it's out of the borders of time.

You walk and walk, walk until your legs feel like lead, until you are nothing more than a machine, mindlessly walking to its doom. Your eyes, who's gaze had fallen to concentrate on the movement of the waves beneath you. They seem to change shape, sometimes, reflection of faces and hands reaching out to you meeting your gaze. But one of those reflections proves to be true; cold, slimy fingers hook on your skin, bringing you closer to the surface of the water. Terror doesn't fill you right away, but when your brain processes what is happening, you are out of breath. Every inch of your skin feels like it has been dried in the cold winter wind, your blood flowing like freezed river waters breaking apart their surfaces. You can try to fight it, but you won't succeed. Thousands, billions of fingers, their fingers, take a hold of you, dragging you down with them. As the black water fills your lungs, howling echoes from the distance. You drown.

On the other side of the waking world, Lottie is pacing through the camp, her heart pounding and her brain fatigued, trying to make sense of what is happening. She feels strange, disembodied from herself, nowhere close to what is happening to her teammates around her.

Just... what the fuck happened? "I am sorry, I am sorry, please..." Lottie turns around towards the source of the sound, not expecting to see Van kneeling next to you. She's holding a hand to her lips, choking her sobs down, while simultaneously near, but not daring to touch you in any way. Lottie gets nearer, her brain scrambling to get to a solution. She can't understand what's wrong; why would Van be apologizing to you? And why now? You're clearly sleeping-.

The first thing that she notices is the pink colour of exposed meat. Then, the extent of the burns register inside her mind: from the outer thigh to the middle of your side; from your hand, running across your arm to end in the middle of your cheek. But what alienates her most of all is your expression. You look... calm, as if you've just gone to bed. You look dead.

"What... what happened?" Van doesn't seem to question her presence; only answers, without breaking eye contact with the burns on your body. "I don't know. She, she was next to me. The fire was so close and..." she's in the plane again, fire burning oxygen and skin, the smell of flesh in the air. She can't say it. tears flood her eyes, her voice dying in her throath and not a moment later, Vanesssa is gone, walking through the camp, searching for a place to stop and cry alone.

Lottie is left alone with your body, the slow rise of your chest the only indicator that you are still alive.

This is your fault, you know. What? If you had asked her to sit next to you, she wouldn't be left like this, half dead. No, no. It wasn't my fault. The plane crashed. I couldn't have known. Yet, because of you, she will die. She won't, Misty- Do you really believe that she will survive? Even if she did today, the trauma left will do the rest of the job the fire couldn't. It's your fault, Lottie.

"No, it fucking isn't" she pronounces the words with her teeth gritted, pure hatred for it in every syllable she pronounces. She takes a moment to realize that she said the words out loud, the worried glances of her teammates burning on her skin. She can feel herself slipping out of sanity, those voices that plagued her since she was a kid coming back stronger, angrier. She just...she has to find her pills. Right now.

A scream of pain interrupts her thoughts, taking her back to reality. As if attracted like a magnet, Lottie follows it, with her the whole lot of the team. What they find in front of them, is something that could only be a part of a horror movie. Coach Scott on the ground, a wing of the plane crushing his lower body. He's barely holding on to conscience, his eyes switching to unfocused every few seconds.

He seems to be barely relieved when he spots Misty and the others approaching him. "Hey girls... is it, uh, can you move it?". Lottie really doesn't want to. Something in her tells her to leave him and be selfish, but she knows better than to listen.

Her fingers hook onto the border of the wing, pushing it upwards, before, with the shared effort of everyone, they manage to slide it just enough to release Ben from his death trap. But what they see is far from relieving.

Ben's leg, now twirled on itself disgustingly, looking like a pile of flesh and blood. He doesn't manage to stay awake long enough to see it, and passes out from the pain. Lottie's legs give out from underneath her, her stomach churning at the amount of blood. She can't stop her voice from screaming "Oh fucking God!", cannot process what's happening. But not before long, Misty returns. Maybe she can do something, maybe with her help, coach Ben will-.

For a split second, the sun seems to highlight the cut of the blade, reflecting silver onto the forest floor. It swings down onto Ben's leg, hard, cutting it clean off of the useless rest of the limb. The horror that follows is palpable in the air. Mari can't contain the rest of her lunch and spills it on the ground. Natalie could very well be the truest depiction of horror there ever was. Lottie can't breathe, her lungs hiccupping back every bit of air in them. And Misty moves with eerie precision, every action she does calculated. Anything to keep Ben alive. She pushes glasses back on her face, fighting the need to throw up building up in her throath. With her belt she stops the flow of blood trickling down Ben's veins, checking if any drops fall down, before she turns to her teammates, her face painted in red.

"Help me move him!"

The forest is silent. Snow stifles every sound you or nature makes, giving it an eerie yet calm atmosphere. The world looks so blue, the shades of the sky reflected on the snow. You could lose yourself in this place and never come back, but those things on your trail make it harder to enjoy the scenery.

You have been running for a while now, legs barely able to sustain your weight, and the harsh wind nipping at your skin certainly doesn’t make your escape easy. They have been on you for the past half hour. No matter where you run, they seem to always be one step ahead. You are a victim, a prey, an easy meal; and they are your predators,the cunning hunters that will devour you in just a matter of time.

But maybe you can escape them. Maybe, if you just bury yourself in the snow, they won’t-. Howls echo in the distance, approaching every second. Everything cries, from the wind to the crows' song, from their screams to yours.

You can’t do anything but try to move through the thick snow. Despite everything, you still want to live. Your survival instincts carry you before your brain can think, and you run and run and run, until you fall like all the others before you. But yours is an excruciating death, one that could maybe rival what the others went through: wooden spikes pierce your body, your organs failing, your brain shutting down, leaving you impaled like a victim of a meaningless murder. The one that finds you doesn’t see you as anything other than a meal, a promise of a nice dinner. You are taken back to them, paraded like a crude display of man’s dominance over nature, as if all your existence was reduced to cattle, to be consumed. You are nothing more, you never were anything else. 

They leave you to dry, the wound opened on your side drying you of all the blood that once gave you life. After all, who would want to bite on a delicious, perfectly cooked piece of meat, only to find their mouth filled with blood? It’s alright, you think, sometimes the weak have to die so that humanity may strive. It’s what has happened since the beginning of time, and it will continue up until the very end. But you were more than that, you were more than a meal. You were someone, with hobbies and things you loved. But in the harsh conditions of nature, were you really anything other than meat?

They cook you just right, offering your flesh to their queen, sustaining her. This reminds you of something you read what feels like an eternity ago. The yellow jacket, or vespula maculifrons, if you focus on its eastern variation. A type of predatory social wasp. Aggressive when provoked, the swarm of sterile female insects will be relentless when defending their home. Instead of foraging for pollen, the eastern yellowjackets hunt other insects. Their adults feed the larvae with a dissected chewed paste made of insects and carcasses. 

You'd think that the human species had evolved the basic rules of nature, but as you lock gaze with your own eyes, boring into your skull, you can't help but laugh in your mind; we really haven't changed since the first of us walked the earth. 

As the queen gives the command, they barely hold themselves before they swarm your body. Someone pulls at your hair, another bites at your chest, hands dig into your stomach, teeth ripping your limps apart. You watch as you eat yourself, another version of you consuming what once was yours and hers. 

And as they tweeze out your eyes, discarding them into the snow, colours merge with one another, bone marrow melts away into your sockets and you are reduced to nothing more than a liquefied corpse. 

You start to remember everything that ever happened to you, everything and everyone that you ever were: you are a high school girl on her way to her first soccer practice. You are a man who’s disillusioned with reality. You are a kid who hurt herself on a hot summer’s day. A  woman who’s plagued by voices; a boy who just wanted to live. You are a young girl who just wants her mother’s affections, you are a woman who can’t let go of the past. 

You are ancient; as ancient as the first roots born in the earth. You have been walking on this earth long enough that the first civilizations spoke of you as the ghost haunting the woods. You are a concept, winter itself. You are hunger. And now, now you have a chance: with them, you will what humanity is truly capable of. You will be given a name.

You close your claws on the girl’s shoulder, sinking them deep into her skin. Brought back to your body, you slowly come back to the world of the living. You hear Its voice, disembodied and as sounding like wind chimes and guttural animal sounds. “Good luck”. 

When you finally wake up, it's night time. The smell of fire and laughter tell you that you are safe, wherever you are. Those might very well be the first laughs this forest has ever heard. Your eyelids feel too heavy to open, so you remain silent, listening to the voices of the people you know. But it’s only so long until you feel the need to stir awake. The sounds you make alert someone; in just a few seconds, they’re already on you, steadying you against the tree bark. “It’s okay, I am here” she says, and even if you can’t see her, you recognize her voice and her smell. She gently guides you awake and you open your eyes to find her disheveled; her hair out of her ponytails and dirt on her face. In this moment, you find her breathtakingly beautiful. “L-Lottie?” your eyes feel sealed and your throat raw.

“Where… where are we?” what the fuck happened? She answers truthfully, “I don’t know”, tears of terror and tiredness threatening to spill. “What happened?” you can vaguely feel a slight itching on your left, but your head is too heavy and you can’t move your neck. You feel the constant need to move your limbs, to extinguish the adrenaline that is running through your body. The young woman struggles to place your trembling body next to hers,“We crashed. The plane fell” she says, finally managing to keep you in place, your head nestled in the crook of her neck. “Is…everyone ok?” Lottie looks back into the darkness of the forest, where she knows the bodies of the team are lying lifeless. If she were to tell you the truth right now, she’d only make the situation worse. So, she tells you a white lie; “Most of us are okay” but knows you won’t believe her. 

Minutes go by without you nor her talking, just baskin in each other's presence. The crackling of the fire lulls you, sleep coming to you fast. “I am tired Lottie” you are. You are so, so tired. “I know. Just sleep; I’ll be at your side” as soon as she says those words, you fall asleep, snoring right above her shoulder. If the direness of the situation would have allowed it, Lottie would say that you look pretty darn cute snuggled on her. 

She can only hope that everything will be resolved for the better. 

“Beginning today's session”. “Is that necessary, doctor?” she asks, hoping that that woman would lose it already. She didn’t like to be recorded. “It is. We’ll stop using it once we know you are not a threat” as if she, of all people, could be a threat. 

Well, but if you are here, there must be a reason.

The woman clicks her pen and then meets her eyes; “Good afternoon, Charlotte”. 

She never liked her too much. Those condescending eyes of hers made her feel scrutinized. “Are you ready?”; Lottie would rather be anywhere else than here, but she had not been so lucky. "Absolutely". “So tell me, have your ‘visions’ gotten worse recently?” ‘visions’ is the worst word someone might use to describe the very real things she sees. “No, I could… control them” that is not completely untrue. Since she came back on the medication, they have been less and less frequent, but her mind had not been the same after what happened there. She still hears those things, sometimes, when the lights are out.

“I see. And have you had any nightmares or dreams? Anything?”; Lottie knew she would get asked this question. She feels somewhat ashamed to admit it, though. “I - I’ve dreamt of her again”

Her therapist seems to be exasperated at that answer, blowing air from her nose, but doesn’t show it. The pen flows quickly on the paper as she gets her notes down. “Alright. The important part is that you never let those dreams or hallucinations get to you; they aren’t real”. She knows her therapist only wants to help her; or well, she pays to help her, but annoyance pokes at her brain when she hears those words that have been repeated to her over and over again. “I know that. I don’t need to remember it” oh, how she wished those were real. Sometimes. But the nightmares? She could very much leave them be. 

There’s silence for a moment, neither of them really know what to say next. Lottie focuses on the tricks the morning light makes when filtering inside the room. “You must’ve loved her very much”. 

Lottie locks her gaze with yours. The room smells of burnt flesh and fire, your single eye looking at her, the other an empty socket of darkness. Years later, you never lost your beauty, even if half of you is rotting away. You press your finger on your lips, smiling like you did all those years ago. “I still do”. 

[mxtantrights]

famous dc! au (the bruce and harvey cut)

PART ONE - untitled_script.docx / raw_sketch.jpeg

When you felt the warm sun on your eyes you didn't quite know where you were yet. Last night was intense and for almost all of it you were sober. At beginning of the party you weren't.

Last night was more of a launch for you. Your name had been whispered in these circles for months now. A couple of articles written up about you and your art. It was time to fully immerse yourself into this world.

Of course you showed up as an emerging artist with no art. What's an artist's struggle without art? Exactly. If you came with someone to hang on one of the walls you think you would have fainted from all the attention. Being there and people knowing your name was enough to tilt your world.

That's how you ended up spilling some of your drink on an unsuspecting victim. You sobered yourself up after that. Trying to get through your nerves with liquid courage wasn't going to help. You had to find other tactics.

As the night went on though you kind of forgot about your nerves. With the help of one person in particular. Now that you think about it you can't believe you're about to say his name in connection with yours. But it's the truth.

Bruce Wayne helped you last night.

And then a couple of hours after that. And a little more into the wee hours of the morning. But it was more than that-something is missing. You reach over to the other side of the bed and find it empty.

You open your eyes and the sun fully blinds you. So you turn around in bed. You're naked. That seems about right. Your eyes take focus on the other figure in bed with you. He's got his back turned to you, so all you can see are the scratches that go from his shoulders to his lower back.

A bit startled you sit up on your forearm.

The movement must be felt because all at once he's turning around and your brain doesn't have to work overtime to recognize Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne in bed with you. Bruce Wayne with nail marks down his back.

You sit there for a while. Just watching him. Your chest heaving up and down. You try to steady your breathing but you can't quite seem to catch it in the first place.

"It's impolite to stare." he says.

Your eyes widen, "You're awake?"

He opens his eyes. Bright blue staring right back at you. A shadow of a smile lines his lips. It was a stupid question but he doesn't make you feel as such for asking.

"Good morning." he says.

You pull the covers over your chest a bit more.

"Good morning." you say and clear your throat.

"Had a nice night?" he asks.

You can't help to laugh a bit, "I don't know. Jury's still out."

Bruce hummed, then he wrapped his arms around your middle, bringing you closer to his body. You instinctually wrapped your legs around his.

"Law really isn't my strong suit." he says.

"It's more of mine." a voice by the door says.

You and Bruce both look over quickly. That's right. Harvey! Now that you think about it Harvey was the one that walked you into this room last night. Somewhere after Bruce was telling joked and before the tenth person came up to introduce themselves to you, Harvey made an appearance.

With all the slyness of a fox he whisked you away from the donors eager to commission something from you. He took you far away from the crowd for about an hour. Then Bruce had joined the two of you.

You're looking at him and he's smiling right at you too. He has a tray of food in his hands. A glorious spread of breakfast foods.

"I thought you'd be off, chasing a script somewhere." Bruce says.

There's an edge to his voice now. One that wasn't there a few moments ago. You start to think it's like jealousy or something. Was Bruce jealous of Harvey?

Then your mind rattles with the fact of last night. Harvey may have dragged you off someplace, but at no point did either one of you invite Bruce. He knew just where to be and when too.

You look at Bruce and then back at Harvey. You do this a few times until the words seem to fall off your lips.

"You were looking for a third?" you ask.

Harvey lets out a guffaw from by the door. Bruce's arms which are still around you seem to go slack a bit. You don't know how that makes you fell at this very moment.

"Not in the sense that you're thinking." Harvey answers.

He walks over and sets the tray down. The orange juice and the waters shake as they settle on the side table. Harvey then climbs over you and Bruce both. His arms caging you in, but you didn't feel cage. You felt probably the most free you've felt in a while.

"we've been talking a while now about how we're missing something-someone." Bruce says.

You can feel his hand come up to brush against your cheek. You may look fine on the outside but on the inside you aren't sure any of this is real. Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent are in bed with you. Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent don't want this to be a one time thing with you.

"and you think that's me?" you whisper

"Bruce knew the moment he laid eyes on you." Harvey explained.

You don't miss how vague that is. He could have laid eyes on you at the party. Or at some earlier time, where you weren't noticing. And you don't miss how he only answered for Bruce.

You look Harvey in the eye now, "and you?"

"I knew before him." he offers.

Vague. Vague. Vague. The logical part of you is begging for more answers and more words. But the other side, the side that spent hours tangled between the sheets and these men is telling you that you don't need anything else at this moment.

You smile at him, then at Bruce. Harvey leans down and places a peck on your nose. Bruce's arms tighten around you once more.

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

I won't call it toxic but I'd definitely call it incompatible, like they would break up after two months of properly dating. Because they barely know each other and one person already feels suffocated by the other. I am glad the book was written with so much care, regarding Henry's depression, them balancing each other out and knowing each other thoroughly, Alex's respect for Henry's agency (in the book there are multiple lines about Alex passing over the charge to Henry because he knows Henry is the one with an unsupportive family, in the movie they just threw those dramatic lines but did NOTHING about them. In the book Alex's first development after their fight is, "it's time he realises, he should start accepting only what Henry can give him"). This Alex would never confirm their relationship without talking to Henry first ("It drives me nuts how little say you have in your own life").

No yeah it’s definitely not toxic I would say more fast. Rushed.

‘I wish you could see me for who I am and not who you want me to be’. I think Alex sees the best of Henry, all the good parts, and he ignores the bad ones (different to book! Alex who sees and loves all of them) while Henry does the opposite, sees all the bad ones and ignores all the good ones. That’s where they clash.

My mind just had a thought and it’s than their relationship in the movie is similar to Chloe and Shara’s relationship in I Kissed Shara Wheeler. Fast, rushed, they don’t even know each other they just jumped to dating. While what I said above doesn’t really apply to them (good/bad traits), they do jumped to dating without even properly knowing each other. Call me a romantic, but why would you date someone you don’t truly know? Just cause you’re attracted to them? I have a huge crush on this girl who I have known for years, and while sure I don’t know her deeply, I do know her. I know her shitty parents and insecurities and how she reads comics but doesn’t read books (which is something hard to look past to me) and yet I love her, with all that, not despite it.

The Christmas phone call being missing really upsets me (and the complete erasure of Alex as character too) because the phone call goes hand in hand with Alex saying than ‘he didn’t filter himself around Henry since he didn’t care what Henry thought of him’. And these bring me to probably one of my favorite parts of the book:

But Nora makes friends, and Alex ends up with acquaintances who think they know him because they’ve read his profile in New York Magazine, and perfectly fine people with perfectly fine bodies who want to take him home from the bar. None of it is satisfying—it never has been, not really, but it never mattered as much as it does now that there’s the sharp counterpoint of Henry, who knows him. Henry who’s seen him in glasses and tolerates him at his most annoying and still kissed him like he wanted him, singularly, not the idea of him.

(Fun fact, I can quote that whole paragraph by memory)

Does Henry know Alex when he kissed him on New Years? I don’t think so (mostly because there is nothing to know, he’s a one dimensional character)

You basically said everything so I’m adding little things

I haven’t seen anyone mention this but why does Zahra wait until after the speech, weeks and weeks (probably idk) to give Alex a way to communicate with Henry?

It was like she wasn’t even trying to help him/comfort him, just get him to shut up. Zahra might not openly show her feelings most of the times, but she cares, she finds solutions to help and genuinely cares. Idk it didn’t sit well with me, specially because of how easy it was?

They also erased almost every romantic line of the e-mails and that hurts me deeply.

I should have ghostwritten the script I get the characters more than Casey does at this point

[caltropspress]

RAPS + CRAFTS #24: NAHreally

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

I’m NAHreally, an MC and beatmaker from Massachusetts currently living in Jersey City, NJ. I’ve been releasing music as NAHreally since 2016. My most recent album is called BLIP. It’s a collaborative album produced entirely by the Irish producer The Expert. Before that, I put out two self-produced projects called HACKINAWAY and Loose Around The Edges. Before those, I put out 5 tapes entitled TAPE through TAPE 5.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I turn rhymes and lines over in my head everywhere I go all day long, but the central hub of my writing is my desk at home. Nothing is final until it reaches the desk. I don’t have a routine or consider myself all that disciplined—I just write when I find the time to. I work toward writing every day, but probably only sit down specifically to write two or three times a week (more when I’m lucky).

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

Lately I’ve been using the notes section of my DAW (Logic) in the project I’m going to record into. Sometimes I’ll write a whole song in there. Other times I’ll start in a notebook, continue on the phone, then compile everything in that DAW notes section. I typically have my verses memorized by the time I record, but when I don’t, it’s easy to pull up and read as I go. Plus, it helps keep me organized.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

I write in bars and quatrains.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

As early as right away and as late as album sequencing. I’ll sometimes salvage a handful of lines from an abandoned song, but generally the stench of abandonment keeps me away.

