#there are only four screens and one is always some angel studios thing

[hellostranger1961]

living in a rural small town as a movie lover is hell on earth btw yeah i can pirate shit but i love the theatre experience so much and nothing indie or foreign or slightly less popular than marvel disney pixar blockbuster gets released in a 70 mile radius of where i live.

[valscigarette]

Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

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By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing. 

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind. 

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away. 

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces. 

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it. 

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge. 

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself. 

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place. 

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth. 

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it. 

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course. 

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action. 

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances. 

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.” 

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him. 

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest. 

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge. 

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday. 

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her. 

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries. 

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more. 

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal. 

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds. 

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs. 

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob. 

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own. 

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him. 

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh. 

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need. 

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp. 

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm.. 

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks. 

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days. 

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs. 

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems. 

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat. 

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole. 

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks. 

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection. 

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body.  Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences. 

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one. 

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence. 

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours. 

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

[angryinternetduck]

yellow & blue

[not my pic] Hello and welcome to 2.7k words of pure angst! This doesn’t really have a purpose lol but it’s sad and angsty and features 2020 Brits Harry so why not!!! Have some depressed Harry, angelic reader, and yellow suits. Featuring Harry Styles x famous!reader. Inspired by Woman by Harry Styles, It Isn’t Right by the Platters, and When I Was Your Man by Bruno Mars (which should give you an idea of just how angsty this is lmao).

The first time he met you, Harry was wearing a yellow suit. The first thing you said to him was a compliment about it. That suit sparked a conversation, and that conversation sparked an interest, and that interest sparked the best two years of Harry’s life.

If Harry said he hadn’t thought about that suit while preparing for the 2020 Brits, he’d be lying.

The chatter of the table he’s at isn’t boring by any means, but it’s not anywhere near captivating enough to keep Harry’s attention on the conversation and off of you. He heard about your new boyfriend, of course - who hasn’t - but this is your first public appearance together and Harry is having just a little bit of trouble breathing.

It’s been four months. Four months since you broke up, three since the news went public.

As far as the public knew, the separation was mutual. As a brand new artist, you needed to take a second to find yourself as a person. As Harry Styles, the man the myth the legend, Harry needed to focus on his next album and possible future acting career. He also supported you in your decision, and knew that the two of you would, of course, remain the best of friends.

Most of that’s true. You only just released your second album - which is doing spectacularly, of course - and Harry really does need to get this next album done. But it wasn’t mutual. Harry doesn’t think any of his break ups have been truly mutual. You broke up with him. There isn’t really any getting around it. Not that the public has to know.

The problem is that Harry understands why you broke up with him. As heartbreaking as it is, he realizes what he did. He knows that he wasn’t a good boyfriend. He doesn’t really have an excuse, either; he can explain away his faults all he wants, but at the end of the day, you’re just too good for him.

Which makes it all the more depressing to watch you positively glow without him.

Part of him wants to go over and beg for your forgiveness. He wants to walk over and get on his knees and say, I love you with all my heart and I’ll never make another mistake again and I’ll love you forever and ever, please, please take me back, I’ll do anything.

Another part of him loves you too much to do that. Maybe you’re meant to be with this new guy. Maybe he’s your one, your only, the one worthy of all your love and attention. Maybe he’ll make you happy in ways Harry never did.

Because really, all Harry wants is for you to be happy. He wants you to glow like this all the time, to forget the feeling of sadness, to never cry a single tear again. He wants the only pain you ever feel to be an ache in your cheeks from all your smiling.

He just wishes he could be the one putting that smile on your face.

One thing he’s noticed is that your happiness seems to coincide directly with his. Whenever you’re happy, he’s happy. Not at the moment, actually, because you seem happy as a clam and Harry feels like his chest is caving in on itself, but whenever Harry thinks “happiness,” he thinks of moments with you. Of moments when you were happy. Moments when you were happy because of him, with him, for him.

He surprised you with a picnic one year for your birthday. He went all out, spreading a blanket down and everything, and the two of you drank wine, ate sandwiches and snacks out of a picnic basket, and talked in Harry’s back yard until after the sun came up.