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

My day job involves a lot of writing and editing—nonfiction educational video scripts and even rap lyrics. This type of writing has greatly influenced the clarity of my rhymes. I want my lyrics to be immediately digestible, and my day job has helped me with that a lot.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

I edit as I go. It’s rare for me to move on to a new line until the one I’m working on feels final in both content and delivery. This can leave me stuck on a single line for hours and sometimes months. When I do know what’s coming after a line, I’ll make a note but almost never start writing anything in earnest. In some cases, when I finally write the line, it can strike me as a better fit for one or two lines later. When that happens, I move it down and get back to work on the set up.

Because of this approach, the only editing that really happens after a verse is written is to achieve a different shade of meaning through certain words or because I realize the flow could be cleaner or more interesting.

In some cases, particularly with more conceptual songs, I’ll write out what I’m trying to say in prose then make it rhyme.

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

A big part of my writing process is rapping aloud, so I almost always write to a beat (though it may not be the beat I end up recording over).

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

The first line tends to dictate the direction of my lyrics. In my mind, once you have a great first line, the song is basically written—it’s just a matter of trial and error until you find the rest. That first line often determines whether a song will have a topic or be a little more random. Occasionally I’ll pick a topic ahead of time, but usually it’ll stem from a more naturally occurring bit of writing.

My opinion on rhyming changes depending on what I’m trying to do. If I’m writing in a stream-of-consciousness mode, those rhymes better be unique and interesting. But when I’m looking to communicate information, I’ll take whatever rhyme I can in the name of clarity.

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

Free and flexible mostly, but I’ve been in a tinkering mood lately. We’ll see if anything sticks.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

“That Many of ’Em” on BLIP. The experience of being inundated with information and opinions is practically universal and yet it’s hard to discuss without sounding like a whiny baby. I think I did OK here:

Where do people find these opinions On every last thing that’s outside of their dominion? I mean, the way they pull them out of thin air Makes me worry my opinion-having muscle is impaired. I’m confronted by opinions on a litany Of subjects daily, and it’s starting to get to me. It’s so hard to find out what’s taken place Without first working backwards through a bunch of hot takes. And I’m so damn inundated That it’s difficult to tell which opinions I’ve created In my own head and which ones were osmosis. Also, there’s this collective psychosis That makes pedestrians opine like a pundit On big picture things about which they know nothing. Fantasy GMs and political junkies Will write War and Peace on smooth vs. chunky. Too much cable news. Expertise brutally murdered by YouTube. I feel surrounded by a vocal minority Whose willingness to speak is their only authority. But squeaky wheels get grease And comments and likes and of course retweets. It appears we’ve made sane people retreat By handing the megaphone to these opinionated freaks.

But I don’t think there’s that many of ’em, And I don’t wanna know any of ’em. But it feels like there’s plenty of ’em, But I don’t think there’s that many of ’em.

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

This section is from “Civic” on Loose Around The Edges:

In a Civic bumpin’ Misfits. Number one in your heart, two on your shit list. I’m an interesting fact not a statistic. One of my friends is related to Michael Chiklis.

Like I said, when I’m going stream-of-consciousness, the rhyme matters more. “Misfits,” “shit list,” and “statistic” were already there. When I try to think of rhymes—particularly multisyllabic ones—I form the sound(s) with my mouth over and over. Real words, gibberish, whatever comes out—just something that might make a light bulb go off that leads me to the right rhyme. I don’t actually remember it, but I’m sure that’s how I landed on “Michael Chiklis” (famous actor and my friend’s semi-distant relative). 

So there the line was: “One of my friends is related to Michael Chiklis.” It’s the type of mundane thing that might make you say “oh wow” in idle conversation but not really anything you’d find in a rap song. There’s just something so funny and exciting to me about transporting a throwaway tidbit like that into an unfamiliar and absurd context. On top of that, the preceding three lines are all a bit unexpected in their own right, so there’s a sort of build up leading to the oddest possible payoff—something I love to watch people react to in real time when I perform this song live.

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

I can rap all of my verses straight through. I don’t do punch-ins, but I do often comp portions of multiple full-verse takes together to create a final Franken-take. I rap the entire time I write (out loud in private or just above silently in public), so lines I can’t rap get changed immediately. For what it’s worth, I have nothing against people who punch in.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

When I was writing BLIP, I read a lot of Kurt Vonnegut, slightly less George Saunders, and a little Joan Didion. The Expert also sent me a monster playlist of what he considers well-written non-rap songs. Some highlights: “Depreston” by Courtney Barnett, “Lah-Di-Dah” by Jake Thackray, “I’d Rather Dance With You” by Kings of Convenience, and “Cult Boyfriend” by Jeffrey Lewis. My favorite non-rap songwriter lately is Jonathan Richman.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

I oscillate between not-quite-crippling self-doubt and utter certainty that I’m one of the best rappers ever (with several stops in between).

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

Homeboy Sandman.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

I don’t think so, but as the years have passed I’m less and less sure.

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: Noah Anthony Mezzacappa

[elisedonut]

arborvitae

I did it!!

Months later I'm very sorry

I've had like 200 words of this written for like literal months just sitting there mocking me but i finally got it to something I'm happy with!

anyway i hope you like it!!

Ao3 link:

Full fic under read more as well

Oliver wasn't sure when it happened exactly– Maybe it’s just always been there simmering under the surface waiting for him to notice it. If only he had done so sooner. Percy has always been fun to be around in his opinion, them being the only two Gryffindor boys in their year would of course lead to them getting to know one another fairly well.

It’s not until Clearwater joins the picture that he starts to understand what he’s really feeling but by then it’s too late. Oliver shakes his head in an attempt to clearer his thoughts. It’s not even like he particularly dislikes Penelope because he doesn't. She’s nice, intelligent, even funny, having that dry sense of humour that Percy has but that’s just it isn't it? She’s perfect for him isnt she? 

Watching them interact, Oliver can see it clearly. The way she seems to hold Percy’s attention like a light would a moth. The way she seems to enjoy listening to him speak–like Oliver does and he can’t hate her as much as he would love to. Instead he throws himself into quidditch to avoid thinking about the pain in his chest everytime Percy speaks of her with that gentle smile on his face.

Hence why he’s currently sitting on his broom and circling the quidditch pitch as fast as he can manage. In a desperate plea to take his mind off it. Feeling the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair he can at least pretend he’s happy.

Weeks and then months go by like this. Weeks of Percy rarely being around the dorm. Months where Oliver knows where he is and wishes he didn't. Oliver never says anything about it to him, it's not right for him to. It’s not Percy’s fault Oliver’s a jealous prat. Percy seems happy, really happy and Oliver wouldn't dare do something that might change that. He will always support him–even if he feels like he’s breaking inside.

When near the end of the year Penny gets petrified Oliver is there for him. Staying by his side as much as possible, holding him in his arms as he cried quietly. When mere hours later Ginny was taken into the chamber Oliver helped him send letters. When after Penny was cured and Percy went right back to her side it still hurt but the unnecessary little thank you gifts Percy would leave for him left him feeling light. Little notes here and there, small trinkets he saw at the odd shop in town. Small things Oliver would treasure as much as his broom.

During one letter over the summer Percy told him that Penny and him broke up. 

��She needs to focus on herself after what happened and I do as well.’  

Laid out in front of him in Percy’s neat script. Oliver was conflicted. 

Happy that it was over. 

Happy that his last year with Percy won’t include him laying in bed, wishing Percy was around.

Happy that his best friend got hurt– and that's just it isn’t it? That's not an okay way to feel, at least that's what Oliver thinks. 

Sending a letter back is harder that time. Finding the words to say that don’t immediately out his horrible thoughts. Percy’s smart he could see right through him if he wanted too. So he tried his best to be supportive. To not give too much away about his real thoughts on it and once it was sent went right back outside to get back into the air. 

When school started back up again he thought it would be easier. That he would tell him the truth. That’s not what happens though. Everytime he tries during those first few weeks something stops him. 

The twins interrupt them.

He looks at Percy’s face and sees how dark under his eyes are.

One time a dementor even just came around the corner leading to an impassioned speech from Percy about how dangerous the school has gotten.

Not exactly the best time to look at your best friend and tell them how in love with them you are.

So he just doesn’t… and in a flash their last year passed him by in a state of simple indulgences. Oliver taking small touches whenever he could manage it. 

Pulling Percy into hugs whenever he seemed to need it. Listening to him talk on and on about how little the teachers are telling them about Sirius Black. Holding him when Ron ended up in the hospital wing again. 

He’ll always be there for him no matter what else may change, that never will. 

Even without words he surely knows that right?

[redclercs]

DELICATE✰ CHARLES LECLERC.

vii. all of my enemies started out friends

— the one where you get the sense you've been betrayed.

warnings: death threats, foul language, a panic attack. 2.7k words. (+written articles) not proofread whoops.

masterlist ✢ next

By Alana Blake

WELL, all of our doubts have been cleared, here is the reason as to why our ex favorite couple called it quits months ago. Thank you to our anonymous source for spilling the tea!

First things first, let's not lie to ourselves, we all thought it had been Aidan Kim who had finally dumped y/n's ass for good. But as it turns out, he wanted to keep her forever? Aidan, boy...

Anyway, one night in February (ehem Valentine's Day, so cliché) he dropped down on one knee, popped the question with a beautiful Tiffany's ring and... Y/N SAID NO! Insert gasps here.

Without a good enough reason to justify her denial, y/n immediately ran to the opposite coast, where she currently resides with best friend, beauty guru and influencer Victoria Presley.

RELATED: Victoria Presley inaugurates first 'Presley Beauty' store in Beverly Hills.

Our source also confirmed y/n's blooming romance with Formula 1 pilot, Charles Leclerc.

"They are seeing each other, yes," the source said, "y/n doesn't want to call it a 'thing' since she's probably going to get bored of the poor guy.''

Well, there you have it. It looks like y/n's only talent is being a maneater. Somebody warn Charles Leclerc he's just piece of meat in the eyes of y/n!

SEE ALSO:

→ Victoria Presley attends the Monaco Grand Prix.

→ y/n y/ln reportedly auditioned for 'The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes'

→ Aidan Kim is currently recording his first solo album.

𝙂𝙊𝙏 𝙎𝙊𝙈𝙀𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙏𝙊 𝙎𝘼𝙔? 𝙇𝙀𝘼𝙑𝙀 𝘼 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝘽𝙀𝙇𝙊𝙒!

You're seeing the top comments.

Anonymous – 4 hr ago

If I ever see y/n on the street i will literally kill her

sk12z8io – 3 hr ago

I KNEW SHE NEVER DESERVED AIDAN

mickeyyy – 40 min ago

she fucking cheated you cannot convince me otherwise

chiqin– 10 min ago

oh she's vile, rejecting a marriage proposal and getting together with another dude two months later? TRASH.

Anonymous – 10 min ago

I want to know who the source is and why are they speaking until now

WHO would have thought? y/n y/ln the "Queen of RomComs" where cheating is basically a Deadly Sin, is in fact, a cheater!

The news about y/n rejecting Aidan Kim's marriage proposal came out only a few hours ago via Inside Out, and while they claim y/n didn't have a good enough reason not to get engaged to Kim, we believe quite the opposite.

Having a side-piece is a perfectly good reason, actually. Sources, who wished to remain anonymous, confirmed that at the time of the proposal, y/n was already seeing Monegasque pilot Charles Leclerc, but they had been able to keep it a secret until Elix contract made y/n start showing up at Grand Prix.

Although the information spreading around is still unclear, we can be sure of two things: Aidan Kim dodged a bullet and y/n is probably the worst person on Earth.

#Y/NIsOverParty

June 3rd Barcelona, Spain.

You're sitting with Charles and Carlos when you get the first ping on your phone. You don't give it much thought, Mildred told you she'd send you two script excerpts she wanted you to practice for an audition video, plus your phone doesn't even really stop ringing.

Spain has been fun so far, you have been around both Carlos and Charles around a lot lately. Carlos is always keen on dropping facts about his country and you got, just like with Charles, his special edition Ferrari merch. This time you wear it, because fuck fashion podcasts.

Charles doesn't let this slip, feigning annoyance that you prefer to wear a Spain cap than a Monaco one, and telling you he will in fact take it personally. But he doesn't, of course, he's thrilled you're more comfortable around both of them. Enough to join them for dinner yesterday and today.

The Ferrari boys are talking about FP3 and how Qualifying might go later. They've done pretty well this weekend, and you're hoping Carlos will end the Grand Prix on the podium like Charles did last week.

"Is that your phone?" Carlos asks, he's tried his best for the last few minutes to ignore the never-ending flow of notifications, even after you've silenced it, the vibration still makes him lose focus on the conversation.

"Sorry," you wince, knowing how annoying it is. "It's probably Vic."

"Everything okay?" Charles frowns, following your hands as you take your phone out of your pocket again to activate the Do Not Disturb.

"Yeah, I don't—"

Your sentence hangs in the air unfinished as you read the screen, the last notification comes from Matilde an 'are you okay? call me' text. And then your eyes slide to the BREAKING NEWS from People Magazine, whose notifs you forgot to deactivate. You don't even know why you have the app anymore.

The preview shows your picture, a red x on your face and the words 'Cheater Alert' capitalized and bold.

"y/n?" you see the motion of Carlos' hand from the corner of your eye, but by now, you're obsessively scrolling down the 150+ notifications on your phone. Texts, calls, e-mails, tweets, comments.

You stop in the INSIDE OUT EXCLUSIVE the moment your eyes catch the word 'ring'.

They know.

And if they know, everyone knows.

Charles pushes his chair back, making the half empty styrofoam cup of coffee you were drinking spill all over the table. "What's wrong?"

Aidan has told them. Aidan fucking Kim, petty and vengeful Aidan Kim has told them about the ring. Because he wants to bury you so far down, you'll never be able to claw your way out of the hole.

Who else could have been? You told no one. Not a soul. How can a person not even tell their parents that she got a marriage offer and said no immediately, right before hopping on a plane to the other side of the country?

But cheating? Where the fuck did that come from? He's even lying now. Because he hates you, of course he hates you. Aidan Kim is not used to humilliation and that's what you did when you rejected him. And although it was an unspoken accord that you wouldn't tell anyone about it, he has done so, because what is better for his upcoming album than being the heartbroken artist with the bitch for an ex.

People are going to write 'It's your loss y/n!' with their proof of streaming for a retweet from Aidan's account, managed by a 34-year-old guy who can't stand Aidan's fans on a normal basis.

"I– I have to–" your mouth is dry, tongue thick and heavy, and you feel the cold shower of anxiety from your nape to your tailbone. This can't be happening.

And you don't know what you have to do. Call Mildred and Walter? Ask them what the fuck is going on over there and start an actual damage control PR thing? It's too late for that.

"What can we do?" Carlos questions this time, worry flows in his voice at the change in your semblance. "What can we do for you?"

You're scared, because people have talked shit endlessly for weeks thinking it had been Aidan who dumped you, changing the narrative, twisting it time and time again.

They have suspected you broke up with Aidan, they have dragged you through the mud, called you heartless for getting over him so quickly. Paired you up with Charles and called you both problematic for breathing around each other and being friends.

And they might have forgiven you eventually, but not if you actually broke Aidan Kim's heart and burned down his dream of a house, a marriage and a happy family. And by cheating.

He's lying, but who would believe you?

Your already agonizing career is never coming out of this. And at this point, maybe acting seems irrelevant compared to the way people are going to treat you from now on. No one forgets a woman who humiliates a man so publicly. She doesn't deserve to be forgiven, not when she's such a bitch.

"I can't breathe," you wheeze, clutching your hand against the fabric of your shirt. Your hands are prickling, and your brain is fogged, foreign. "I can't breathe."

Neither man touches you as you lean down, hands on your knees, shutting your eyes so hard you think your eyeballs might explode.

You feel one of the boys move, but you don't open your eyes to see who left. Your priority is getting air into your lungs, and you can't seem to do even just that.

"y/n," Charles is the one who stayed, and despite speaking slowly, you recognize the underlying panic there. "I'm going to touch you, okay?"

Your only response is a strangled noise as you breathe through your mouth.

Charles runs his hand down your back, you can feel his rings and the heat of his palm. “Try to breathe through your nose, y/n.”

He feels stupid for saying it, but it’s the only advice he sees fit. Carlos left to look for the medical staff that Ferrari takes with them everywhere.

You squeeze your thighs with your hands and again take a gasp of air. “I can’t. Help me, I can’t.”

Charles makes you straighten up by grabbing your shoulders gently. “Please try. You’re speaking you can breathe.”

You breathe through your nose, but it isn’t enough to relieve the pressure on your chest.

Carlos comes back just when you feel like you will pass out. And you let the medical staff lead you away, leaving both your friends behind, worried sick and wondering what could have possibly triggered you like that.

You're still lying in the gurney after Qualifying is done. The medical team doesn't let you watch it, you should not be subjected to strong emotions right now. The thing is, the strong emotions haven't even started. You need to talk to your team, and you want to talk to Aidan. You've only heard from him twice since your breakup in February, the last time three days ago when he texted you 'out of SoHo'.

In all honesty, you're not certain you'll be able to hold a conversation with him without telling him to go fuck himself or having another panic attack. But you must know the reasoning behind his actions, no matter how stupid it is. How angrier it will make you. You want to understand why the person that once loved you is stabbing you in the back like this.

You're free to go an hour later, and it's some kind of miracle that you're relieved of your Elix duties. Maybe it has to do with the disaster that Ferrari's Quali was, in contrast to the Free Practices. No one wants to make things worse, or have pictures to remember it.

By the time you're back in your hotel room, Aidan's campaign has been transported to Youtube. And it's only 10 am in Los Angeles.

FROM AIDAN KIM’S YOUTUBE CHANNEL “STATEMENT ON RECENT NEWS”

You are looking at the top comments.

star5dan he had to find out he got cheated on thanks to People? fuck

flowerbedkim I'm not even joking, i will end y/n

dropbeats1 it takes a lot of courage to propose, y/n is def a bitch

stardomyn you knew y/n for years and you can't defend her? she is obviously not a cheater.

aidanyn this keeps getting worse i can't pick a side😭

You read the articles sitting in your bed. Legs crossed and back curved, with your shoulders slumping forward. It's like you have the whole weight of the world back in them, and you're not even sure you're strong enough to carry it anymore.

Did you really not have a good enough reason to say no? Not having a good reason to say yes should be enough, at least that's the way you think about it.

But you had many, many reasons. Some you'd denied yourself to even think about before he pulled the ring out of his pocket.

Every relationship has its ups and downs, you knew that. You know that. But how long can you stay in an all time low?

Maybe you lied to yourself saying Aidan had never hinted marriage was in his plans. He mentioned it in interviews, and in casual conversations with other people. He would tell you that “in the future” you’d have to reconsider being an actress. That you should really think about the roles you wanted to take on so they didn’t haunt you (and you hypothetical children) in the future.

Aidan would drop comments about how you should stick to the easy parts of acting, making the same movies, for example. How you should behave a certain way and shut your mouth in specific occasions.

How you had to change yourself to fit into what he wanted.

And you did. Because at first, it wasn’t that he wanted you to change for him. He made you think he wanted you to change for your own good.

And that night in February, you realized you were scared. The thought of spending the rest of your life like that terrified you. So you ran, and that was really the bravest thing you could have done.

And the bravest thing you can do now is stand up to him. Because he cannot keep on stepping on you and destroying what you built for yourself.

"Hello?"

You're shocked he actually picks up your call but you can't back down now.

"What the fuck, Aidan?" you try not to raise your voice, you do your best to help the strain that comes from not crying. You're furious, not sad, but you know Aidan won't recognize the difference. "What the fuck is this whole circus you're putting up now?"

The way he chuckles makes you want to throw your phone across the room.

"Do you really think that was me?" he asks, changing his voice to a lower tone. "Do you think I willingly say the girl I invested three years of my life on said she didn't want to marry me?"

"Well who else could have been? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"It was not me, y/n! Jesus Christ I don't know how many people—"

"So it was your sister, that bitch?"

"Don't you call me sister a bitch ever again."

Well Mia Kim is a bitch. And she was for the whole three years you dated Aidan.