Whenever Harry thinks “happiness,” that is the moment that pops into his head.

It wasn’t a loud sort of happiness, either. It wasn’t a bouncing on top of the world, adrenaline rushing through his blood, head pounding with excitement and joy and energy sort of happiness. He wasn’t breathless or wide eyed or buzzing with emotion.

No, this was a quiet happiness. It was the very definition of content. It was your head on his shoulder, your hand intertwined with his, your whispers of, “I love you,” the soft kisses exchanged as the sun set and the stars began to twinkle into the sky. It was your giggles at his jokes, your eyes brighter than the moon, softer than the wispy clouds suspended in air.

Harry’s getting a hollow ache in his chest just thinking about it. It hurts, really, because each of those memories, those days, those nights, carved a little hole in him and filled him with love and adoration and the purest happiness anyone’s ever experienced in the history of the world.

Now that you’re gone, that happiness has disappeared and all that’s left is a hollow, empty pit.

Since you’ve been gone, other memories have started creeping out of the shadows. These are different memories, memories of Harry’s failure and your disappointment and nights spent apart and tears sliding down your cheeks.

The problem with these memories is that it’s not a specific memory. It’s not one singular memory that Harry can turn over and over in his head and decide what went wrong. It’s not one thing that Harry can think about and solidify and apologize for.

It’s a whole bunch of things. It’s all the nights spent at the studio instead of with you. It’s all the last minute anniversary gifts and half hearted, distracted dinners, and all the forgetting of events and details. It’s the gradual falling away of random weeknight flowers, it’s the slow decline of hidden poems around the house he set out for you to find.

Well, maybe there is one thing. It might have been that one date night he cancelled. It was at the very end, during the knowing glances after frequent fights, after the slow, painful descent into acceptance but before the official conversation.

Dancing with the Stars had come on TV one night.

“Hey, I’m a star,” you murmured to him, curled up against him on the couch.

“Got that right,” Harry hummed, and you smiled up at him, and that smile made this night one of the good memories. “It should be just us two,” you told him, watching the pairs made up of one professional dancer and one celebrity dance on screen. “No professional.”

You giggled. “Yeah, we’re too good for them anyway.”

You took to dancing around the house after that night. Your dancing always brought a smile to Harry’s face. Funny how all you had to do was twirl, laugh, smile, breathe, and Harry would want to smother you in kisses and gift you his entire heart.

Sometimes you managed to rope him into it. Often you wouldn’t. Often, Harry would wake up to soft music playing in the kitchen, and he would walk in and see you dancing. He’d sip his coffee, and you would spin around and make up fancy footwork, and Harry would grin and blow you kisses and whisper, “I love you.”

He offered to take you dancing one night. He lay next to you in bed and traced his fingertips over your cheeks, lips, nose, and told you all about the night the two of you would have. He talked about live music and warm food and twinkling stars and dancing. You closed your eyes and smiled and hummed one of his songs, and Harry kissed you.

Then he got busy at the studio on the night you decided on. He stayed long. He called you. You didn’t pick up, because you were in the shower, getting ready for you big night. And you didn’t see the voicemail until after you were ready, until after you were sitting on the couch waiting for him, and when you saw the voicemail you jumped up because you didn’t look at the time it was sent, and you thought the voicemail was him calling because he was outside to pick you up.

You weren’t crying when he arrived at home. You just had a quiet sort of disappointment in your eyes, one that was almost more painful than tears, because this look told Harry that some part of you expected this. Harry didn’t look particularly guilty because he hadn’t realized how excited you were. He thought you probably didn’t even get ready. He thought you’d say, “Aw, well,” and move on.

He didn’t think he’d find you on the sofa, dressed in the most beautiful summer dress he’d ever seen, looking like an angel with a broken wing. He never dreamed you’d be so upset, never dreamed he’d be the reason for you being so upset.

That was the night he realized he was nothing but a mortal man in the presence of an angel.

An actual, real live angel.

An actual, real live angel who was losing her glow because of him.