Starting with telling anyone who would listen that you were after Aidan for clout, even after you hooked her up with your acting instructor and helped her get a minor role in Outer Banks. Comments on your appearance, on your acting, and the way you Aidan and you got along. And the worst part was that every time you two saw each other she acted like she adored you.

"She is a bitch, Aidan, and this is something she would do out of spite! Also, cheating? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I don't put anything past you, y/n." Aidan chuckles again, it's sarcastic and bothersome.

"Fuck you, Aidan. We knew each other for years, and suddenly I'm the worst person on Earth?"

"Yeah, maybe you always were and whoever is letting people know is doing the world a huge favor."

Your skin isn't thick enough yet, and his words hit the way he intended.

"I'm glad people are eating you alive, y/n," he continues as your silence prolongs, you can't swallow the tears now. "It's what you deserve."

He hangs up before you can respond, and it doesn't matter anymore. There's nothing you can say to make him admit to his crimes, and he's happy. He's happy you're being torn down in such a vile way.

The phone inside your hotel room rings and you pick it up before being able to pull yourself together. The 'what?' that lashes out catches the woman downstairs off guard, and this is another thing you add to the list of things that make you the worst person on planet Earth.

"Someone is here for you, Miss y/ln," she says in an apologetic tone, "Mr. Leclerc?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to speak to you like that," you take a deep breath, and then process her words. "Leclerc?"

"Hmhmm," she hums, "Should I send him upstairs?"

The alarm clock next to the phone shows 19:57 in red and you remember you agreed to meet him and Carlos for dinner at seven thirty. You didn't even shower or changed.

"Uh– yeah, please do."

You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth in the two minutes it takes him to get to your room.

Charles knows there's something wrong the moment you open the door, and it doesn't take a genius, really. But you wish he was oblivious to the way you look and the off-putting energy you give off.

"I'm sorry I'm late," you say making space for him to enter the mess of a room you have. "Is Carlos waiting downstairs?"

"He's at the restaurant already," Charles shrugs, it doesn't matter that you've made them both wait over twenty minutes. "Are you okay?"

You sit on your bed, letting him stand in the middle of the room, like a mannequin out of place. You have two options, lying to him, pushing everything under the rug and lookin for your purse to meet Carlos downstairs. Or tell the truth and burst out crying in front of him.

You don't like either.

So you stay silent, looking at patterns in the rug and trying to get your racing brain to come to a stop, if only to have a decent meal with the two guys that saw you panic hours ago.

Charles sits down next to you, the mattress gives to his side, sinking. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You eye his hand as he places it on top of the washed out knee of his jeans. The prominent veins and the three rings on his fingers. You remember the way it felt when he ran his hand down your back.

"I don't." you reply, taking your eyes back to his face. You wonder if he knows, just doesn't want to mortify you about it. That he's 'just a piece of meat' and a 'homewrecker'. You wonder if Carlos knows too.

"Do you still want to come downstairs?" Charles tilts his head, giving you a smile that lifts one corner of his mouth.

"Sure, let's do that," you get up from the bed smoothing your jeans down although there's nothing wrong with them, and regaining that self-consciousness that you didn't even change your clothes for dinner while Charles is looking like that in a clean white shirt. "Sorry for being late."

Charles lets you roam around the room looking for your purse for two minutes, still sitting on the edge of your bed, before speaking again. "We really like you, y/n. I really like you."

You snap out of your self-induced trance, pretending like you were checking you had everything you needed in your purse. "What?"

"Carlos and I really like you, and so does Matilde, and that friend of yours Victoria. You're not alone, I hope you know that."

He's seeing right through you again.

And the effort that took you to pull yourself together and the self-deprecating words that ran through your head to force yourself not to cry in front of him are all left behind, as you burst out crying.

You let Charles hold you, his right hand on the nape of your neck while the other soothes you the way it did earlier. He doesn't complain about the way your tears stain his shirt, and doesn't even make a sound as you sob.

And you stay like that for as long as you need to, although you haven't cried nearly enough. It has to suffice for now. Because you have to go back to L.A. and fix the mess Aidan created.

─── team principal radio: ❝i feel like i'm doing rowoon super dirty by having him as aidan kim, tbh. anyway, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! reblogs and comments/asks are highly appreacited, i'd love to know your thoughts!♡❞

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[pancakes4two]

baby please come home

happy holidays everyone! i wanted to write something short for @watchmegetobsessed​‘s fanficmas to close out the year. i’ve had the best time writing a bunch of concepts these last few months so... here is an ode to the first harry i wrote this year & the most recent 💗 enjoy!

preview: Harry disappears from public view until January, wanting to close out the year in private. He does, however, decide to share a photo of the three of you sitting under the tree on Christmas. You’re grinning at the camera, leaning close to Harry. Beau is sitting in your lap, fuzzy antlers sitting atop his head. His entire body is turned towards Harry, big brown eyes glittering as he stares as his dad and reaches for him with tiny hands. Harry’s smiling so wide his eyes may as well be closed, his face flush with nothing but pure joy.

He captions the photo: Christmas Morning. Harry’s House. December, 2022. It gets 10 million likes in 24 hours.

MASTERLIST | TALK TO ME

1. christmas with dadrry (from this blurb!)

Harry is playing his last show of 2022 when he decides to have a little fun. He’s been in Brazil for the past couple of days, closing out the Latin American leg of Love on Tour. Three stops ago in Argentina, he’d sent you and your son off on a plane home to London. With the two of you now being 5,000 miles away, he can’t help but ache for home a little more than usual, despite the fact that he’ll be joining you at home soon. A sign at the barricade reminds him of this fact, as he prepares to give a speech to lead into his encore.

“So…” Harry says, popping out his hip dramatically, “Before we move on to our last couple of songs, there’s a sign up at the front here that I want to address.”

The arena explodes in chatter as a spotlight comes down from above, searching for the flashy poster board. Harry squints and twists his microphone cord between his fingers, (he mentally notes that next year will be the year he finally starts using a wireless mic) and points when he manages to spot the sign he had noticed earlier.

“Right, this sign says,” Harry pauses as a cameraman beside him zooms in on the sign, projecting it onto the large screens behind the stage. “We came here for Y/N and no-one else.”

The crowd bursts into collective laughter and hoots, and Harry sees a few phone shoot up in the front row, eager to capture the obvious fan interaction that’s about to take place. He walks closer to the edge of the stage, and kneels down directly in front of the two fans that had brought the sign.

“Let me just start by saying how could you,” Harry brings a hand to his chest, squeezing his fist and trying his best to school his expression into one of dramatic anguish. One of the fans belly-laughs, while the other takes his reaction more to heart, waving her hands in the air and trying to rationalize the statement that had been written on their sign. “Only joking! But I am a bit hurt. It’s my name that’s attached to the tour, the posters, the merch, after all...”

“Sadly, I do have to inform you that Y/N has left with our son to go back home,” Harry squints out at the audience. The crowd groans loudly at that, and the sound of Mitch’s laughter comes through his in-ear monitors.

“Soooo, you’ll have to deal with it just being me up here!” Harry points a thumb at himself, turning around to give Mitch the finger with his other hand. “It is, however, close to Christmas, and I must admit I’m missing my family too. So we’ll see if we can do something about that.”

Harry gestures for the production lead then, and the fans that make up the first couple of rows in the stadium look to each other curiously, wondering why Harry’s suddenly gone off-script. While they whisper amongst themselves, the production lead runs up on stage and hands Harry his phone. He wiggles it in the air, brandishing it in front of the crowd. They cheer in anticipation for what he’s about to do next. The screen on Harry’s phone turns on in response to all his movement, and the stadium unexpectedly gets a glimpse of his wallpaper. It’s a picture of you and Beau, taken not more than a month ago, posing in front of Foro Sol in Mexico City. Beau’s wearing a Love on Tour shirt that’s comically large on his tiny body, sucking on a pacifier as you hold him to your chest, pointing at the massive screen displaying Harry’s name behind you. The entire crowd coos upon seeing the image, and even more phones shoot up to record the moment. Harry smirks knowingly, as if to say: adorable, isn’t it?

He holds his phone to his chest then, hiding it from view as he types in his passcode and swipes through his apps. He opens up your contact card and presses the FaceTime button, shushing the crowd when the call goes through. It’s late enough at night back home in London that he’s sure Beau’s asleep already, but you’re still awake and will be able to pick up his calls without disturbing the sleeping baby. The screen takes a moment to load before your face pops up, slightly pixellated and makeup-less, but beautiful nonetheless. Harry turns his phone back towards the crowd, and they can’t hold in their excitement when they see your face projected onto the stadium screens.

“Say hi everyone!” Harry waves at his phone, grinning at how the crowd has welcomed you. “Y/N, everyone’s been missing you, and now that I’ve got you here, it only seems fitting that I sing something special tonight...”

You give Harry a confused look through the phone, and he says nothing in response, just smiles and cues Pauli in. Pauli twirls a set of mallets between their fingers and begins to play a xylophone in front of them. They count themself in, and the starting notes to Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You sound through the stadium. 

Harry can’t hear you over the noise of the crowd, but he sees you shake your head at him and swears you yell out, “Shut the fuck up!!!” as he starts to sing.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need. I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree. I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know, make my wish come true... all I want for Christmas is you!”

Harry prances around the stage with you on his phone, directing the lyrics to your smiling face on the screen. The crowd dances along and Sarah points and laughs when Harry passes by, fondly admiring just how much of a hopeless romantic he is. As the song continues, Harry decides to leap across the catwalk, determined to make this performance as extra as humanly possible. The crowd reaches for him, but in this moment he only has eyes for you. He brings his phone out in front of him as he shimmies in front of the camera, reminding you that, “Baby, all I want for Christmas is you.”

When Harry launches into the bridge, he points up at the sky. A loud pop sounds through the venue as cannons that had been rigged onto the stage release tiny pieces of confetti that had been shaped into snowflakes. The paper rains down onto the crowd, blanketing the entire stage and floor into a sea of white. The pretend-snowflakes continue to cascade through the sky, glistening under all the stage lights, and Harry ends the song by running back towards the main stage and collapsing backwards onto it. He moves his limbs up and down through the confetti that now covers the surface as if to make a snow angel. He looks up at your smiling face, still watching him sing through his phone, and it’s almost as if you’re there with him. It’s only been a few days and yet he still misses you like crazy. Harry gets lost in the moment for a second, before the crowd drags him back down into reality. He sits up, brushing the confetti out of his hair, and smiles at the sea of people looking at him adoringly.

“Hope you didn’t mind that little switch-up, there,” Harry beams, “just felt like singing a Christmas song tonight.”

“Now, we’re gonna say bye to Y/N,” he continues, placing his microphone behind his back so he can speak to you privately. The crowd boos in response, and you laugh. 

“Let me talk to your fans!” you say, wagging a disapproving finger at Harry.

“You’re a demanding bunch!” Harry jokes, putting his microphone back under his phone speaker. Your voice comes through over the venue speakers, a little tinny, but understandable. 

“Goodnight everyone! Hope you had lots of fun tonight, and thank you so much for the surprise. Take care of H for me so he comes back home all in one piece,” you blow a kiss to your phone and Harry catches it, keeping it in his back pocket.

“That was for the fans, you idiot!” You laugh, and Harry throws his hands up at the crowd when they start to laugh at him.

“Okay, no more listening privileges for you lot if you’re just going to make fun of me,” he sighs jokingly, hiding his mic behind his back again. He brings the speaker up to his mouth so you can hear him properly.

“Be home soon,” he says, “love you so much. Sleep well and text me when you’re up.”

“Love you too, goodnight, H,” you smile, hanging up the call. Harry turns back around and sees his crowd looking disappointed at the fact that they weren’t able to hear the last bit of your conversation.

“Don’t look at me like that! Some conversations are better left private,” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Mitch throws a guitar pick at him, having heard the conversation and knowing that it had not gone at all like what Harry was implying. “Anyways, onto the encore...”

LONDON, A FEW DAYS LATER

Christmas morning arrives in a blur. Harry’s finally sufficiently rested after battling with jet lag, though he still finds himself waking up slightly earlier than usual. The sun is only starting to rise, and it had snowed the night before. He looks outside the window to see the landscape painted in a winter glow. The Christmas lights that you’d put up after coming home are wrapped around the trees and shrubs outside, providing some warmth to the otherwise blue atmosphere.

Harry makes his way into the living room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He finds you awake already in the kitchen, with Beau on your side, heating up a pot of tea. Beau is looking determined, sucking on a baby bottle with force as he clings onto his mother. You both notice Harry at the same time—you look up at him and your features soften, while Beau drops his bottle on the counter and reaches for Harry, babbling for his dad.

“Alright, alright; there’s more than enough me to go around,” Harry laughs, taking Beau from you. “Good morning. Happy Christmas.”

“Mm,” you hum while Harry kisses you. You pour two cups of tea, putting milk in sugar in one mug for you and just milk in the other for Harry. You hand his mug to him, and the two of you head over to the tree. It’s placed right in front of the largest window in the living room so it catches the most light. In the early morning, the entire space fills with a cozy light, the ornaments shining softly under twinkling lights. Both of you had decided on not giving each other gifts this year, preferring to absolutely spoil Beau rotten instead.

“Let’s open your presents now, Beau-bear,” Harry coos, bouncing the infant gently in his arms. It’s crazy, how much his life has changed in the last year. He looks at Beau, who’s looking curiously at the box in Harry’s hand, and you, quietly sipping on your morning tea. Harry’s chest swells with a whole host of emotions that he doesn’t necessarily know what to do with—but he does know that this is exactly where he belongs. He’s spent the better half of the year away from home and written an entire record exploring the idea of home. But he knows now that this is it. This is home: Christmas morning spent with the love of his life and his child. The presents that fill the entire space underneath the tree, a Christmas album playing over the sound system in the living room, Beau in a reindeer onesie, you wrapped up in a wool scarf, the snow that’ll decorate your lashes later when the three of you go out in the snow.

Harry disappears from public view until January, wanting to close out the year in private. He does, however, decide to share a photo of the three of you sitting under the tree on Christmas. You’re grinning at the camera, leaning close to Harry. Beau is sitting in your lap, fuzzy antlers sitting atop his head. His entire body is turned towards Harry, big brown eyes glittering as he stares as his dad and reaches for him with tiny hands. Harry’s smiling so wide his eyes may as well be closed, his face flush with nothing but pure joy.

He captions the photo: Christmas Morning. Harry’s House. December, 2022. It gets 10 million likes in 24 hours.

2. christmas with young harry (from this blurb!)

“Y/N!” You hear someone call out distantly from your bedroom window. “Y/N!”

The voice gets closer, and you realize it belongs to Harry. Abandoning the notebook you were currently writing in, you cap your pen and run down the stairs. Once you’ve turned the corner into your living room, though, you see that your parents have already let him in. Harry waves at you from the front door, pulling off his shoes and dusting snow off of the knit beanie resting atop his head. He hands a tin of what could only be Christmas cookies to your mom, and she pulls him into a hug.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry grins, “Mum said she liked the cookies best plain, but I think they’re better with warm milk.”

“We’ll have to try them both ways, then,” your dad responds, clapping Harry on the back. “Happy Christmas, H. Did you bike here?”

“Yeah,” Harry responds a little breathlessly. You notice that his cheeks are more pink than usual due to the cold, and the parts of his hair that weren’t covered by his hat were curling in all different directions, blown out of place by the wind. “Wanted to give Y/N her present before dinner.”

“How lovely!” Your mom coos in response, “We’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to keep your door open, Y/N!”

Harry laughs while you roll your eyes exasperatedly at your mom. The two of you head upstairs, him trailing slightly behind you with a careful hand on your waist. You hadn’t realized earlier, but he’s wearing a backpack. It looks rather full, like the zippers are about to burst from the size of whatever he’s stuffed inside it.

“What are you planning on giving me, a bomb?!” You joke, poking at the bag’s exterior.

“Shut up!” Harry groans, “of course not! I couldn’t bring a bigger bag with me on the bike, so like, I had to make do.”

“Only joking,” you giggle, opening the door to your bedroom. Harry takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of your desk chair before flopping onto your bed. He’s wearing a navy-colored crewneck that’s too big for him, and the sleeves go past his hands. His skin is still flushed from the temperature outside, and you think he looks absolutely adorable like this, all cozy in your room. You sit across from him and tangle your legs together. The two of you have been together for almost four months now, thanks to your friends leaving you in a room alone and basically forcing you to confess your feelings to one another at the end of the summer, but you can’t help but still be a little awkward. Harry’s your first boyfriend, and you’re still trying to make sense of the magnitude of what you feel for him. It scares you a little, how much you’ve started to care for him and how you find yourself wanting to know more about him always, from the big things down to the tiny mundane details of his life. But it also brings you comfort, knowing that you can hold so much fondness for someone else, and have those same feelings be reciprocated.

The two of you have been looking forward to Christmas—you got together too late in the year for Harry to be able give you what he had called a proper, boyfriend birthday gift, and Harry has yet to celebrate his own in February. Both of you were excited to exchange gifts as a couple for the first time, somehow, they just meant so much more to you now that your relationship had evolved beyond just friendship. October had barely ended before you started thinking about his gift. You wanted it to be absolutely perfect.

“Were you doing homework before you came?” Harry asks incredulously. He must’ve caught a glimpse of your notebook when he set his backpack down. “How do you still have work left to do?”

“It’s for next term,” you reply sheepishly, “I got bored and wanted to plan out the classes I’m taking starting January... I figured I might as well get a head start while I’m home...”

“Ever the bookworm,” Harry looks at you fondly, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You loved that about him, the fact that he never made you feel badly about anything you did. Between the two of you, you were definitely the more academically-inclined one. While you sat diligently at the front of class taking notes, your boyfriend preferred to sit near the back, cracking jokes until your teacher got annoyed and focusing more on making the setlist for his band’s latest gig, instead of his assignments.

“Wonder if I can convince you to do my homework for a month as a gift,” Harry pulls you closer to him, cupping your face in his hands. He’s about to kiss you when you turn around suddenly, forcing his lips to meet only your cheek.

“No can do,” you smirk when he pouts at you, obviously disappointed that his act of affection didn’t go as originally planned. “We both know you’re meant for bigger things than school, H, but you just need to stick it through for a few more months and before you know it, you’ll be all done with GSCEs.”

“I suppose,” Harry huffs childishly, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning up at you. You kick at his arm with a socked foot, giggling at him. He reaches for your hand and unzips his backpack, pulling out a large, misshapen object that’s been tied together with ribbon. You’re not sure what the gift is meant to be—the Christmas tree-patterned wrapping paper is folded and bent in ways you didn’t know were physically possible, and there’s several pieces of tape stuck to the sides of it, patched on in an attempt to cover places where the gift wrap had ripped.

“I wanted to wrap it myself,” Harry explains, pulling at a non-existent thread on his sleeve, “but it obviously didn’t go too well.”

You laugh as he hands the gift to you, looking sufficiently deflated. “You get full marks for effort.”

“Before you open it,” Harry adds, watching you pull at one end of the ribbon. “I tried my best to get you something you really wanted, but I didn’t know if, like, someone else had already bought it for you, or anything... so there’s a receipt in there for you to exchange it for something else if you’d like.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reassure him, taking extra care to tear the paper carefully. The gift feels delicate in your hands, as if the item inside were made of something soft and pliable. You pause on opening the present for a moment to press a gentle kiss to your boyfriend’s knuckles: the last thing you’d want is to make him think you’d ever be disappointed in anything he gifted to you.

You finally manage to pull away at the gift wrap and tape, and your hands land on a cream-colored cardigan. You gasp and look at Harry, who’s looking between you and the object in your hands fondly, like he’d known exactly how you’d react all this time.

“There’s no way...” you say, turning the cardigan over in your hands, running your fingers along the careful stitches and admiring the tortoiseshell buttons. “But this is so... it costs so much... how?!”

Harry smiles at you, watching you unbutton the sweater carefully. “Well, I remember how much you liked it when you tried it on in the shop, so I worked some extra shifts at the bakery at the beginning of Christmas hols. I made Gem drive me down to the city yesterday and got it for you. It took a lot of convincing. She’s making me do her laundry for the next month.”

“It’s so perfect,” you say sincerely, enveloping Harry in a hug. You wish you could stay like this forever, safe in the embrace of a boy who makes you feel so massively, his arms locked behind your waist and his heartbeat steady against your chest. “I love it so much. You’re just the best.”

“Glad you love it,” Harry says softly, kissing your forehead and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He watches you intently as you reach under your bed and procure a holiday-themed bag. You hand it to him, tapping on his knee while he plays with the tissue paper inside.

“Your turn.”

“Did you gift me a bomb?” Harry jokes, weighing the bag in his hand and pretending to drop it because of how heavy it is.

“Like I’d kill you off after that incredible present you just got me,” you retort, kicking at him impatiently. “Enough stalling. Open it!”

Harry pulls away at the tissue paper and pulls out a large vinyl record, covered in plastic wrap. He shakes his head and looks at you with wide eyes. “Y/N. You didn’t.”

“I did,” you reply, grinning at him as he continues staring at you in amazement. Over the summer, Harry’s parents had accidentally donated his copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours to a charity shop along with a box of his old clothes. You knew how much that record meant to him, so you’d gone to a small record shop the last time you were in the city and picked up a replacement.

“Y/NNNNN,” he drags out your name dramatically, peppering your face with chaste kisses.

“Come on, look at the bottom of the bag, there’s more,” you say, playing with his hair. Somehow, the two of you had ended up shifting closer and closer to each other in your excitement, and now you’re basically sitting on top of Harry, eagerly waiting for him to finish opening his gift.

“No way, two gifts?” Harry clutches his chest dramatically, “you must really like me.”

He pulls out a book from the bag, checking to make sure there’s nothing else inside that he’d accidentally overlooked. The cover is made of linen and bound together with ribbon. Stuck to the front is a polaroid of the two of you on Harry’s bike, you sitting behind him as he poses for the camera, both of you brandishing massive scoops of mint chocolate ice cream.

“What is this?” Harry whispers, flipping through the pages. Each page is covered in memories of the two of you, filled with pictures and tiny souvenirs from places you’d gone together.

A picture your mom had taken of the two of you asleep on the living room couch, your head enveloped in Harry’s chest. There’s a blanket covering the two of you, and in the distance, a TV is playing the ending of The Notebook--you’d obviously fallen asleep before getting to the best part.

A ticket stub from the first concert you’d gone to together. You still remember how you felt that night, colorful lights streaming down from above as music filled your ears, Harry dancing and singing loudly from right next to you.

A picture you took on your computer when the two of you were meant to be studying together in the school library, Harry sticking his tongue out at you while you flip him off playfully.

A picture your friends took of the two of you holding hands on the bus. The two of you dancing in Harry’s garden. The two of you running through a corn maze at the local farm. Harry waving at you from outside your bedroom window. A photobooth strip of the two of you: a vignette of him looking at you, a vignette of him turning your chin towards him, a vignette of your lips meeting.

“I figured, next year, when you’re off to the X-Factor and you get all big and famous, you can keep this with you when you’re away and it’ll remind you that I’m always thinking of you,” you say shyly. “You know, so you don’t forget me while you’re away.”

“How could I ever forget you?” Harry asks, and his voice is so sincere that it cuts straight to your heart. “I’d never get big or famous enough to forget about you. But this book, Y/N, it’s amazing. It means so much to me that you made this for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, smiling at him.

“Of course, you’re going to feel silly when they send me home right after auditions, and it’s back to me being your average boyfriend.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you say, and you mean every word of it. “Whole country’s gonna know your name soon.”

“Well, then I couldn’t be more grateful that you were the first one to know,” Harry says, pulling his phone out from his pocket. “Let me take a picture of us and tweet it to my two fans.”

You laugh then, and run your fingers through your hair to tame it. You pull yourself into Harry’s chest and he brings his phone out in front of the two of you. He kisses the top of your head, smiling through the action, and the digital camera clicks. You watch as he attaches the photo to a tweet and begins to type up a caption.

Christmas with my number one fan. Lucky she doesn’t know I’m her biggest fan, too. 

Harry presses send on the tweet and locks his phone. For now, no one sees it except for his sister, and the four other friends who actually follow his Twitter account. But twelve years later, when the whole world knows his name, a fan will find the tweet on his account, buried under thousands of other messages, and tag him in it. He’ll open it in the morning, with you asleep still beside him, and smile to himself as he remembers your first Christmas together. He’ll pull you a little closer as snow falls silently outside, brush your hair aside and listen to you breath steadily in his arms. He’ll lean in and whisper, Told you I could never forget you, and count himself lucky for all the holidays he’ll get to spend for the rest of his life with you right there beside him.

TAGLIST: @crazygirlinthisworld​ @grapejuice-rry​ @b-reads-things​ @s8tellite @michellekstyles​ @vrittivsanghavi​ @alienorknight​ @flwrmuse 

[toomanyrobins2]

Sir Stranger Smith

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

BRUCE POV

Sitting at the desk, I waited for the clock to chime. Alfred was nothing if not punctual and as soon as the bell sounded, I looked up at the door expectantly. Instead of my trusted butler, there was Clark with my letters in hand. A friend, but an uninvited one. “What are you doing here?”

“Making a delivery. Alfred had to run to the market and I offered to help. Even picked up the letter from your newest protégé.” Snatching the papers from him, I quickly maneuvered my way through the stack. I had a system: work, charity, friends - which rarely was a pile, and then the most dreaded, family. The last envelope had a swirling script across the back that read Sir Stranger Smith. 

I raised an eyebrow and Clark nearly shrugged, “You picked a very funny one to be the first girl you sponsor, Bruce.” I just stared down at the envelope as he continued to speak, “Don’t get me wrong, never met a sweeter girl. Sweeter than even my Lois. She is just very different from the serious boys you chose before. Also, what a beauty. You better make sure she finished her education before some boy carts her off to be his wife.” Clark was rambling on and on at this point.

What he didn’t know was that I was very aware of how the girl looked. I remember watching as she flew around the corner only to stop in front of the mirror all those months ago. I had watched the waterfall that fell when she undid her hair and how the candlelight illuminated her face. It was burned into my memory. “Yes, thank you.” Clark gave a smirk as he watched me unfurl the letter from his seat across my desk.

24th SEPTEMBER

Dear Kind-trustee-Who-Sends-Orphans-to-College, 

Here I am! I traveled yesterday for four hours in a train. It's a funny sensation, isn't it? I never rode in one before. College is the biggest, most bewildering place—I get lost whenever I leave my room. I will write you a description later when I'm feeling less muddled; also I will tell you about my lessons. Classes don't begin until Monday morning, and this is Saturday night. But I wanted to write a letter first just to get acquainted. It seems odd to be writing letters to somebody you don't know. It seems odd for me to be writing letters at all—I've never written more than three or four in my life, so please overlook it if these are not a model kind. Before leaving yesterday morning, Mother Waller and I had a very serious talk. She told me how to behave all the rest of my life, and especially how to behave towards the kind gentleman who is doing so much for me. I must take care to be VERY RESPECTFUL. But how can one be very respectful to a person who wishes to be called John Smith? Why couldn't you have picked out a name with a little personality? I might as well write letters to Dear Hitching-Post or Dear Clothes-Prop. 

I have been thinking about you a great deal this summer; having somebody take an interest in me after all these years makes me feel as though I had found a sort of family. It seems as though I belonged to somebody now, and it's a very comfortable sensation. I must say, however, that when I think about you, my imagination has very little to work upon. For now, I imagine in what I hope you will find to be flattering. So far a distinguished older gentleman is the picture my mind has formed. If I am to go off the other trustees well then you are not young. Well, I suppose there are just three things that I do know: 

1. You are tall. 2. You are rich. 3. You hate girls. 

I suppose I might call you Dear Mr. Girl-Hater. Only that's rather insulting to me. Or Dear Mr. Rich-Man, but that's insulting to you, as though money were the only important thing about you. Besides, being rich is such a very external quality. Maybe you won't stay rich all your life; lots of very clever men get smashed up on Wall Street. But at least you will stay tall and wear that clock that blows in the wind all your life! So I've decided to call you Dear Batman. I hope you won't mind. It's just a private pet name. We won't tell anyone. 

The ten o'clock bell is going to ring in two minutes. Our day is divided into sections by bells. We eat and sleep and study by bells. It's very enlivening; I feel like a fire horse all of the time. There it goes! Lights out. Good night. Observe with what precision I obey rules—due to my training in The Bowery Home. 

Yours most respectfully, 

Y/N Abbott

I set the letter down in disbelief. What kind of audacity did this girl function under! If the name was not enough, the contents of the letter called me old, misogynistic, and possibly improvident. And yet, I find myself rereading and becoming amused. Yes, she does rattle on but it isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever read. I could find the humor in her letter, just as I had when I read “Blue Sunday.” The most amusing bit of all was that she thought I was old. True, I am not the youngest man, but compared to the other trustees, I am practically a baby. At 29, he was the youngest trustee by at least 25 years. 

Never before have felt such a temptation to reply to one of my beneficiaries. Damn that girl! I owe her no obligation to fulfill her flights of fancy about my appearance. Boys never question their patron’s appearance and would never consider such gross interference. Her appearance mattered not to me, no matter how comely Clark thought she was. Boys were less trouble in his estimation. What mattered was her intelligence and education. She would go on to be a fantastic author with a triumphant first novel. She would be the creme de la creme. The talk of the town. A prominent author of world renown. While she was doing this, I would be standing on the side, glowing with pride, knowing how it all began. I am content to remain in the shadows: a girl-hating, grey, old man. Stuffing the letter into my desk drawer, I am determined not think again of Y/N Abbott until next month.

[unwrittenlibrary]

adore you

summary // bucky and alpine enjoy their solitude, but the girl across the hall is slowly creeping into their hearts. (bucky x fem!reader)

words // 7.4k

warnings // diverges from canon & no major spoilers.

notes // just thousands of words of fluff bc that’s all i know how to write. maybe one day i’ll venture into anything else. fluffy bucky has my heart 

reblogs & replies are greatly appreciated!

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The first time you knock on Bucky’s door Alpine wanders over curiously.

Bucky stares at the door silently urging you to go away. You knock again and Alpine begins to paw at the door before meowing loudly, which makes Bucky groan. “I’m coming.” He calls as he stands from the couch. He pauses the movie playing on his television, something ridiculous that Sam had insisted on. Alpine meows again and Bucky can hear you laugh through the door. 

He pulls on a hoodie that’s laying on his counter and stuffs his left hand into the front pocket. When he pulls the door open you smile brightly. “James!” 

The two of you had met briefly when Bucky had originally moved into the building. You had smiled the same bright smile in the elevator and offered up your name easily. Bucky had smiled tightly in return and told you his full name, a habit he had yet to break, and he deeply regretted it. Every time you passed in the hallway you called out a cheery James despite Bucky’s corrections. 

“It’s Bucky.” He mutters. Your eyes move over his shoulder and Bucky watches as you take in his very undecorated and barely furnished apartment. Bucky didn’t mind how seemingly empty his place was. He wasn’t home a lot and nobody but Sam spent time with him. Sam might think it was time to add barstools and a spice rack, but Bucky was content with how things were. 

Your attention is pulled to Alpine as he peeks out from behind Bucky’s legs. “And who are you?” You ask quietly as you squat down to meet his eyes. You hold a cautious hand out and Alpine only stares. You wait for a moment before he turns and moves back into the apartment. 

You don’t seem to take it to heart though. You laugh as you stand up. “He takes after his dad, huh.” There’s a teasing glint in your eyes and Bucky should be offended but the comment actually makes him smirk. 

“His name is Alpine.” Bucky says monotone as he watches you rock back and forth on your feet. “Did you need something?” 

“Oh!” Your eyes light up as if you had completely forgotten your reason for coming here in the first place. “I need salt! Do you have any?” Your eyes move behind him again as if you’re now suddenly worried the answer won’t be yes. 

“I have salt, yes.” He doesn’t move from his spot and only stares down at you. Your eyes flicker around the hallway before you smile nervously. “Can I have some?” You ask quietly. 

Bucky nods and makes his way into his kitchen. He expects you to stay and wait in the doorway, but he hears the door shut behind you.

“Didn’t want him to get out.” You say as you lean against his counter. Bucky’s a little put off by your brazen personality, but you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. “How long have you lived in DC?” You ask as Bucky moves to pull the salt out. 

“How much do you need?” He asks instead of answering. 

“Not much! A couple teaspoons.” Bucky’s stoic attitude doesn’t seem to deter you at all. He glances around the bare kitchen before deciding to just give you the shaker. 

“I don’t have anything to put it in, just make sure to return it eventually.” He shrugs as he slides it over to you. You grasp it in your hand but make no effort to move. Bucky sighs. “And I’ve lived here for a couple years now. I… I moved here after the Blip.” 

He wonders briefly if you know who he is. He’s not sure what happened in the years of the blip, if his name had been marked on one of those memorials. That had been before his pardon, so he assumes not. He wonders if Steve’s exhibit had been changed. He hadn’t been back since before the blip. Was he still in it? Had they changed it or was Bucky Barnes still dead in America’s eyes? His eyes find yours and then he wonders if you did know who he was, were you worried? 

You seemed fine around him. He hadn’t seen any recognition on your face when he had introduced himself all those months ago. A frown tugs at your lips. “Were you…” You trail off but Bucky knows the question. 

Bucky nods tightly and you take a step away and move towards his door, like you know he’s reached the limit on sharing personal details for the night. “Me too.” You finally say when your hand lands on his door knob. You pause. “It’s weird. Right? Coming back to a completely different world?”’

“Yeah.”  He nods. You have no idea, he thinks. He had just begun to figure out how to live free again and then he was gone. And when he came back, he was thrust into battle then lost Steve to a world Bucky was no longer a part of. “It’s weird.” 

You smile apologetically. “Thank you for the salt, James.” You say quietly. His eyes flash to yours but your face doesn’t give much away. 

He nods and the door slams shut. Alpine comes trotting out and rubs against Bucky’s shins. “Yeah, she’s weird.” Bucky reaches down to softly pet Alpine’s back. “Pretty though, huh?” 

Alpine pushes against his hand and Bucky takes that as agreement enough. 

//

Bucky liked helping Sam down at the VA. Handing things out, setting things up, and talking with veterans gave Bucky a sense of something. It gave him something to do when Sam and him weren’t away on missions. 

And he got to spend time with Sam. While it was something he would never admit to the man, he enjoyed his company. Sam had slowly become Bucky’s best friend. Not that Bucky really had any other close friends. 

“Thanks for helping out today.” Sam smiles as Bucky leads him through the hallway towards his apartment. “But you know, you can just come for a meeting. To talk.” 

Bucky nods. He did know that, really. But Bucky was okay with listening for now. Maybe one day he would share some of his story, but helping out now was helping him. 

Bucky stops short in the hall when he notices something sitting outside his door. He throws an arm out that Sam slams into. “Jesus, what…” He trails off when he notices what Bucky had seen. 

There’s a small brown box sitting on the ground. “Stay here.” He murmurs as he begins to move towards the object. Sam gives Bucky a look before following behind him. “Or not.” He glares. Both men kneel down in front of the box. There’s not much that gives anything about what’s in the box away, just his name written in fancy script. 

He reaches a hand out to touch it when the sound of your door opening makes him second guess and pull away. You were a little weird, but he didn’t want to blow you up. 

“James!” Him and Sam look over at you as you lock your door. You’ve got a red apron wrapped around your waist and your bag is slipping off your shoulder. Before Bucky can say anything like be careful, you furrow your brows at the men. “What are you doing? Do you not like cookies?” 

“Cookies?” Bucky asks as he glances down at the box again. Sam has already stood up and straightened out, but he’s still kneeling in front of the door. He can hear Alpine pawing at it, no doubt having heard Bucky’s voice, and he feels a little ridiculous now. “It’s Bucky.” He adds on now that he knows it’s not an explosive sitting in front of him. 

You nod slowly with a confused smile on your face. “Cookies. I made a bunch so I packed up the extra for you. When I knocked nobody answered so I left them, I wasn’t sure if I’d be home when you got back.” 

Bucky feels heat rise to his cheeks. He hastily picks the box up and stands. Sam laughs loudly and Bucky glances at him coldly. “Thanks.” He says quietly. 

You rock back and forth on your feet again. Must be a nervous habit, Bucky thinks. “I also made some cat treats. For Alpine.” Bucky recognizes the nervous tone in your voice as you stare at the box in his hands. “Thank you. For the help.” You say before spinning on your heel. You freeze and turn again, this time your eyes land on Sam. “Nice to meet you, Captain America, sir.” You look like you’re thinking of throwing your hand up in salute, but instead you turn again and rush down the hall. 

Bucky just stares after you until a muffled meow breaks his focus. He shakes his head before shoving the box into Sam’s hands and moving to unlock the door. “So.” Sam says with a poorly contained smirk as he follows Bucky inside. “She seems nice, James.” 

Bucky groans before snatching the box from his hands. “She knows I go by Bucky, she just calls me that to mess with me… I think.”

“And she knows Alpine?” Sam kneels down to pet said cat, but he jumps away and hides behind Bucky’s legs. “Come on, Al. We’ve known each other since you were adopted.” Sam stands up and rolls his eyes at Bucky. 

Bucky laughs softly at the cat. “She asked to borrow salt last night and kind of met him. Alpine didn’t really stick around to hang out with her.” He begins to open the box and notices a small note taped to the inside of the lid. 

He pulls it off hesitantly. “What’s her name?” Sam leans against the counter and pulls a cookie out of the box.

“Y/N.” He says quietly as his eyes skim over the note. 

James, 

Thank you for the salt. And the conversation. I hope you enjoy the cookies. I made some simple tuna treats for Alpine. 

Step One in getting your cat to love me. 

Bucky lays the note on his counter and looks into the box. His shaker is standing in the corner next to a small plate of cookies and a jar of what he assumes are the cat treats. Sam laughs and Bucky glances up to see him reading over the note. “Hey!” Bucky yanks it out of his hand and shoves it into one of the drawers in front of him. 

“Getting Alpine and you to love her, she means.” He laughs again and Bucky rolls his eyes. “That’s cute. I didn’t know you had a little flirtationship going on.” 

Bucky scoffs. “I don’t… What does that even mean? Did you see us in the hall? I don’t flirt with her.” 

Sam reaches for another cookie. “Really? Just felt like that’s how you would flirt. And you blushed so…” He trails off with a smirk. 

“I wasn’t blushing!” Bucky says defensively. He didn’t blush just because a pretty girl gave him cookies. He wasn’t in middle school. When Sam reaches for another cookie, Bucky yanks the box away. “Are you gonna order dinner or stand here and eat all of my cookies?” 

Sam throws his hands up in mock surrender and pulls out his cell phone. “Hey. No need to get defensive. Maybe it was just hot in the hallway.” He moves into the living room and flings himself onto the small couch. 

Bucky scoffs and looks down at Alpine, who has made himself comfortable at Bucky’s feet. “I wasn’t blushing.” He says quietly to the cat. Alpine just blinks. Bucky pulls a treat out of the small jar and holds it out to him. “You know I wasn’t blushing.” 

//

The next time Bucky sees you, it’s him at your door. He’s got a clean plate in his hand and is decidedly not nervous as he waits for you to answer. 

He lifts his hand to knock again when the door swings open. You’re standing in nothing but a sweatshirt and shorts that barely peek out from beneath it. Bucky swallows and forces his eyes up from your legs to your face. 

He gives you an apologetic smile when he sees your raised brows. “James.” You smile kindly as you lean against your door frame. “What can I do for you?” 

“Bucky.” He says automatically. He holds the plate out and notices your eyes catch on his gloved hands. “Figured you might want this back. I washed it.” 

You take the plate from his hands. “Thank you.” Bucky doesn’t move from his spot in the hallway. He’s not really sure why because he’s done what he needed to do. He just wanted to enjoy your presence, he assumes. You had begun to grow on him and your cookies were really good. Or maybe he had always kind of liked you. 

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. There’s an inviting smile on your face and he almost says yes. He wants to say yes. But he didn’t want to leave Alpine alone, he had already been gone for most of the day. 

Bucky gives you an apologetic smile. “I would… But I don’t want to leave Alpine alone.” You nod with a soft smile and Bucky watches for a moment before taking a step back.

“I’ll just…” He points over shoulder at his door. He turns and starts the short walk to his door. 

You laugh quietly. “Have a good night, James.” 

“Bucky.” He corrects. He takes a deep breath and turns to face you again. You’re still standing in your doorway watching him amused. “Do you want to… You can come to mine instead?” 

Your small smile transforms into something bright and excited as you nod. “That would be great. Let me grab my keys.” You hold a finger up and disappear into your apartment. 