Harry takes a miserable sip of his drink and tries to involve himself in the conversation happening around him. It doesn’t work. The noise level in the room is almost headache inducing, but somehow Harry can still pick out your laugh through the chatter.

He thinks, for a moment, that he’d like a shot of that laughter. He’d like to bathe in your happiness just once more. Maybe that’s all the closure he needs. A gasp of fresh air after what seems like eons of suffocating loneliness.

Then Harry thinks he sounds pathetic even in his own head and he excuses himself from his table. He walks almost blindly through the halls without even a semblance of an idea as to where he’s going. It’s quiet out here, at least, and he can clear his head, and take a breath, and maybe -

"Hey.”

Harry freezes.

For a moment, he thinks he’s imagining things. Then he turns around, and as it happens, he’s not.

There you are, in all your glory, a hesitant smile on your lips. You’re wearing a lavender dress. It fits you perfectly, makes you look like you’re floating off the ground, and Harry wants to cry because it matches his bow perfectly and that wasn’t even planned and goddammit, universe, that’s just salt in a gaping wound.

“Nice suit,” you say, and now your smile looks more sad than hesitant, and Harry feels the tears building in his throat because you remember too, of course you do, and Harry opens his mouth to reply but he can’t get his words out and now he’s on the verge of tears not only because he’s sad but also because he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks,” Harry finally chokes out.

“You’re welcome.”

The corridor suddenly feels long and empty and silent.

“Heard Feather on the radio the other day,” you say.

Feather. One word, a million memories shifting through Harry’s head faster than lightning.

A gifted necklace, filled notebooks, picked out notes, hummed melodies. Murmured lyrics in ears in early mornings. Night after night in the studio, together. Rubbish takeaway food, in the studio, together. Laughter over everything and nothing. Falling over each other in the booth, soft sighs and blissful gasps replacing giggles and shrieks of amusement. Late, late nights, together. Hearing it on the radio for the first time, together, almost driving off the road because of the excitement.

Hearing it on the radio last time, alone, almost driving off the road because of the stab of grief.

Harry’s not sure what to say to that. What do you expect him to? Oh, great, me too, fantastic song, innit? So he pauses for a moment and then replies, “We should make a sequel.” That gets a laugh out of you, and the thought strikes Harry to bottle it up and wear it in a little bottle around his neck.

“That would be something, huh?” you say.

“Call me,” Harry says. “I’ll book a studio.”

You smile. “Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t forget,” Harry tells you.

“I won’t,” you say, and there’s a beat of silence. Your smile fades as you look at him, as he looks at you, and Harry looks away because your smile’s about to disappear completely and Harry doesn’t think he could stand being the cause of your smile disappearing one more time.

You clear your throat. “Alright, well… Expect that call.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you around, H,” you say.

“See ya.”

You turn around and walk away. Float away. Fly away.

Again.

Flight, Harry thinks, watching you go. That’s what the sequel would be called. Feather. Flight.

You wore a white dress the first time the two of you performed it live. It’s such a love song. It’s the sappiest shit ever written by anyone in the entire world. If anyone else had written it, Harry would’ve rolled his eyes and said, Bullshit.

But it wasn’t. The song wasn’t, the love wasn’t, nothing was. It was the complete opposite. As pure and true as love could possibly be. Which makes it all the more painful that Harry couldn’t keep his shit together enough for you.

That’s another one of the Happy Memories: that first time performing together. You in your white dress, Harry in a silver, shimmering suit. The two of you did a whole choreography; you messed up every other move and Harry tripped over his own feet quite a few times, but the effort was there. The combination of the overwhelming yet familiar excitement of being on stage and the otherworldly bliss of simply being in your presence is a feeling Harry will never forget.

The air in the hallway grows heavier and heavier with each passing second.

Harry should get back to his table.

He starts to walk. He peers up at the ceiling as he does, hands locked behind his back, deep in thought. People are cheering out in the main room. Harry listens to the noise and closes his eyes, trying to shut his brain off.

The fans, he remembers, were devastated upon hearing the news of your breakup. It was kept quiet long enough that the questions and concerns weren’t particularly invasive, but it still hurt. It hurt like hell. It was ripping off the bandaid of the first month and poking and prying at the wound until Harry cried onstage and ducked out of an interview and missed a show.

Feather was taken off the setlist.

Once, during a lull in a show, the audience began to sing it. That was kind of strange. Harry looked up at the bright lights and swaying figures and heard his song, your song, being sung back to him by hundreds of strangers. It occurred to him, then, that it was not, in reality, your song. By that point, it meant something to other people as well.

That was very strange.

Harry ended up strumming out the chords for them. He smiled when the audience grew louder.

He heard later that the exact same thing happened to you. It was a few nights later, maybe the next week, and there were some technical issues. In the quiet, the fans began to sing Feather. You joined in just a second later, adding in your bit of the choreography.

Harry tried his hardest not to watch the footage, he really did, but he couldn’t help it.

He cried a lot that night.

When he finally makes it back to the main room, you’re situated under your new boyfriend’s arm, smiling brilliantly. Harry looks away as he sits down and downs the last of his drink. He grins at whoever’s talking at his table and shuts off his brain.

At the end of the night, through an alcohol- and exhaustion-muddled haze, Harry spots you by the door. He sweeps you up and plants a big messy kiss on your cheek, which you return with giggles and a kiss of your own. Harry leaves the 2020 Brits with two lipstick prints on him.

Despite the pictures splattered everywhere the next morning, Harry feels an air of contentment.

It’s done, he thinks, taking a deep breath. It’s done, and that’s good.

Because really, nothing gold can stay.

Not even the gold of a yellow suit.

***

ummm... yeah lol. hope u liked it...? lskdjf anyway there's that.

thx for reading! a reblog and some feedback would be fantastique!!!!

masterlist | ask

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

[inskz]

lucky charm - lee minho

pairing - lee minho x reader

genre - college!au, best friends to lovers, very cliche fluff (lucky girl starring lindsey lohan kinda vibes???)

words - 4k

note - this is just a cute little drabble i wrote while im still waiting for my covid test results to come back so that i can leave my room and see the sun again 🤪 pls be careful everybody take care of your health 💚 enjoy!!!

- - - - -

“You must be kidding me,” you sigh when you see Minho’s hand has turned into a fist, his rock crushing miserably your scissors. Once again, you lost at rock, paper, scissors. And once again, you’re the one that is going to wash your best friend’s dishes that have piled up in is tiny kitchen sink throughout the week.

“Fuck that. This is so unfair,” you grumble, throwing the dishtowel in Minho’s stupid yet perfectly chiseled face.

You make a beeline for his bed, which is actually only a few steps away from the kitchen. Being a broke college student definitely doesn’t allow him to rent a spacious studio, let alone a two-room apartment. You throw yourself headfirst onto his uncomfortable mattress, whose springs always poke your back at night.

“Life is so unfair,” your friend mocks you, dragging out every vowel of his sentence dramatically.

No doubt, you would be strangling him at that very moment if you weren’t so busy playing dead, hoping he would forget about your pitiful existence.

But there is no way mister Lee Minho would miss out on an opportunity to have his gross plates cleaned by someone else. Grabbing onto your ankle, he drags you out of bed until you plop down on the dirty carpeted floor (Minho has the unfortunate tendency to procrastinate vacuuming too). At this point, you are fake crying, throwing a literal tantrum, like a 6 years old child would.

“Life is unfair!” you yell, your feet kicking in the air in pure anger.

At least it is to you. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been lucky. The only instance you got remotely close to it was when you found a four-leaf clover last summer. Well, only if you disregard the fact you stepped into dog poop  on your way to picking it. Oh and that you were wearing brand new white Converse. 

On the other hand, it seems like the boy has the whole crew of the Olympus gods on his side. Not one day goes by without his guardian angel manifesting its presence. 

Minho has always been the lucky type. The type to get an extra nugget in his box of 10. To find 20 dollars bills on the ground. To win every single Instagram giveaway he participates to (and lord knows how much he likes participating to them). 