As soon as you're out of sight Bucky slumps against the wall. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He thinks. His living room is bare except for the small, shitty couch Sam had persuaded him into buying. That and a lamp on an Ikea side table and his television. 

He imagined your living room was much homier. Probably decorated to fit your aesthetic and cozy. What would you think of his place? What did you think? You couldn’t mind it too much if you agreed to come, right? 

His nervous train of thought is disrupted when he hears your door slam shut. Bucky watches as you lock your door quickly. “Lead the way!” You look at Bucky with teasing eyes. 

Bucky smiles hesitantly as he turns towards his own door. When he opens it, he finds Alpine laying on the back of the couch and he stares confused at Bucky and the new addition to the apartment. 

“You remember Alpine.” Bucky says with a small smile as he beckons you further into the apartment. “It’s not much-“

“-It’s nice.” You cut him off. You’ve got a genuine smile on your face and Bucky begins to wonder why he had ever been nervous. You’d always been kind, he couldn’t imagine you having anything rude to say. “Hi, Alpine.” You say quietly as you step cautiously towards the couch. 

Bucky watches as Alpine looks up at you equally as cautious. “Nice to see you again. I hope you like the treats.” At the word, Alpine perks up and looks at you intrigued. 

Bucky quietly pulls a couple treats out of the jar. He moves as subtly as he can in order to avoid shifting Alpine’s attention. “Here.” He slips a treat into your hand. “See if he comes to you.”

You hold the treat out in front of you and Alpine sniffs the air. You don’t say anything, like you know trying to coax the cat to you might spook him. Alpine seems to appreciate it and moves towards you slowly. He snatches the treat from your hand before dashing away. He disappears down the hallways, but you don’t seem to care because you spin around to face Bucky with a happy smile. 

“Did you see that?” You laugh. Bucky swallows and nods. Briefly he thinks you have a beautiful smile before shaking the thought off. You take a seat on his couch and pull your legs up underneath you. “I’ll be his favorite in no time.”  

Bucky snorts. “I’m sure.” He says sarcastically. He sits next to you on the couch and moves to hand the remote to you. He lets a small smile be directed at you as he watches you make yourself comfortable in his home. It’s not much, but you seem to fit right in. 

When your eyes land on his gloved hands again, he thinks you’re gonna ask for a reasoning behind them. He’d have to come up with a poor excuse, not wanting to share the truth yet. But your eyes move from his hands to his face and you take the remote with a smirk. “You ever seen Legally Blonde?”

And, well. That’s that. 

//

The next time you and Bucky see each other, it’s in passing. He’s going out as you’re coming in. There’s a grease stain on your shirt and your red apron is barely stuffed into your purse.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. “Hey.” He says quietly. You spin around and slam backwards into your door. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He takes a cautious step towards you. His eyes trail over your face, your eyes are red and he can tell how exhausted you are. 

“It’s okay.” You say quietly. You take a few calming breaths. “I was in my head. It was a rough night.” 

Bucky leans against the wall next to you. “Wanna talk about it?” He’s grown so used to you just stopping to chat that this tense silence feels wrong. Normally he wouldn’t even have to prompt you, he would listen as you just launch into a story easily.

You trail your eyes over his outfit. “You look like you’re headed out.”

Bucky shrugs and doesn’t move from his spot. “Just a recap then. I have time.” He’s not sure what’s inspired him to do this. But he thinks it has something to do with this newfound fondness to your bright personality. He wants it back. 

You take a deep breath and nod. “Come in for a glass of water? Then I’ll let you go.” 

Bucky sighs in relief. “Sounds perfect.” He follows you into the apartment. It’s different from his. Bright, like you. You’ve got posters hanging neatly on the wall your tv is against. Plants sitting by your window. A large couch and soft rug. “Nice place.” He comments as he moves to sit on one of your barstools.

You laugh softly. “Thanks.” You drop your purse onto the counter and turn to pull two glasses out of the cupboard. “Where are you headed? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

Bucky glances at the time on your stove. “Oh… I help my friend out with meetings at the VA. I was headed to help him set up.” 

You slide a glass of water towards him. “You’re a vet?” He takes it with an appreciative smile. “I didn’t…” You shake your head. “Thank you.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not…” He trails off unsure of how to explain his status to you. Did you really not know who he was? “Tonight's topic is you.”

You roll your eyes and lean back against the counter. “Have you ever just had a bad day? Where nothing seems to go right?” Bucky nods and you sigh. “My master’s thesis, I’ve been working on it for months, I got back my draft today from my advisor and he tore it apart. Had a good cry about that. Got called in early to work, I need the money so I said yes. The diner was busy and we were short staffed. To top it off, my last customer of the night was a douche. He hit on me all night. When I told him no to getting my phone number, he threatened to take my tip away.” You laugh bitterly as Bucky sits in silence, listening intently. “And then when I walked away, he tried to grab me. So… Stellar night over all.” 

“Want me to kill him?” The words are out of Bucky’s mouth before he can think. He couldn’t imagine being forced to be nice to somebody who was just harassing him all night. In fact, he knows he wouldn’t be. And he knows you certainly didn’t deserve treatment like that. 

You let out a shocked laugh that turns into a full blown laughing fit. Bucky lets out an awkward chuckle as he watches you shake. 

“That’s…” You trail off and Bucky notices tears gathering in your eyes. “That’s really sweet.” You say wetly. 

“Hey.” Bucky stands up and takes a step towards you. He pauses, unsure of what to do, but when you start to shake again, this time with tears, his decision is made. “Hey. You’re okay.” 

He pulls you into him and you come easily. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist and rest your head against his chest as you let it out. 

Bucky rubs your back and tries his best to calm his rapidly beating heart. He hopes you can’t hear it because he’s sure it would break any kind of aura of nonchalance he had created. 

He glances at the time again. He really has to go. The meeting was starting soon and he’s sure Sam is worried about where Bucky is. He pulls back slowly, not wanting to let go. 

You look at him with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.” You nod dejectedly and take a step back. You don’t go too far, both of your hands still clinging to his jacket. “Can you watch Alpine?” He rushes the words out and he knows there’s a light blush rising to his cheeks. He just wants to make you feel better and he really does hate leaving his cat alone. 

You furrow your brows. “What?” 

“I mean.” He takes a hurried step back suddenly aware of you still wrapped in his arms. “I hate leaving him alone. And… You look like you could use some furry company.” 

A slow smile spreads across your face. “Are you saying your cat likes me?”

“No.” Bucky laughs. “But you are the only other person he doesn’t completely hate.” 

“I would love to watch Alpine.” You take a few rushed steps out of your kitchen. “I’ll change and head over.” 

Bucky lets out a relieved breath and nods. “Good. Cool. I mean-“ He shakes his head. “-my spare key is on top of my door. You don’t have to do anything but hang out with him. Don’t expect cuddles though, I’m not sure you’re on that level yet. Don’t give him too many treats.” 

You’re nodding like his instructions are even the smallest bit important. “I have to go.” Bucky says ago and takes another step towards the door. “I’ll see you later.” 

You nod and take off down your hall. Bucky lingers by your door for a moment.

“Wait!” You yell and come rushing out again. Bucky freezes and turns to look at you. “Thank you…James.” You smile brightly before spinning around again and disappearing. 

Bucky smiles to himself as he leaves. The bright was back. 

//

When Bucky gets home he’s more nervous than when he left. His palm is sweaty and all that’s on his mind is Sam’s constant teasing. 

Bucky didn’t have a crush. He just… Liked having you around. That didn’t mean he wanted to date you. Maybe he did think you were pretty. And sure when you had let him hug you earlier it had made his heart race. 

But it wasn’t a crush. Bucky was too old to have a crush. He takes a deep breath before opening his door. He can hear a movie playing softly before he even looks up. 

“Hey.” You say quietly from where you’re laying on his couch. You sit up hastily with an embarrassed smile. Alpine is laying on the chair across from you. “We’re friends!” You point to the sleeping cat. 

Bucky nods. “He actually stayed in the same room as you all night?” He asks doubtfully. 

You frown, but there’s a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “Maybe not all night. But he came out like an hour ago. I think he gave up on waiting for me to leave.” 

You pat the spot next to you on the couch and Bucky moves as quietly as he can. “How was your night? Do you feel better?” He looks you over. You looked less tired and from the blankets piled on his couch it looks like you had taken a nap. 

You nod. “A lot better… Thank you. I really appreciate you letting me hang out with your cat.” You look up at him with a nervous smile. “He’s just like you. You two were made for each other.” 

Bucky glances at Alpine. “What does that mean?” 

You poke Bucky’s leg with your socked foot. “Hard exterior, secretly wants to be best buds with me.” 

Bucky snorts and gently shoves your foot away. “My secret plan has been outed. Make the girl from 4B my best friend.” You laugh and move to tuck your feet under his leg. It’s silent for a moment, and Bucky knows you’re watching him so he busies himself with watching Alpine.

“Hey…” You trail off waiting for Bucky to turn his attention to you. “I don’t want to upset you or anything.” 

“That’s always a good start.” Bucky says nervously as he focuses on you. Your hands are fidgeting in your lap as you watch him. “What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing’s wrong! I just… Promise you won’t be upset with me?” Your eyes are pleading and Bucky can feel himself get anxious. What could you be so nervous about? 

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly. You don’t say anything, so Bucky swallows hard. “I promise.” He nods slowly. 

“Okay.” You take a deep breath. Bucky watches your eyes shift around the room before landing on his hands clenched together in his lap. “I thought I recognized you. Like, your name is so familiar and then when I saw you with Captain America…” 

Bucky looks down at his hands and nods. He knew where this was going. “I…” He trails off. 

“I looked you up.” You rush the words out. Your voice is small and Bucky feels any hopes he had for this friendship shatter around him. 

“I don’t… I’m not any of those things anymore.” Bucky cringes. His leg is shaking anxiously, but he just can’t get it to stop. He can’t even get himself to look up from his gloved hands, didn’t want to see the fear or disbelief that would be painted across your face. 

Your toes poke at his thigh again and it forces Bucky to look over at you. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you watch him, but there’s no trace of fear or anger, you wear the same kind smile that you always did. 

“I know that.” You whisper softly. Your eyes move past him and Bucky follows your line of vision to Alpine, whose bright eyes are staring at him. Bucky smiles gently at the cat as he stretches out and hops off the chair. Alpine rubs against Bucky’s shins, a welcome distraction from the impending conversation. Your feet curve upward to poke Bucky in the leg again. He looks up hastily at the gesture. “When I asked if you were a vet earlier, why did you say no?” 

Bucky purses his lips to think. The truth was he wasn’t at all sure how to explain everything to you. He didn’t have to explain things to Sam or Steve, they knew. “My war was a long time ago.” He settles on saying. 

“That doesn’t make you any less a veteran.” You say firmly.  “And there’s not much online about the Winter Soldier-“ There’s ringing in Bucky’s ears as the words come out of your mouth. What had you found? And what were you thinking? 

“Hey.” You lean over and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “There’s not much online, but I didn’t read what there was because I knew that it was your story to tell me. When you’re ready.” 

Bucky inhales sharply as you look at him with curious eyes. “I… I did a lot of bad things. I… I worked on making amends and I… I was pardoned.” He pleads with you like he’s sure you’ll walk out if you know everything. 

“Okay.” The word is quiet and your hand is still resting on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just wanted you to know that I’m your friend. Even with your super cool secret identity.” 

Bucky laughs at that. “It’s not a secret if you use your real name.” 

“Ah! You agree? We’re friends?” You say with a smirk. “Does that mean I get to see the super cool metal arm that’s always been covered around me?” 

Bucky shakes his head, but laughs. “Not yet.” You’re watching him carefully so he gives you a small smile. “I would say we’re friends though, yeah.” 

//

Suddenly, you’re always there. 

When Bucky has missions with Sam, you check in on Alpine for him. His spare key has moved from above his door to your keychain. 

You’ll come over with treats when he gets home from the VA. (Bucky likes to think you check for him when you hear the heavy footsteps in the hall and that’s why you’re always there right after he gets home.) 

He’ll bring dishes back whenever he sees you get home. (He does check the peephole when he hears footsteps.) 

You send him pictures of Alpine when he’s away. Alpine who still won't cuddle with you or even touch you, but who lays in the same room and has recently started allowing short pets. He sends you pictures of Sam and cities they’re in. 

And tonight, while he’s in New York, you’ve sent him a picture of you in his bathroom mirror with Alpine sitting pretty on the counter. 

He’s not supposed to be up there. 

All he gets is another picture in return, this time you have a thumbs up and Alpine is still on the counter. Bucky smiles. Sam notices. 

“Your girlfriend texting you?” He teases. 

Bucky scoffs. “She’s not my girlfriend… She just watches Alpine for me sometimes.” He looks back down at his phone. Nice. He sends back before stuffing it into his pocket and looking back at the man. 

Sam nods slowly. “Right. She just watches Alpine sometimes. And hangs out with you when she’s free. Don’t forget the treats she makes you and Alpine.” Sam lists off casually as he looks down at his fingernails. 

Bucky feels an embarrassed heat crawl up the back of his neck and looks down at his feet. “We’re friends. She’s a good friend.” 

When he looks up, Sam doesn’t have a teasing smile, but instead a genuinely happy one. Bucky thinks that this one is somehow worse when Sam grips his shoulder firmly. “I’m glad you have such a good friend, Bucky. Someone outside this super hero business.”

Bucky nods and swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

“I’m serious, Bucky. You deserve it.” 

Bucky gives him a grateful smile unable to say anything else.

//

Bucky creeps into his apartment at four in the morning. It’s quiet, like usual, but Alpine isn’t sitting on the couch like he normally does when Bucky isn’t home. 

“Al?” He calls out quietly. The logical part of him is aware that Alpine may have fallen asleep in his bedroom, or underneath a piece of furniture. But there’s another part of him that panics at the routine being broken. 

Alpine was always there to greet him. 

Bucky would rather be safe than sorry. “Al.” He whispers again, already reaching for the knife strapped to his ankle. He bends slowly and lifts his pant leg as he scans his eyes under the couch and coffee table in search of the cat. 

He stands with the knife in his hand and moves slowly down his hallway. His bedroom door is ajar, Bucky takes a deep breath before pushing it open all the way. Alpine blinks at him from the edge of his bed. The knife slips from Bucky’s hand as he stands, shocked in the doorway. You’re asleep. Asleep on the bed that he never used. 

The knife clattering against the ground stirs you from your sleep and your eyes widen when you notice Bucky standing there. 

“Hey!” Your voice is raspy and low. You rub your eyes and Bucky can only stare at your half-asleep form. “I… I thought you were going to be gone until tomorrow night.” 

He nods. “Yeah. I mean, we got things done sooner than expected.” He explains. You lean over to flicker the light next to you on. Bucky doesn’t recognize the pillow sitting behind you or the blanket that’s thrown over your legs, he thinks you’ve brought them over from your apartment. You must have because his pillow and blanket was sitting folded in his linen closet waiting for the next time he camped out on the floor or the couch. 

You smile apologetically. “I’m sorry. I… I got tired of falling asleep on the couch.” You whisper. “And Alpine lays with me on the bed.” 

Bucky hastily shakes his head. “No! It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize. I should’ve told you to sleep in the bed. I didn’t even think of it.” I don’t really sleep in the bed. He moves further into the room. 

You scratch nervously at your cheek before freezing in action. He almost laughs at the annoyance that crosses your face. You had mentioned once that touching your face was a bad habit you had been trying to break for months. “I should go.” 

“You don’t have to.” Bucky opens his dresser drawer in search of sweatpants. “Stay here. You’ve already got yourself set up. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You push the blanket off of your legs and Bucky has to force his eyes to stay on yours when he notices the already short shorts you’re wearing have ridden up your thighs from sleeping. “I can’t make you sleep on the couch, James. I’ll go!” 

“You know it’s Bucky.” He stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “It’s fine.” He stresses. “I… I don’t really sleep in the bed anyways. The couch is better.” 

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.” He can tell you’re hesitant, but your rushed movements have paused. “My apartment is across the hall! I feel awful for invading your space like this already.” 

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and watches curiously as you shift to sit next to him. Both your legs are dangling off, almost brushing his, and Bucky feels warmer than he had all week. “Doll, I’m serious. Beds are weird for me. I haven’t had one in so long that sometimes they’re just too overwhelming for me to sleep in.” 

He almost jumps when your head rests against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t think of that.” 

“It’s good to see somebody getting good use out of this bed.” He leans into you slightly. “My ma would have thrown a fit if she saw how much this bed was. 800 dollars for a mattress... 800 dollars back then is like, thousands now.” 

You laugh softly. Bucky glances down again. Your eyes are closed and he thinks you’re almost asleep until you talk. “Do you… Would someone being there help you sleep in the bed?” 

You don’t open your eyes and Bucky’s almost glad for that because he can’t look away from you. “I… I don’t know. It’s only been Al and I.” His eyes follow the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe slow and calm. 

You finally look up. “You should stay with me. The couch isn’t comfortable to sleep on, I would know.” You elbow his stomach gently. 

He nods before he can even think about it. “If… If you’re comfortable with it.” He whispers. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. I promise.” You move away from him and Bucky already misses the warmth you radiate. “I’ll let you change.” 

He leans against the bathroom door as soon as it’s shut behind him. “It’s okay.” He mumbles to himself. His nightmares had been getting better, but that didn’t mean they were gone entirely. 

They probably never would be. And he knew he couldn’t let himself be afraid of the bed for the rest of his life. He had bought the bed. He just hadn’t expected his attempt at getting over the anxiety to be with you. 

Why had he said yes? He thinks as he shakily slips his jacket off. He looks at himself in the mirror and sighs. It was a good question, why had he said yes? 

He slips into his sweatpants and just stands in the bathroom. He couldn’t change his mind now. 

Well, he could. He knew you would give him a kind smile and reassure him that he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. You were just that person. Kind and understanding and holding no judgement. 

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay.” He shakes his shoulders out and picks up his discarded clothes. He stops at the linen closet and pulls out his blanket and pillow. 

You’re already wrapped up in your blanket again when Bucky comes back into the room. Alpine has moved to lay the floor in front of his bed. You smile sleepily at Bucky. He feels himself smile back. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

(When his eyes crack open the next morning he finds Alpine curled at his feet and you curled into his side, he knows being with you wouldn’t be bad. It’s the first time he lets himself think maybe this really is a crush.) 

//

So, Bucky has a crush. Which is a little ridiculous because he’s over a century old and having a crush is so high school, but it’s there. When you smile in the hall and butterflies rush through his stomach or when his chest warms at a picture you’ve sent of you and Alpine. It’s so obviously there. 

“What are you staring at?” Your voice shakes him when he realizes he’s been staring at you this entire time. You’re sitting next to him on the couch, so close your legs are touching. “Do I have something on my face?” You reach a hand up to your cheek. 

Bucky shakes his head hastily. “No. Sorry, I was just lost in my thoughts.”

“Penny?” You ask softly and Bucky furrows his brows in confusion. “Penny for your thoughts.” You clarify quickly. 

He thinks the smile that appears on your face is bashful and it makes Bucky feel just a little more confident. Maybe he made you as nervous as you made him. 

“You’re really pretty.” He says suddenly. Your eyes widen and you look away nervously. A hand scratches at the back of your neck and Bucky bites down on his lip as he watches you. Not exactly how he hoped that would go. “I mean… I was just looking at… how pretty you were.” He cringes at the words as they come out of his mouth. 

He used to be so much smoother than this, he thinks. He remembered having a new girl on his arm every week and a friend of theirs for Steve. 

Alpine meows loudly and Bucky just knows the cat is laughing at him. “Thank you.” You finally say quietly. “I… I didn’t think you thought that about me.” 

“‘Course I do.” He says equally as quietly. “Always thought you were pretty.” He glances at you and smirks, “Even when I thought you were weird too.” 

You gasp and turn to look at him. “You thought I was weird?” 

Bucky laughs and nods. “After you came in the middle of the night for salt? A little. And the fact that you keep calling me James when I’ve told you it’s Bucky.” He raises an eyebrow. 

You smile brightly. “You introduced yourself as James. Why would I call you anything else?” 

Bucky presses his tongue to his cheek as he tries not to laugh. “Yeah. I’ve regretted that every day since. Nobody’s called me James since the forties.” 

You scoff. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Bucky looks away. “Well for decades I was referred to as soldat.” He glances down at his hands. He’d stop wearing his gloves around you after you’d spent the night, even told you a little of his story the next morning. 

Sam thinks your relationship is weird. You spend the night sometimes and both of you find time to spend together when you can. It’s like you’re dating, but Bucky knows it’s not really like that. He thinks you both bring a sense of calm to one another. 

He’s not sure how to shift that, or if you would even want to, into a relationship. He glances back at you with a tense smile. “Steve always called me Buck. Sam calls me Bucky. Last person to call me James was probably my mother.” 

“I’m sorry… I never meant to-'' You take a deep breath like you’re preparing yourself for what you're going to say next. 

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I was just pointing it out.” He tries to smile reassuringly. 

“I was just trying to flirt.” You say so quickly the words sound jumbled together. 

It takes him a moment to comprehend what you’ve said. “With me?” He points to himself. The words make his confidence rise exponentially. “You were trying to flirt with me?” 

“With you.” You confirm with a slow nod. You start laughing, but it’s soft and happy. “Of course I was! I wanted you to remember me! How could I do that if I called you what everybody else does?” 

“I don’t know. Anything else?” He laughs along with you. “I…” He shakes his head with a smile. 

You both settle and Bucky hears you inhale sharply. “The salt to come see you and talk, the cookies and treats for Alpine… I’ve had this huge crush on you since you moved in.” You say softly. 

Bucky nods, he could see it now. Then he starts laughing again. He feels you smack his shoulder. “I’m sorry… You… Sam said that those cookies and treats were you trying to get me and Alpine to like you.” 

You roll your eyes at him. “Keen eye. He saw I was flirting.” You tease gently. “Does it… Does it bother you? Or change anything? The fact that I was flirting?” You ask softly and full of nerves. 

Bucky smiles sweetly. “That depends. Do you still want to flirt with me?” 

You narrow your eyes, but nod. “I don’t ask just any boy to sleep in the same bed as me.” 

“Just me and Alpine?” Bucky nudges your knee with his. You nod softly and he inhales a deep, nervous breath. “It worked.” He says quietly. 

You nudge his knee back. “It did?” 

He turns to look at you again. You’re already looking up at him with hopeful eyes and Bucky feels his heart race. “Yeah. I like you a lot. I don’t... I haven’t felt this way in a long time.” 

A smile breaks out on your face. “I like you a lot too.” You whisper, like you’re afraid anything louder will break the moment. 

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers back. You nod excitedly and lean towards him. Bucky places a gentle hand on your cheek as shuts his eyes and leans in. 

His chest warms when your lips press against his tentatively, like you’re both still nervous it’s not real. Your lips are soft and Bucky knows his own are chapped, but he feels you smile against him and can’t stop his own smile from overtaking his face. 

You pull away, but you’re still close enough that your lips are brushing against his. He’s caught up in the moment staring at you when he feels something rub against his shin. 

It makes you pull apart. Alpine is rubbing himself against both your legs and purring softly. Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek. 

“Think you won both of us over.” 

》* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。* 。 • ˚《

notes // what do you do when your midterm is an essay & gave you a headache? write bucky barnes fanfiction. thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it. ps i’ve seen some spelling mistakes promise to edit those in the morning!

[crescencestudio]

Devlog #25 | 11.28.22

Hi everyone!

How have you all been? We are slowly approaching holiday season, so hope the end of the year has been bringing some moments of rest and connection with loved ones <3 We are back with another devlog, so let’s get into it! 

Writing

Writing has been where the bulk of my time has been spent this past month. I’ve been working closely with Wudgey, our developmental editor, to flesh out routes, endings, and information cohesion between everything. We’ve officially finished the route summaries for each character, and I’m quite happy with how the lore, endings, and character development has turned out! I think the magic, backstories, and characters have really come to life after talking with them, so I’m eternally grateful <3

Aside from that, my big, big focus has been Kayn’s route. I’ve begun writing the actual script for their route based on our outline and am currently sitting at ~25k words. At first, I was beating myself up a lot with the progress --- I felt like I wasn’t moving fast enough. But now that I’m actually seeing that number and realizing that’s from one month’s work, I’m pretty proud with myself, haha! This is just a rough draft, and it doesn’t include fleshed out choices, the fun characterization scenes where we get to just have fun with the LIs, etc., but I’ve written up most of the basic plot (I’d estimate about 80%). I anticipate this first draft without fleshed out choices and extra characterization scenes will end at around 30k-35k words, so almost there!!!

Art

Last time, I showed you all one of the BGs Vui had finished. And honestly, most of the art development process has been on Vui’s side since I haven’t been spending as much time on Alaris art (((you will see why below LOL))). Above is the most recent background I got back from them, and I’m honestly blown away by how it looks. I find it so unbelievably stunning and can’t believe it’s going to be featured in the game. Hope you all like it as much as I do and are just as excited for future BGs Vui cooks up! 

I have been working on some CGs, but I’ll be keeping those a secret for now hehe ^^

Additional Features

Finally, the sound and music! I’ve already started receiving some of the voiced lines back from the VAs for the demo portion. I haven’t gotten a chance to review them yet since I’ve been preoccupied, and they’re not ~as~ time sensitive. But I’m hoping to start reviewing the lines next month and hope to have a better idea of how the characters are sounding! Regardless, I’m very excited to give them a listen <3

I’ve also been working with Peter for song composition for the soundtrack. We have three songs complete, specifically the main theme song, romantic/tender track, and the tense track. I’ll be previewing them in the near future, so be on the lookout!! 

"Market Research” 

I’m going to have to start unironically having a spot for fanart highlights, haha! Lately, I’ve been trying to improve my rendering and other aspects of my art that I don’t have as much comfort with. Because I don’t want to only draw Alaris all the time, I use other works as a way to practice my art, so that when I work on CGs and sprites, I’ll be able to use those new techniques to hopefully deliver a better visual product for you all! 

I was quite proud with how all of these came out. This month, I took a dive into Mystic Messenger and Blooming Panic, two games I’ve heard so much about but have never gotten the chance to play. I felt so inspired with both of them since I have little exposure to chat-based games and fell in love with the GUI (the discord layout of Blooming Panic is especially creative!!), characterization, and voice dynamics between the cast. 

While playing games doesn’t seem directly related to game development, it helps me see what’s out there and improve on things to bring to Alaris. I’ve already gotten a lot of ideas floating around that I hope to implement, so I hope you all look forward to it! Until next month, and I wish you all an early safe, warm, and happy holidays!!! <3

[1dmonthlyficroundup]

1D Monthly Fic Roundup

Hi, and welcome to the 1D Monthly Fic Roundup for July 2022! Below you’ll find 1D fics that were all published this month in the order they were submitted to the blog. We hope you’ll check out these new fics! If you would like to submit your own fic, please check this post on how to submit or visit our blog @1dmonthlyficroundup​. You can find all our other posts here.

Happy reading!

🔹Anything that feels good by bluegreenish / @greenblueish [E, 13k, Harry/Louis]

A few seconds pass, then Louis suddenly blurts out the last thing Harry expected him to bring up that night.

“Harry, do you want to nest?”

A mixture of distraught coughing and choking escapes Harry's throat. It feels like his lungs have a leak and all the air is flowing out without him being able to do anything about it. 

“What do you mean?” he croaks when he finds his voice again. “Alphas don’t nest.”

or, the one where alpha Harry gifts Louis nesting supplies, but the omega doesn’t nest.

🔹Here You Come Again by @neondiamond [E, 22k, Louis/Harry]

A year after taking over his family’s peach orchard, Louis thinks he has it all figured out. His routine on the farm is mundane, yet familiar, and his dog Clifford is more than enough to keep him company. It isn’t until Harry, his ex-boyfriend who broke his heart and left their small town a decade ago to pursue a bigger, brighter future in the city, comes to stay on the farm that he realises just how badly he was lying to himself.

🔹dream about a summer night by fearsparks / @onlyforbravest [T, 33k, Louis/Harry]

“Have you kissed yet?”

Harry stammered before finally managing to ask, “What?”

Niall laughed at him and threw an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in. “I said, have you kissed yet? You’re acting like a proper couple, you two.”

“I know.” Harry smiled wistfully. “It’s pretty new.”

“New? Nuh-uh,” Niall disagreed. “You’ve been acting like this the entire summer.”

(Working alongside each other as camp counsellors, Harry and Louis grow closer than they’ve ever been before. That’s not a problem, but now they have these newfound feelings for each other to deal with.)

🔹On Your Left by amomentoflove / @daggerandrose [T, 11k, Harry/Louis]

“Get up! It's Disneyland week!” Louis shouts to his two friends from the end of their bed. It's six in the morning and Louis has been awake for a while trying to kill time before an appropriate hour to wake up his travel companions.

“What time is it?” Liam groggily asks. He pulls the covers from his eyes and squints up to Louis.

“ … six.”

“The fuck, Lou?”

“I'm sorry! The dining hall opens soon and the rope drop is at eight. Plus, Zayn is going to take for-fucking-ever to get ready.”

“Don't drag me into this,” Zayn grumbles. He pulls the covers tighter over his head.

"How long have you been awake?” Liam asks. He halfway sits up in bed so as to not bother Zayn.

“… three-thirty.”

“Louis! You're going to crash by noon today.” Liam falls back down on the bed.

“I won't! The spirit of Walt Disney will keep me awake!”

🔹Hill Country by safetyfilm / @larrieblr [E, 11k, Harry/Louis]

Louis is a farmer. His family gives him hell for it, only because it’s not a nine to five job and he should set a better example for his siblings.

When he's invited (scratch that, required) to pay a visit for a will reading, he has to double down on his work chores in advance. But spring break is just around the corner in Austin, which means Harry's free and he really, really wants to hang out.

🔹I know I've got this (because I've had it all along) by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed [T, 16k, Louis/Harry]

Louis’ grip is delicate when she pinches the edge of the paper, brows furrowing as she reads the words that are written in an elegant loopy script. She glances at Liam once the words sink in, and he looks so happy and proud, so expectant. He’s on the edge of his seat, only Zayn’s hand on his shoulder holding him back, and Louis can feel something murky swirling in her stomach at the thought of having to feign appreciation. Harry StylesBody Positivity & Boudoir Photography The card is purple, the letters printed on it in black, with an almost lace looking overlay over the words. There’s what might be a bow belonging to a cute pair of panties separating Harry’s name from the service they offer. It’s a cute card. It’s what’s on the other side that has Louis’ stomach in a knot. Good for one (1) photography session and up to thirty (30) photos of your choice.

🔹starin' back from the lookin' glass (there stood a woman where a half-grown boy had stood) by 4ureyesonly28 / @evilovesyou [E, 23k, Harry/Louis]

Harry squeezed his feet into the black heels his mother handed him from their little satin bag and stood up, slightly wobbly for a few seconds before he caught himself.

“They’re small on you, I know,” Mama said quietly as she went and grabbed the mirror. “You’ll have to use your first money to get a place to stay, but after that you need to buy shoes that fit you…”

She was still speaking, but Harry couldn’t hear her anymore over the blood rushing in his ears as she turned the mirror and made him look at himself.

He looked… He was… He felt like a woman. Where just under an hour ago, he’d seen a boy, barely a young man, shaving off the bits of his beard that had started to grow in so late, he now saw a woman. She was as real as he had ever seen. His posture, unsure and shy, morphed into hers, shoulders straight and hip cocked as she tried her best to balance herself on the high heels she’d inherited.

🔹Firebird by @wabadabadaba [G, 999 words, Niall/Liam]

“Who is it?” Liam questioned in a whisper. Again, Niall waved him off, but Liam skated to her other side. “Who is it?”

Niall pushed Liam away from her and flipped him off when he hooked his stick around her ankle and pulled himself back in. She was having a hard time focusing on what Paul was saying and she knew Liam wouldn’t stop so she relented and put it on speaker.

“I have seen some of the roster, you have some great guys so far. I have coached a couple over the years,” Niall spoke.

Liam puckered his lips for a kiss, knowing she was referring to him, but she rolled her eyes and pushed his face away.

or Niall is helping Liam practice before his training camp and she gets exciting news about an acclaimed position she interviewed for.

🔹Zoey by @wabadabadaba [G, 2k, Harry/Louis]

Harry knew his first name, but he liked the way Dr. Tomlinson sounded more. Harry watched as Louis unclasped her harness and set it aside and pet her back and under her chin. Louis kissed the top of her head and murmured sweet nothings to her- mostly about how pretty she is and how well behaved she is. Harry wished it was him.

or Harry has a huge crush on his cat's veterinarian and finally decides to do something about it.

🔹Will Death Be Our Last Kiss, My Love? by @fallinglikethis [M, 6k, Louis/Harry]

As a half-veela, Louis has always had a past full of romantic turmoil. But his past comes back to bite him fully on the ass when a case falls into the lap of fellow aurors, Niall and Liam. A case with which Louis has a disturbing connection to the victims.

🔹Let Them Eat Cock by yeah_alright / @uhoh-but-yeah-alright [E, 1k, Harry/Louis]

For Bastille Day, (King) Louis gives his loyal subjects a cheeky choice: Kiss the Crown or Storm the Bastille. Part 6 of Glory Hole-idays

🔹it gets dark by @finelinegynandromorph [E, 98k, Harry/Louis]

“I feel like a pin-up of everything I should be at 28,” Louis confesses after a moment. He glances quickly to Harry, concerned he hasn’t phrased himself properly, but she just nods with empathy. And Louis always forgets, he supposes, how Harry really does understand, even if they’re coming at it from different places. They orbit each other, swimming after associations the other never wanted—they always have, and as Louis stands here biting his lip and feeling overcome by stepping into the costume society expected him to pull on as his everyday skin, he realizes that Harry might be the person who understands that best in the world.

or, harry’s a drag queen and louis’ been in love with her for years. an unexpected ode to femininity, in all of its complexity

🔹and i don't care it's obvious by @alwaysxlarrie [T, 20k, Louis/Harry]

However, his issue was that no one had ever created a guide that one could follow in regards to what to do or how to feel when your crush was your sister's best friend. Harry would like someone to please come up with a book dedicated to said guidelines because as it was, he was absolutely winging it and hoping for the best.

🔹Do You Remember Nineteen by Kikiberoski16 / @larrysballetslippers [T, 9k, Louis/Harry]

Harry was nervous, more than ever before. MSG was something they never dreamt of reaching at only nineteen years old. He took a few deep breaths and looked at his husband, marrying young was the best decision of his life. Harry traced over his ‘L’ tattoo and waited for the sign to approach the stage. The screaming fans fired up his belly. The curtains fell down and the boys started playing.

“We’re The Fools! Get loud!”

🔹Truebonds by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom [E, 39k, Louis/Harry]

Louis doesn't mind being an omega, most of the time. Modern medicine allows him to suppress almost all of his omega traits, but the one thing it can't suppress is his scenting cycle. Fortunately, that only needs to be dealt with every seven years and he counts himself lucky that he can afford the services of a reputable agency.

With his cycle due, he reviews the matched candidates and there's one alpha who fits all of his criteria, S28A. That's pretty much where things start to unravel.

Enter Harry Styles, scenter for hire.

Or the one where Louis is an omega in need, Harry is an alpha for hire, and destiny presents them with a fate they never saw coming.

🔹Now You're Lost, Lost In The Heat Of It All by @marchessa [E, 44k, Harry/Louis]

Green eyes flashed under the emperor's helmet, and he stood proudly in all his glorious armour even when the plates were smudged with blood and dirt, and in some places the steel was dented in. It would have been obvious even to a blind man that the alpha fought alongside his soldiers.

Courage was rapidly deserting Louis as he walked even closer to the menacing statue of raw power and authority. In the emperor's close proximity, the omega queen felt the need to swoon like a damsel in distress, and he had to grit his teeth and focus on the pain his body suffered from to ground himself against the dizziness that slowly began to cover his head in a fuzzy blanket.

" Emperor Styles," Louis greeted him, leaving his bodyguards behind.

Or the story of a great medieval Emperor and his consort.

🔹Here's Your Perfect by @brightgolden [E, 54k, Harry/Louis]

All finesse tossed aside, Harry yanks the envelope from Miss Eden’s hand. He hears her laugh, bright and cheerful as he tears into the envelope. His eyes skipping over the complimentary paragraph congratulating him for being assigned, settling into the centre of the letter - the name of his future mate.

And suddenly, Harry feels there isn’t enough air in this world for him to inhale as he recites the name in his mind. Louis Tomlinson.

In the world where mates are assigned to everyone and deposited to their door when an agreeable partner is found for them, Alpha Louis has recently been given his. However, he is nothing like the type of alpha that the omega academy prepares Harry for.

🔹Sheer Pride by sitandadmire / @louistomlionson [T, 4k, Louis/Harry]

“Wait-” Louis says suddenly, turning around after taking a couple of small steps forward. “It’s just, wow, you’re at Pride with a baby… who’s missing a shoe, by the way.”

“Oh, shit,” the stranger replies, but covers the infant's ears too late. It makes Louis laugh for the first time in a while.

Or: A Pride AU where Louis finally moves out.

🔹Strange Blue Water by sitandadmire / @louistomlionson [M, 2k, Louis/Harry]

Harry drives home just in time to see the sun.

Or: A Cowboy AU.

🔹Maybe Tomorrow? by Lhhome / @lh-home [E, 13k, Harry/Louis]

Louis resumes walking towards his apartment, lost in thoughts of Harry and how much he wishes he could just ignore his insecurities and also skip over the part where he has to figure out if Harry could even feel the same way as Louis does without ruining their friendship and just get to a part where they are together. It’s only as he is in bed and drifting off to sleep with images of a laughing Harry that Louis realises that he never told Niall his name.

🔹In the midst of a storm by wordsnnotes / @quelsentiment [M, 54, OT5]

Zayn didn’t know that a new story was about to unfold right in front of his eyes. If he had known, maybe he wouldn't have been so quick to claim that his life was quiet and uneventful, even verging on boring at times. If he had known, it was hard to say whether he would have stayed in bed that day, kept the bookshop closed, and avoided all that was to come or, on the contrary, gone to the pier himself to greet the newcomer with eagerness.

🔹Searching for a Paradise by wordsnnotes / @quelsentiment [T, 5k, Zayn/Harry]

With a good career, a nice apartment and a kind boyfriend, it would be fair to say that Harry has it all figured out. But when her old friend Zayn comes back to London after years of travelling the world, Harry starts to doubt the life that she's built for herself.

🔹Something Blue & Someone New by @littleroverlouis [E, 6k, Harry/Louis]

Single Alpha Louis moves into a new apartment building and doesn't realize he misses courting someone until meeting his next door neighbor, a charming Omega named Harry.

Louis is working up the nerve to officially ask him to court, but what if Harry secretly beats him to the punch?

🔹Crowd Work by @littleroverlouis [T, 2k, Louis/Harry]

Harry is a stand up comedian that likes to interact with his audience.

Although tonight, someone turns the tables and roasts him.

-Fic Fest-

🔹Wanker's Day Fic Fest @wankersday / masterpost

[southslates]

full in all your veins

@kanejweek day one: mythology (soulmates) / kanej / one-shot - rated T / read on ao3! / 1545 words

Kaz teaches Inej how to read Kerch uncharacteristically, patiently. She sits at his window, on his floor, and he tosses books at her. Between doing the Crow Club’s numbers and dreaming of revenge, he listens to her speak his language and make it her own, like so much more. On her tongue, the dreary words he’s spent his whole life fitting into his mouth flow like water down the mouth of the Beurscanal.

He tells himself that he does this because it is what makes sense. Inej is always in his rooms, and it is necessary that his best spider read Kerch. She’s a quick study, a quick study with the knives, with the letters, with hearts. She’s been with the Dregs for barely a month and she has their respect; she is like him, who knows that’s enough. He’s seen the brass knuckles she keeps in her pocket, stained at the tips. He’d told her he couldn’t promise her safety. He told the truth. He doesn’t know why there’s an ache in his chest which contests that.

One day, she sits on his desk as he’s filing papers. She’s feet away from him—he couldn’t reach out and touch her. It’s closer than he lets most people get, but he knows she will not touch him. She will not even try. He doesn’t want her to try.

He doesn’t.

“Kaz,” Inej asks, “can you . . . can you read my mark?”

“You have a mark?” he asks, without calculation, in surprise. There is something cold creeping down his spine, Jordie’s voice whispering in his ear, asking him what exactly he’d thought of in the dredges of his mind, what he’d dared hope for. She is good, the voice says, have you looked at yourself in the mirror, monster?