But how can you be mad at him when he always happily shares his food with you, invites you to the restaurant without you even asking, and gives you his prizes, pretending he doesn’t need them? You don’t believe him when he says he see no use in a panda onesie or a waterproof bluetooth speaker. Deep down, you know it’s his way to silently love you. 

But well, you can still blame him for occasionally taking advantage of your misfortune to make you do his dreaded house chores, just like right now. 

Everyone thinks you are a bizarre duo. Even you can’t fathom how in hell you two became best friends, considering how awfully your first encounter went three years ago. 

On orientation day, he asked you for the time, probably because his phone was dead (or maybe because he was dying to talk to you?)

Without hesitation, you lifted and rotated your wrist so that you could see your watch. Little did you remember; you never actually owned a watch and you were holding a fancy 7 dollars iced coffee, which, of course, did not have a lid on because plastic is bad for the environment (duh). 

Minho couldn’t help but burst out in hysterical laughter when the whole drink spilled on your jeans. For your defense, you didn’t sleep at all the night before  since you were terrified of being alone in your new dorm room the first few days (weird stuff happens all the time in dorms, okay?). If he had asked you for your name, you probably wouldn’t even have been able to tell him. 

But Minho thought you were the funniest person on campus, and he really needed a clown like you to entertain him throughout his endless college semesters. That’s what he told you anyways. Not that he thought you were the cutest human being he had ever seen. 

Why would he when you are the literal definition of a mess: always having toothpaste stains on your sweater, bags under your eyes, messy hair, tripping and falling, missing buses, breaking things, losing stuff. 

Most of the time, you just forget your keys and Minho lets you crash at his place since he hasn’t got any roommate and he isn’t used to sleeping alone, especially without his cats. It surely isn’t because he loves waking up next to a very groggy but adorable you every single morning, no.  

Minho manages to bring you back to the countertop despite your reluctance. Positioned behind you, his arms trapping your body to make sure you can’t run away from your duties, he dips your hands into the soapy water, and you can���t help but squirm at the touch of an unknown substance sticking to a plate that has probably been soaking here for a week. You despise doing the dishes and your friend knows it.

You hear him giggle in your ear while he is playing with your arms like you are some type of marionette, making you to take the sponge and squeeze dish soap onto it. 

You’ve never been the kind to like proximity nor seemed to be Minho, but for some reason, you always end up glued to each other. You hate public displays of attention and pet names a little less when it comes from him. Or maybe you don’t hate it at all and actually crave it every single minute that goes by.

Before he has the time to come up with the Machiavellian idea to soak your pajamas in dirty water (because you know he would inevitably have at some point), you yank his hands off of you and start scrubbing angrily the dirty cups. 

Minho stays behind you anyways, observing your every move, his chin propped up on your shoulder like a curious little bird. To be honest, his presence is kind of getting overwhelming. But whatever, it’s not like his slightest touch makes your heart warm up in comfort or that he smells like fresh linen drying out on the porch of a cottage house on a sunny Sunday morning or anything. 

“You missed a spot. Here” he murmurs teasingly, his lips almost touching your earlobe, while he points at the handle of his hideous ‘world’s greatest dad’ mug Jisung gifted him last christmas. 

You know he has noticed the way you shivered violently at the feeling of his breath tickling your skin because he starts snickering loudly. 

“I swear to god if you don’t shut up and go seat on the couch, I’ll slap you so hard with this spatula you’ll regret you were even born,” you say, turning around suddenly to menace him with the plastic utensil. 

Of course, he isn’t afraid one bit. Right now, you really wish you could make the smug, but oh so attractive, look on his face disappear. 

“Alright, ma’am” he laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll let you do your thing”. He lets himself fall onto his dingy couch. 

You can hear him humming one of his favorite songs above the sound of the water running. It would probably be getting on your nerves if his voice wasn’t so pretty.  

“Chan’s sick, so we’re not going to the gym tomorrow night. Do you wanna eat tacos? El Huero has even better deals than usual” he asks you, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. 

“Aren’t the deals supposed to be on Tuesdays?” You frown and scrub a little harder the frying pan Minho has burnt the night before while trying to make chocolate chips pancakes for diner, because why eat savory food when you can have dessert for every meal, right? It is one of the few advantages of living without your parents you both truly enjoy. 