Kaz shoves it down into a box he doesn’t want to open. Inej is barely a friend. She’s pretty, but he can take his eyes off her. This kind of desire is the one thing he cannot conquer, and he is not one to abet his weaknesses. He will ignore this, and he will best it.

“I got it in the Menagerie,” she says quietly, and he suddenly regrets his snapping. That can only mean so much. “I don’t want to know who, if it’s terrible. And I don’t—I don’t know who came there. Could you tell me?”

Kaz Brekker has no room for weakness, no room for soulmarks and the tales his father had spoken into existence on cold Lij nights. His father and his mother had not shared the mark, never had letters carved into their skins. Few did—there were far too many people in the world, from Fjerda to Ravka to Novyi Zem, for most to meet theirs.

He knows the world is cruel, but his opinion of it sinks lower and he finds himself needing to hold his breath as he considers that Inej—who he can admit is fundamentally good—was cursed with the mark of someone who came to the Menagerie. At best, the name will be that of a married Kerch man—at worst, a rapist.

“Kaz?” Inej asks again. She seems vulnerable, and Kaz allows himself this concession. He breathes out as though he’s exhausted, as though his heart is not beating through his chest, and nods at her with a scowl.

“Show me,” he says gruffly. He can’t hold in his shiver as she lifts up her leg and shows him the side of it. She is feet away, he thinks, looking at her skin, smooth and brown and gorgeous and disgusting, and you are weak. It’s just flesh.

He focuses on the letter and the word carved into her skin. He wonders if it would be Charles Loeder or Petjer Sasker—he will tell her the truth.

But the mark tattooed into Inej in glaring white, in Kerch, is not the name of a rich mercher, a slaver, a man meant for hell. It’s a silent name, and it makes Kaz reach for the gun beside him.

“Is it that bad?” Inej asks.

Kaz looks away from it as quickly as he can, sees the tears welling in her eyes. “It’s . . .”

One pushes over. She will eventually be able to read it as he can, so he tells as much of the truth as he can muster. “I’ve never heard of them, so they can’t be the worst of the lot.”

“Kaz,” she shudders out. “What does it say?”

“K Rietveld,” he breathes out. “This is a waste of time. Go get Jesper.”

He turns back to his papers as she turns with a small sniffle and leaves out the window. There is a single tear where she sat on his desk, and he stares at it for a long moment before grabbing his cane and stalking out of the attic. Surely there’s someone in the club who needs to be roughed up tonight.

/

Kaz searches his body for words, words in places he might have missed. He twists in the mirror, his shirt off, so close to drowning for so long, until he notices the white letters written in an unfamiliar script at the small of his back.

He goes to the university library and steals a global translator’s book, and then he spends hours trying to read the letters. He knows what they will say, but he needs confirmation. He needs—

When the club’s latest dealer skims thousands of kruge out from under Jesper’s unwatchful eyes, Kaz takes him to the Dregs’ backroom and breaks his wrists. He means to rough up the Suli man and then let him go—Kaz Brekker always has a reason—but a little boy dancing in rain puddles in Lij dances in front of his consciousness, hurts his heart. He takes off his shirt and stands with his back to the man, his skin crawling with insects, dead hands in every crevice of the pale flesh which hasn’t seen the sun in years. “Read that,” he commands.

“I,” the man stutters out the first letter. He’s lost teeth, and his mouth is a bloody mess. “Ghafa.”

The man works—worked for the Dregs, so he’s well aware of who the Wraith is. His eyes grow large before Kaz takes his cane and shoves the end of it into his mouth, and then quickly shoots what’s left of his face. He crumbles to the floor, a mess of blood and gore, and Kaz stalks back to his room. On his way, he tells Pim to take the body out.

“Why did you kill Saran?” Inej asks at night in his window. He can hear the heart-hurt in her voice, so he ignores her. She jumps off in a huff, and he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care.

/

“Johannes Rietveld,” Inej repeats the name he’d given Colm Fahey to him slowly, like an incantation. “Rietveld.”

“Yes.” Kaz doesn’t look at her. He looks at the bandages, at the wound at her shoulder. That fucking net.

“Tell me,” Inej asks him. Her breath catches, and he feels himself move in-synch with her, the same souls, the same heartbeat. He wants to let this go, he wants to let her go, he never wants to let her go.

He doesn’t say anything. He leans back and takes off his shirt, his undershirt, the layers of cloth he uses to armor himself, and then he takes in a deep breath and lets the rest of the gold shake off too.

She is sitting on the bathroom sink, so he turns to her. He can hear her gasp when she sees the white etched into his back, in swirling Suli script. It’s a quiet sound, but to him, it’s a melody. He feels it reverberate in his chest. It pains, it feels like death, it feels like salvation.

“Okay,” Inej says simply, and he turns around to face her. He is vulnerable like this, so vulnerable, planes of scarred skin in front of her eyes. He has trusted Inej with his pride, but never his shame. But he has faith in her convictions. “Why?”

She is looking at him, he is not looking at her. He thinks the world has stopped spinning, that it could end like this, him just steps away from the circle of her arms. He is so close and yet he is eons away. To move closer, he needs to admit a weakness.

“You deserve him,” he says simply. “And he’s dead.”

It happens slowly, the pressure against his face. He’s looking down, and Inej wraps her fingers in bandages, ripped from his shirt, and places them against his face. The fabric is crisp, and cool, and he finds himself wanting more, wanting nothing.

She’d told him she wanted him without armor.

He raises his eyes to her, because he is Kaz Brekker, and he is going to fight for her—for him—for them.

“I think you’re worth saving, Kaz,” Inej says quietly, tracing his cheekbones. She is bleeding out on the sink, and he thinks this is what religion must feel like. “Kaz Rietveld.”

He looks into her eyes, puts down her hand, grabs her bandages and decides he is going to finish the story written into his soul.

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 1

I'm finally back with some more rowaelin! I started this fic in november last year and wrote the first 10k in 24 hours, but from then on this fic was a struggle... Thank you so, so much to @morganofthewildfire for sharing so much of your time to help me with this, this fic would not be here without you 💗 I'm so happy to have finally finished it and can share it on here. I hope you enjoy

CW: past drug abuse, minor character death, violence

7.7k - masterlist - ao3

--

When her agent sends her the script it’s not the first time she’s heard of Rowan Whitethorn, his name is written at the top under the heading director, which itself is under the big red text reading confidential. He’s been at this stuff for a while now, directed a couple of movies that popped up on her radar but that nothing ever came of for her, and he’s well known in the business.

He was even nominated for an Oscar a couple of years ago, and she watched the ceremony with Lysandra, slapping the bills into her outstretched hand when he didn’t win.

His movie had been far too fucking raw for him to have won, she knew that, a tale about a group of kids who witnessed a murder and how it stayed with them and fucked them up into adulthood, but it had stuck with her nonetheless and she’d put her money on him anyway.

She reads the section of script Dorian has sent her, tucked up in bed with a glass of sparkling water and her most comfortable sweater, leaning back into the mountain of expensive pillows she had Elide buy for her and pondering how so much money could end up so uncomfortable, and she knows it’s something special.

She realises she wants this role, almost to an uncomfortable degree, when she’s about five lines in. The heroine is bratty and rash, but serious and pained in a way that makes her completely fleshed out and Aelin wants to play her, wants to be her and embody her in a way that takes her out of the pit she’s in.

She hopes this could be what gets her out of it.

Aedion had tried to pull her out, gods bless him, dropping by her apartment every morning for weeks to check up on her with a coffee in his hand, topped with cream and two sugars the way he knows she likes. Each morning he let himself in with her spare key, the one she gave to him the day she moved in, wanting him to be able to let himself in whenever he wanted but also knowing there was no one else she wanted to give it to.

She would have given it to Sam, would have given everything to Sam, but he’s gone and she’s left sitting here, wondering how to salvage what’s left of her reputation.

What reputation she had even managed to build after starring in one mediocre TV show and a handful of low-budget movies. She knows deep down, and in a way her brain likes to remind her of when she’s at her lowest, that the main reason she isn’t a complete nobody is because she’s Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. Her therapist tells her every time she bothers to go to a session that having a famous mother doesn’t mean she’s a failure and that she has to recognise each of her successes as her own. She nods along every time, but she doesn’t believe her. What has she managed to accomplish truly on her own?

It hasn’t been made public yet that Rowan Whitethorn is involved in the film, she only knows because Chaol wrote the whole script himself and texted her to let her know when he signed on to direct. She’s known Chaol since she was eighteen and took her first solo trip to Rifthold, drawn to the lights of the big city and the almost magnetic pull of the heart of the industry. He’d stumbled upon her in a club she was far too young to be in and had pulled her out, sending her home in a cab that he paid for. Looking back she was grateful for his attempt to avoid what she knew later was an inevitability.

She had cursed him when he told her she’d still have to audition, but she gets it. She hasn’t exactly behaved in a way recently that makes people want to take a chance on her.

Stumbling out of clubs, eyes as wide as saucers and high as a fucking kite isn’t the kind of star casting directors are desperate to hire, but she’s trying to be better. She’s promised those around her that she’ll be better, and she knows that the only reason she hasn’t ended up in rehab is that she has an incredible therapist and a highly persuasive manner of dealing with her friends and family. The only reason they’ve taken that chance on her is time, and she’s grateful for that mercy.

She turns the page, hitting the final line for the third time. Chaol’s script is so good she’s read the few pages she’s been sent over and over.

She only reads scripts in physical copies, takes the time to print them out using her shitty printer that belongs right back in 2008, and she knows it’s wasteful but she allows herself that small luxury of the crisp paper in her hand as she delves into each new world. Her character is in the middle of a teary monologue that she knows exactly how she’d do, the way she’d halt her breath and choke out the words-- it’s not her character. Yet.

The audition is next week, and she’ll work her ass off to make sure she’s ready. Her usual pre-audition ritual involves taking up far too much of Lysandra’s time to practice reading the lines and filming herself time after time, take after take, and watching it back in the unholy hours of night until she’s happy she’s made an improvement.

Or at least that’s how she used to do it, nothing has made her want a role like this in a long while. She worries as she bites her lip, that wanting something this much means she’s getting over Sam. That maybe one day she won’t think of him and hear the pounding in her ears, won’t feel the lightheadedness that comes with a memory of their time together. Worries that if she forgets the sounds of his screams she’s failing him somehow.

She takes another sip of her sparkling water. It’s poured into a wine glass so she can at least pretend she’ll get the relaxation she craves. Alcohol was never one of her vices but she finds it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s unhealthy as far as coping mechanisms go, but she’s been worse so it’s going down as a win.

Chaol told her some guy called Brullo is casting this one. She’s never heard of him, which is kind of rare. She’s been on the periphery of this bubble for pretty much her entire life, following her mother around her own movie sets and sitting on the wooden directors chair when her legs still dangled off the side, but if he’s like any other casting director in Adarlan she knows how to impress him.

When she reaches the last line of the part of the script she’s been sent, her mind wanders again to Rowan Whitethorn.

He’s the kind of director up and coming actors can only hope to one day work with, even though she’s pretty sure he can’t be much more than thirty, he’s built himself to a level where he can be choosy with his projects.

It's a well deserved privilege. Each of his works has stayed with her after watching, his style is gritty and dark, but grounded in a way that leaves her empty each time after finishing.

She wants this, and she buries the guilt she feels for that. Sam would want her to want this. She deserves it, or at least she hopes she can come to.

Dorian books her a mid-morning flight so she doesn’t have to wake too early before the audition, he’s a damn good agent and one she definitely doesn’t deserve with his seemingly endless patience, but she’s continuously grateful for him.

Aelin styles herself for it, ties her hair back and leaves the makeup to a minimum in a way that she hopes shows them she’s right for the part, that she can be the insecure little girl who experiences far too much. She knows she doesn’t have the sheltered innocence the character has, but she’s an actress and this is what she does. Aelin pretends for a living.

He’s also booked her a room in a pretty nice hotel for the night, she’s not sure whether he’s used her meagre acting funds or the funds from the account she knows he mom throws money into every month. It’s an argument she and Evalin have had repeatedly, she wants to stand on her own two feet, but she never protests too hard. The account kept the roof over her head when she was too busy snorting her life away to consider where her next paycheck would come from.

Aelin throws herself backwards into the crisp white bedding on the hotel room bed and takes a deep breath. The only luggage she brought with her is a carry on slung somewhere by the door and the room feels too empty to sit here and wait for the car that’s arriving to take her to the studio in just over an hour. If she sits here and waits the nerves will only build, and then she’ll itch for something to take the edge off.

She picks her phone up to text her cousin.

Jet lag from a 2 hour flight. Who would have thought?

Aelin waits two minutes for a reply, locking and unlocking her phone as she sits there, but one doesn’t come. Aedion’s probably at a training session and not checking his phone. Aelin runs a hand through her hair, careful not to dislodge the pins she placed carefully in it this morning, she needs to stop using him as her crutch. She knows he doesn’t mind, but it’s not right either way.

She needs to get out of this room.

The streets of Rifthold are busy and crammed as she meanders down them, clutching the takeout coffee cup she bought from a vendor with a stall at the side of the road.

People pay her no mind as she walks, the oversized shades hide her eyes that she knows are a dead giveaway for her membership of the Ashryver line. Even if she didn’t wear them, everybody else here wants to be someone, and so far she can still blend in if she tries.

She sends a text to the assistant organising the audition, it’s kind of shitty of her but she keeps it brief because she can’t remember their name, letting them know the car isn’t needed anymore and that she’ll make her own way there. She needs the stroll through the streets to clear her head.

Aelin needs to nail it. She hasn’t felt the twisting of desire so sharp in her stomach for a long time and the only way she’ll manage it is with a clear head.

She alternates her breathing with sips of her coffee, the taste is bitter but she keeps drinking. She pulls her phone out to check the directions to the studio.

Spontaneous isn’t a word Aelin would use to describe herself anymore, any longing to go with the flow died the minute she lost control. It’s safer now to plan, to make sure she won’t lead herself astray.

Brullo is a man in his mid forties, with dashes of grey seasoned through his muddy brown hair, and kind lines around his eyes as he smiles and shakes her hand. Aelin wipes the sweat off her palm on her jeans before clasping her hand in his.

The audition goes about as well as she can hope for, she remembers every line, and the other casting director is fairly natural reading the lines for her to act against. Aelin swallows back her tears after she finishes, trying to keep what dignity she can to end the audition when there’s snot threatening to run down her upper lip. It was a brutal scene to start with, but if she can pull this off she can surely manage the rest.

Brullo’s expression is carefully guarded as she leaves, giving nothing away, but Aelin thinks she did a good job, which is all she could have ever hoped for.

She’s staring at the tiled floor, mulling over Brullo’s parting words, thanks Aelin, our people will be in touch, when she hits something hard and warm.

She’s too busy dissecting those eight words to register exactly who it is with their hands clamped around the top of her arms, steadying her as she stumbles, but she looks up and her gaze meets that of a pair of striking, green eyes.

The man gripping her is easily over a head taller than her, broad and strong enough that she fights back the shiver that wants to roll through her at his touch. He’s staring down at her, the strong planes of his face drawn into a deep frown, with his strangely coloured eyebrows pulled in.

They’re a kind of silver that matches his short cut hair, and it shines in the fluorescent light of the hallway in a way that it can only be natural, but she’s never seen a shade quite like it.

“Sorry,” she manages to stutter out, still thrown from the vulnerability of her audition.

“It’s alright.” His voice burns through the words, his accent rolling in a way that raises hairs down the back of her neck. He flashes her a dangerous grin and she steadies herself. She knows what that look means. She’s used to the male attention, and as much as she hates to acknowledge it, she knows her looks are an element of how she’s got as far as she has. That and her family’s name.

The decision of whether to register in the guild as Aelin Ashryver or Aelin Galathynius was one she had spent hours deliberating over. Did she want the level of independence Galathynius would give her, or the reputation being an Ashryver would bring?

The man releases his grip on her shoulders, but not before running his hands down her arms until he reaches her wrists which he releases with a light squeeze. She takes an almost imperceptible step back, leaning back to breathe some air into her lungs. All she ends up doing is filling her mind with this man’s smell, inviting and intoxicating, a delicious combination of pine trees and snowy winter mornings.

“I don’t usually go around slamming into people like this,” she tells him, letting some of her snark slip through. He’s said two words to her so far but she knows he can take it, and she wants to play.

His grin becomes even more wicked and it truly is a sight to see. This man is built like a god; broad, muscular shoulders stretching the white button up he wears and she spies the dark lines of a tattoo threatening to slip past his collar.

It’s been a couple of months since her last mindless hook-up, and this man would more than do. The mischief glimmering in his eyes tells her he’d know how to make her gasp and beg.

“Slam into me anytime.” His words are a sensual croon and her mouth drops open slightly, but he sidesteps her before she can manage to speak again, nodding towards the door she’s come through. “Good luck with whatever you were here for.”

With that he’s gone, leaving her to turn and watch the way his grey slacks pull against his thighs as he walks away from her.

Aelin tries not to think too much about the outcome of the audition, and flies back to Orynth in economy class with a sleep mask tucked over her eyes lest she be recognised when all she wants to do is curl up in bed and be alone for a bit. That or get fucking wasted, and she can’t do that.

She tries far too hard to forget about the man from the hallway, forget about the way his voice had rumbled deep in her chest and the tug in her belly that his words had sent through her.

She begs Elide to come to a bar with her, and she agrees. Aelin needs to pay her more, maybe change her title from publicist to publicist-come-part-time-therapist-and-life-saver. Aelin’s not sure she has the budget for that really.

Elide would smack her if she knew Aelin’s thoughts. Would scold her for looking at Elide just like an employee as if they weren’t childhood friends and Elide hadn’t been there holding her hand through the whole Sam thing. As if she, Lysandra and Aedion hadn’t been her only reason for being here now.

A bar might be a risk, but she can sip her sparkling water while she browses the small selection of men that Orynth has to offer.

She enjoys the easy conversation she has with Elide, chatting about what their friends have been up to, even though most of them are mainly Elide’s friends at this point. After Sam she stopped speaking to everyone but those who were necessary. She couldn’t manage any more than that.

“You should come with us next time,” Elide is saying as she sips her own lemonade. Aelin knows Elide would normally choose a crisp glass of white wine over a lemonade and her sobriety solidarity touches her heart.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, noncommittal.

The look Elide wears tells her she’s debating pushing the issue for the millionth time against the risk that Aelin would pull back again. She hates that she does this to her friends so she sighs.

“Text me next time,” she tries. “I’ll see if I’m free.”

Elide offers her a thankful smile, and Aelin returns it, trying to tell herself this is what she needs and that she shouldn’t just stay locked up thinking about Sam.

There’s a dark haired guy at the bar catching her eye, his jeans are far too tight and his shirt is ridiculous, but she can see the body beneath and his face is striking. Elide notices her stare and smirks.

She likely knows why Aelin invited her out tonight, but doesn’t mind. Lorcan’s probably waiting for her at the home they share, waiting for her to come back so they can be in love. Aelin hates the bastard, except she doesn’t. She introduced her friend to the tall, dark and grouchy hockey player at the wrap party for the shit teen movie she did a couple of years back, and she’s big enough to admit she wants what they have.

She had what they have.

What’s left in her glass slips down her throat easily in one mouthful and she promises to text Elide tomorrow before slipping out of the booth and over to the guy at the bar.

“You going to just stare at me all night?” She asks with a sly smile. “Or did you plan on doing something about it at some point?”

His smile makes him look even more attractive.

“Maybe I was waiting for you to make the first move, a beautiful girl like you can be intimidating.”

It’s a shit line and she rolls her eyes, but tugs him into a cab back to her place anyway.

“Please.” Her voice shakes as she begs. “Please don’t do this.”

The man in front of them scoffs and Sam squeezes her hand, his palm rough against her own.

“Aelin, baby. It’s okay, just do what he says.”

He lets go of her hand and turns back to the guy in front of them. His face is covered by a black mask, only two slits show her the dark brown of his eyes. She can barely look away from the knife he holds out in front of himself, it’s pointed at Sam but that doesn’t make her feel any better, it makes her feel worse in fact.

“Your wallet,” the guy demands.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, fat and hot, as she fishes around in her bag for her purse.

“Just dump the whole thing,” the guy growls, irritated, but she’s pretty sure she’s going into shock and she can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

Sam’s voice is steady by her side as he throws his own wallet onto the street in front of them.

“Alright, man. We’re doing everything you say.”

“Hands up.” The mugger’s voice is sharp. “Don’t fucking move.”

She raises her arms straight in the air, trying to control the way her hands are shaking and the attacker ducks down to grab their things.

She lets out a tiny whimper and feels Sam spin to her, his eyes begging her to trust him. No, she shakes her head.

“I said don’t fucking move,” the guy yells and lunges for Sam.

His scream cuts the night air and she whirls, hands dropping into the air between them as he drops to the ground. The mugger takes off, sprinting down the empty street and she falls to her knees by Sam’s side.

In the dark, the pool spilling out across the floor by Sam’s side just looks black, but she knows that really it’s red. She’s not stupid. His face is twisted in pain and her hands flutter around his torso before she manages to pull back the flap of his jacket.

There’s a hole in his white t-shirt and now her jeans are wet where she kneels.

She needs her phone, needs to call someone who can make this all better, but her phone is gone.

She presses her hands against his side and his eyes shutter closed as he gasps. His breathing is stuttered and uneven.

“Sam. Sam, no,” she cries. “I’ll get help. You’re okay.”

“Aelin.” He raises a hand to press against her cheek, and the blood on it is sticky and warm.

“No, Sam. No, stay with me.”

The scream that tears through her throat will hurt tomorrow but now she barely feels it. “HELP!”

His breathing becomes much quicker as she presses on his side and screams again.

She knows abstractly that she’s crying, tears and snot streaming down her face as she desperately presses her hands against his side.

There’s a strong arm around her waist, tugging her back and away from Sam, and she screams one word over and over.

“No, no, no, no.”

There are people here now, leaning over Sam, leaning over his body.

“NO.”

Aelin gasps as she launches up in her bed. The sheets are stuck to her clammy skin and her head flies to the side. The guy is gone, the side of the bed he occupied when she fell asleep now cold. Good.

She lives it over and over in her dreams, sees the dark street more often than not, feels the phantom warmth of his blood down her legs. Wakes screaming herself hoarse just as she did that night. She doesn’t normally let people stay the night. Even when Aedion tried for the first few weeks after the fact, she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t turn her brain off for even a second. Every time she closed her eyes she was back on that street, begging and pleading for him to open his eyes.

She grasps at her side for the switch of her bedside lamp and flicks it on. Her room is cold and empty and she hasn’t had it in her to decorate past the basics so it’s plain and impersonal when she looks around, trying to calm her breathing.

She checks the time. 6:25am. Not bad, she must have managed about six hours of sleep last night, and it’s more than she usually gets.

There're a few texts waiting in her inbox, including one from Elide, and she expects it to be a request to let her know that she got home safe but it’s not.

Call me as soon as you wake up.

Sent at 6:02am. Elide is a chronic overworker, no matter how much Aelin begs her to stick to a 9 to 5 schedule, but she couldn't imagine her friend any other way. The smiling emoji at the end of the text lets her know it’s nothing she needs to panic about, so she takes a moment to scroll through her other messages. It’s unusual for her to wake up to so many.

She clicks on her conversation with Dorian, the only message she can see, his most recent one, just says Aelin. He has sent her nine messages while she slept, and she scrolls up to reach the first one.

Aelin, you did it. You booked the Rowan Whitethorn movie.

Her heart pounds in her chest, running into overdrive as she processes the words on her screen.

She got the part. She fucking did it.

This is one of those moments she knows she’ll remember.

Dorian has forwarded over a number of contracts and official things but she ignores them in favour of dialling Elide’s number.

“Aelin!” Her friend’s voice is breathy when she answers. “Congratulations, I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, El.” A pause where she takes a deep breath in. “I can’t believe it.”

She falls back onto her mattress, pressing a fist to her lips as she smiles, eyes closed, almost giddy as she listens to her friend talk.

“They’re putting a press release out today at 12:30, announcing you and the male lead, who I haven’t found out yet but I will.”

“Oh my gods,” she sighs, covering her eyes with a clammy hand.

“I know,” Elide laughs.

She allows herself one tear as she stares up at the white of her ceiling.

This is big, she can feel it.

Later her phone buzzes as Elide sends her links to two different articles breaking the news.

Fenrys Moonbeam and Aelin Ashryver to star in new Chaol Westfall drama. More to follow.

Rowan Whitethorn signs on to direct The Crescent City, the latest project from Chaol Westfall (Throne of Glass, The King’s Hand & more).

She presses the phone to her chest as she lets out a sigh of relief.

It all moves pretty quickly from that point.

She’s on a plane back to Rifthold the next day and Chaol has sent over the whole script for her to read on the plane, bypassing Dorian completely even though that’s how it normally goes and she knows the two are like brothers.

Chaol was the one to introduce her to Dorian, and they kind of took her under their showbiz wings in the first few years she began to get really serious about acting.

They gave her the inside scoop, having been in the industry for a few more years than her. Chaol writing and making movies and Dorian doing all the background stuff like contracts and negotiations and exposure. They took her to their wrap parties that everyone knows are just networking events and introduced her to some of the big names in the industry without so much as batting an eyelid, and she knows she owes them a lot.

The script is phenomenal, and she has to try and hide the tears that form when she reaches the end, it probably wouldn’t be the best start to the project, being photographed crying on the plane on the way to start shooting. It really is some of Chaol’s best work, and she sends him a text when she lands that says fuck you, I hate it, but his reply lets her know he knows she’s joking.

It tells the story of her character, Feyre, and how she’s dragged into selling drugs to pay for her mom’s hospital bills. Along the way she meets Fenrys Moonbeam’s character, Rhysand, the glowering bad-boy who’s well established in the gang and together they see some shit and do some shit but manage to get out together. The topics are kind of cliché and over done, but Chaol has managed to add a level of originality to it that makes it really special.

It’s heavier on the romance than Rowan Whitethorn’s previous projects, but it’s gritty enough that she can see why he’s signed on. It’s going to be hard, she knows this, and it will really push her to her limits trying to embody the range of emotions her character goes through. But she wants it, and she will make her performance incredible if it fucking kills her.

There’s a niggling part of her brain that reminds her that she’s surrounded by some big names on this project, names that are big for a reason, and she can’t let them hiring her be a mistake.

She sends Chaol a follow up text, wtf are these names btw???

He ignores her.

When she’s in the car taking her to the apartment the studio is renting out for her while they film she decides to take a little trip through Instagram and look up her new co-star. Fenrys is a household name by now, a couple of years in after his debut, but it can’t hurt to know a little more about her leading man.

f.moonbeam01 comes up as the first option when the types the three letters f e n into the search bar and he has over eleven million followers.

Shit.

Not that she needs a reminder but it slaps her in the face that this is actually big. Aelin only has a few thousand followers herself and Elide has already told her to prepare herself for that to rise.

His Instagram is a mixture of mostly photos of himself, some selfies and some professional shots, and he’s obviously gorgeous. His deep brown complexion playing well against his golden curls with a straight strong nose and flawless white teeth. He’s definitely leading man material, and she can tell just how charming his grin is even through a screen.

There are also promo pictures for all the movies he’s involved in at the moment, there are at least three projects he has coming out this year. Damn.

His most recent picture is a screenshot of the article announcing their casting, and he’s actually tagged her in the photo along with Rowan himself. She hasn’t seen the tag until now, it’s normally Elide’s job as her publicist to tackle the professional side to her social media, but there’s 6.4 million likes on the photo.

Again, shit.

She can’t help herself from clicking onto Rowan’s account, rowanwhitethorn is a pretty simple handle. He only has 27 posts, most of them are behind the scenes shots from projects, one with his classic director’s chair that has his surname printed across the back in thick white lettering, and a few pictures of different cameras and pieces of equipment.

There’s only one picture of him on there, and it’s from 2017. He has his back to the camera and the sunset behind him lends a shadow that covers all of his features. Very artsy she muses to herself as she double taps the screen to like it, he probably won’t see anyway, the notification will probably get lost in the ones his account no doubt gets from his 2 million followers. The only thing she can gather from the photo about his physical appearance is that he has pretty broad shoulders.

She’s tempted to google him, wanting to know what he looks like, but she feels a bit too much like a stalker, and she knows she’ll meet him in a couple of days anyway so she leaves it and pulls up her emails to reply to the seemingly endless list of forms she has to fill out and send back to Dorian.

The apartment she’s living in for the next few months is modern and airy, with clean lines and bright decor. Aelin likes it, and while it’s not hers in the same way as her home back in Orynth, it’s far better than a hotel room that lower budget movies tend to shove actors in. Another reminder that this time is different, there’s a bigger budget than she’s used to, bigger names than she’s used to, and she can’t fuck this up. There’s more eyes on her now than ever before.

She sends Elide a picture of her new bedroom and her friend just replies with a bunch of exclamation marks and she forwards the picture across to Lysandra too. Aelin wanders through to the kitchen, wondering if anyone bothered to stock the kitchen, not that she can’t do groceries herself, it would just be nice. She’s delighted to find a fridge full of fresh produce and gets about making herself a dish of pasta and veggies.

She tucks herself in front of the big television, munching away as she watches some National Geographic documentary about whales and it helps to take her mind off the fact that this is her last night of peace for a while. She’s trying not to get too in her head about it, there’s a fine line between knowing it’s a big deal and freaking the fuck out about it, and she needs to stay on the right side of that line, needs to keep herself in check.

If she allows herself a moment to relax, a moment to sink into the situation and bask in the opportunity; she’s excited.

And depending on how well this movie does, she knows she may not have another night like this one. Somehow the thought doesn’t seem to scare her.

Lysandra calls her as she’s waiting for the car to arrive to take her to the studio, it's day one of their table read today and she’s tired. She spent all of last night tossing and turning, unable to shut her mind off and panicking over every single detail of how this day could go.

She’s lucky it’s only a table read, she’s not sure even a professional make-up artist would be able to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hello, you.” Lysandra’s voice is cheery through the phone and Aelin smiles, she’s really missed Lysandra and hasn’t taken nearly enough time to seek her out during her recent whirlwind. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

They had texted since the news dropped, but with Lysandra shooting a campaign for a brand she can’t remember somewhere over in the Southern Continent they haven’t had time yet for a call.

“Thanks Lys,” she says as she gets into the back of the sleek black car that the studio has sent for her, tucking her small black backpack onto the seat next to her. It’s all she can use at this point, any other bag just makes her think of that night.

“How’s it going? Have you met everyone yet?”

Lysandra runs in these circles of A list celebrities and Aelin wouldn't be surprised if she already knew Fenrys. She met Lysandra when they were teens; years before her first show for Victoria’s Secret, years before she was walking for people like Gucci and Prada, and they stayed close when they were both living off cheap ramen and thin strands of hope. Aelin likes to tease her about hanging with a lowly C-lister like herself but Lysandra is always quick to quip that she’s maybe a G-lister at a push.

That could change.

“I haven’t met anyone so far, but I’m literally on my way to meet everyone now.”

“That’s exciting, you’ll have to let me know if Fenrys Moonbeam is really that good looking in person.”

“So you don’t already know him?” she asks, teasing. Maybe Lysandra doesn’t know quite everyone.

“Oh you know, apart from every week-end when we hook-up, we’re not really that good friends.”

Aelin laughs, mostly to herself, knowing that somewhere out there that probably is a story that’s cropped up in some cheap tabloid. She knows there’s probably some dating rumours about herself and Fenrys already even though she’s still yet to meet him. It’s just how it is, she knows this, has known this since she was old enough to read the stories about her parents’ messy divorce.

“What does Aedion have to say about that, hm?”

“Oh, he joins us obviously!” Lysandra’s laugh is bright and loud through the grainy speaker.

No-one is more desperate for Aedion to propose to Lysandra than Aelin, not even the magazines, desperate for a scoop of the golden couple, quarterback for the Rifthold Ravens and the world-famous supermodel.

“I think I’ve heard enough, thanks,” Aelin laughs as the car pulls through security checks at the studio. “Lys, I have to go, I’ve just got to the studio.”

“Okay, good luck! Promise you’ll call me later though and let me know how it goes.”

She needs to make sure she puts aside a minute to catch up properly with Lysandra, she’s been slacking recently and she knows her friend misses her. She misses Lysandra too, and Aedion. Maybe she’ll stay with them for a couple of days when she gets a break from filming, she can probably see them far more often now that she’s in Rifthold too.

“I promise,” she agrees. “Tell Aedion to make sure he spoils you from me.”

Lysandra snorts, “Oh he does, I’ll pass it along anyway though.”

“Means a lot. Love you, got to go.”

Lysandra’s returning love you is sincere, but she cuts off the phone as the car comes to a stop outside the plain brick building.

She readies herself in the back of the car, pulling down a deep breath to center herself, she can do this.

The girl leading her to the room doesn’t speak other than to tell Aelin to follow right this way, and she’s grateful, she’s not sure she could speak right now without vomiting all over the dated linoleum flooring.

She needs to get a grip, and fight the urge for a hit that strikes her when she’s nervous like this. It could make her fears disappear, at least for a moment before they all came crashing back down ten-times worse the minute the high faded. There is a reason she packed that shit in, and she knows her nerves will pass. It’s been a while since she’s done any of this, her last movie read was pre-Sam and no matter how hard she tries to push it down, there’s a lot of pressure on her for this to go well.

The girl pauses outside an unassuming white door and holds a hand out to gesture for Aelin to go in. She rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high before she steps into the room. If all else fails she’s still Evalin Ashryver’s daughter and to some people that is something to be proud of.

Fenrys Moonbeam is the first person to catch her eye when she steps into the room, and it seems he’s done some stalking too because he ends his conversation by the food table with some others she doesn’t recognise and bounds straight over to her with a grin.

“Aelin Ashryver,” he says, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. “I’ve heard of you. It’s a pleasure.”

“You have?” She’s both surprised and not at the same time as she holds a hand out for him to shake.

He bypasses the hand she holds out and tugs her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and knocking her backpack off her shoulder.

“I have,” he says as he bends down to pick her bag back up. “Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. She needs to stop acting like a bewildered school girl meeting the Queen, she needs to remember that she has second billing for this movie thanks to Dorian.

“Don’t worry about it.” Aelin finds a smile and plasters it on.

Someone calls for everyone to take their seats and she notices the name placards spaced out in front of each chair. She locates her own and it's surreal to see her name printed there, Aelin Ashryver, between Fenrys and another actress playing her sister called Manon Blackbeak. She’s even less known than Aelin, and she only feels slightly guilty for how much that relaxes her.

Aelin knows how this goes down, they sit opposite the production team, the director and all the executive producers and she realises that she’s opposite the sign that reads Rowan Whitethorn.

She slides into her seat, Fenrys and Manon chatting over her head as she does, and she spots a male slipping into the chair opposite her. He’s wearing a slim-fit forest green henley and dark jeans, his shoulders are just as broad as they were in his Instagram photo and here there’s no shadow across his handsome features.

She can’t deny that he’s attractive, she knew it the first time she saw him. Her stare locks onto the man from the hallway after her audition and he smirks at her as if they have a secret. And maybe they do, but now she’s realising that he’s her boss, and a little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Elide is whispering to her that opportunities like this don’t come around everyday.

She owes it to Sam and she owes it to herself not to fuck this up, but the look that Rowan Whitethorn is sending her across the table makes her think she could risk it all.

It takes them three hours to run through it in full, and she’s happy to see she’s not the only one with a tear in her eye at the end. Rowan doesn’t cry, but he hasn’t looked at her since before they started and each time she read a line she avoided looking at him. She knows there were a couple of times where he nodded along with her expression of the lines. She’s ignoring it.

This is what she lives to do, they’re not even filming yet and she feels like she’s right where she needs to be. It’s cliche but she breathes easier when she acts, the air feels lighter when she takes on a new personality and feels all the things she’s told to feel.

It takes away the restlessness she feels when it’s all just down to her, being told how to feel is far easier.

Her therapist tells her she has both anxiety and PTSD, but she feels like giving it a name doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. She knows a diagnosis can be a relief for some, but to Aelin, what she feels is far too messy to be summed up in four letters. Her life has simply become the before, and the after, even though what each of those contains is a complete fucking shit show.

There are two Aelins; pre that night and post that night.

The Aelin from before that night doesn’t exist anywhere but in her own memory.

Once the run through is completed and basic notices are given by the producers, things like call sheet distributions and health and safety, the occupants of the room begin to mingle. She sees him make a beeline for her, and she swallows. She��s not ready for this.

“You look surprised to see me.” His voice is as hot as it was the last time she saw him, the slight rasp in his throat and his accent. Gods, the accent.

“You don’t look too surprised to see me.” She tilts her head at him because she feels way thrown off, like he has all the power here. Which he does. But like, she can play it cool. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? “Maybe had a little google search?”

He shakes his head at her, biting his lip kind of like he wants to laugh, and she bristles. She needs to level the playing field.

“Says you.” He’s definitely laughing now. “I saw you liked my photo last night.”

“What about it?” She shrugs, hoping her acting skills are up to it. He only tilts his head to the side as he takes her in.

“Do you think I didn’t know who you were in the corridor? I’m the director.” And fuck him for saying it like that, full of an easy confidence that in any other situation would have had heat pooling in the floor of her stomach. “Brullo discussed the casting with me.”

Right. Of course.

She’s not sure what to say next. Honestly? She kind of wants to flirt with him, but fuck.

Instead she hums a laugh, not really caring whether he thinks it’s sincere or not, and looks absentmindedly around the room instead of back up at him. He reaches a hand out to brush his fingers down her arm, looping them round the bones of her wrist and squeezing slightly like he did the last time before letting go. Her eyes snap back to his.

“Just between you and me?” he asks and the smile he wears is far too hot for her to deal with right now. “I think we made a good choice.”

“Thanks,” she says, but it’s a little too breathy. A little too dazed for having spent such a short amount of time in his presence. She’s aware that she needs to be careful, they are very much not alone in this room right now, and she doesn’t need to start any rumours that would destroy her chances of escaping this without a scandal.

She’s here to do a job, and she’s going to do it well. She doesn’t need any distractions.

He leaves her soon after that, and his parting remark of “have a good first day, Aelin” sticks with her, and she tries not to replay the way his voice had wrapped around her name.

Manon Blackbeak is watching them from across the room, and she arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at Aelin. She ignores her; let her think what she wants, she’s surely professional enough not to gossip to any press, and stomps over to where Fenrys is chatting with one of the producers. It seems like a good enough place to start.

[coepiteamare]

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak,  header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante​  word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories! 

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”. 

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!” 

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle. 

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance. 

“You could have called before you barged in.” 

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.” 

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind. 

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.” 

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes. 

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera. 

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.” 

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.” 

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.”  Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera  a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet. 

“Used to. Not anymore.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.” 

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up. 

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder. 

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.” 

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!” 

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works. 

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly. 

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers. 

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.” 

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders. 

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.” 

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter. 

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold. 

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.” 

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice. 

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog. 

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.  

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go. 

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else. 

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes. 

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.” 

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills. 

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you. 

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.” 

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?” 

“Yes please.” 

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you. 

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives. 

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?” 

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again. 

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.” 

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing. 

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?” 

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?” 

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?” 

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.” 

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice. 

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare. 

It could never. 

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives. 

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you. 

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep. 

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows. 

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.” 

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy. 

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.” 

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.” 

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.) 

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes. 

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.” 

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while. 

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall. 

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?” 

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.” 

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?” 

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.” 

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up. 

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself. 

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much. 

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too. 

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?” 

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences. 

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer. 

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.” 

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold. 

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you. 

Did you eat? 

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought. 

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition. 

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?” 

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas. 

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.” 

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings. 

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed). 

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol. 

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue. 

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you. 

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head. 

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head. 

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi? 

Who am I to you? 

What do you see through the lenses?  

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t. 

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back. 

He’s alone again. 

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile. 

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile. 

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall. 

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat. 

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry. 

So why does it hurt so much? 

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent. 

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin. 

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember. 

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry. 

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this. 

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you. 

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs. 

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back. 

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear. 

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways. 

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself. 

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you. 

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you. 

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about. 

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is. 

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out. 

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” 

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him. 

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you. 

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his. 

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you. 

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all. 

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.” 

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing. 

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.” 

“I don’t-I’m not following.” 

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?” 

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it. 

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee? 

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you. 

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to. 

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline. 

He’s never been more ready.