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Tomorrow,” he yawns, probably exhausted after what you put him through last night. You forced him to catch up on the entire season of Love Island because you desperately needed someone to bitch with, and what better partner than Lee Minho.  

You take a quick glance at him and see him stretching himself across the cushions like a cat. You always thought there was something feline about his features. While you’re drying the mugs with the dishtowel, your mind wanders uncontrollably, thinking about his piercing eyes, his delicate nose, the corners of his lips that curl up a little… 

All of the sudden, your hands freeze. Minho is too immersed in TikToks to notice the stupor on your face. “Wait. Today is… Monday?” you stutter. 

Alarmed by the sound of your voice, his eyes finally leave his phone’s screen to look up at you. “Yeah” he repeats slowly as if you are the dumbest person he has ever encountered. 

And you truly are. You are pretty sure your heart has stopped beating. Minho’s “world’s greatest dad” mug you’re holding slips between your fingers and comes crashing on the floor with a deafening sound. The pieces are now scattered all around you, making you unable to make out what’s written on it anymore. Not a big loss, if you ask. 

“Y/N, you know that’s my favorite mug!” he exclaims, leaping up from the couch. “I’m sure you did it on purpose,” he mutters while he’s trying to collect the small fragments, in vain. 

But you’re too shocked at this very moment to pay attention to the glare your friend is giving you. To be honest, Minho has only two moods: glaring at you or teasing you.  

“My interview,” you finally manage to say, and Minho’s eyes go wide as he realizes the critical situation you’re in. 

You check the time on the microwave: 10:45. In 30 minutes, you’re supposed to be on the other side of town, being interrogated by boring businessmen that are going to decide whether or not you’ll be accepted for a paid internship in one of the most reputable music label of the country. Basically, decide whether you’ll live a happy and fulfilling life, working in the sector you’ve always dreamed of or end up miserable with a boring office job and a massive college debt. 

“Holy shit,” Minho whispers. You can see a wave of panic washing across his face for a split second, but, as always, he manages to find his composure back immediately. 

He has never been the kind to lose his cool, except to scold you when you forget the names of his cats and their respective coats’ color (which you unfortunately often did forget). 

“What are you doing? Get dressed!” He tells you when he sees you’re still standing there dumbfounded in the kitchen, like the famous Robert Pattinson meme, wearing an oversize Kermit the frog shirt with a dozen holes in it and his favorite Adidas sweatpants you always stole from him.

“No, it’s too late. I can’t make it,” you mutter, your breath short. You’re paralyzed, as if there is a 20lbs rock sitting at the bottom of your stomach, pinning you to the ground. 

This isn’t bad luck, you think. This is karma. This is what you get for skipping classes to watch telereality shows in your bed with your best friend and not even realizing it isn’t the weekend anymore.

“Miss me with that bullshit.” He runs to his closet and rummages through his drawers, throwing every piece of clothing that’s on his way to find an appropriate outfit that would fit you. 

“You’re gonna go do this interview even if I have to drag you all the way there.” He pushes you into his bathroom since you still haven’t moved an inch. 

You manage to brush your teeth and your hair, fighting through the nauseous feeling that is building up in your tummy. 

When you come back to the living room, Minho has found dress pants and a sweater that might not look utterly ridiculous on you. He lets you change in a corner, while he runs around the room collecting all your essentials. 

“You’re coming?” you ask him when you see he is already wearing his puffer jacket.  

“You really think I’m gonna let you go all by yourself when you’re literally not even able to put your shoes on properly”. You are, indeed, struggling with your laces, as if your fingers are suddenly made out of butter. 

Minho ties them up for you and you literally feel like he’s your babysitter. You know you’re gonna hear about this for months – what are you saying- years! But all you can think about at the moment though, is the fact that sneakers are definitely not appropriate for an interview. 

He throws your warmest coat at you, grab his keys, and by some type of miracle, you’re both out to the door in less than 10 minutes. 

You try to call the elevator, but Minho grabs your arm and leads you to the staircase. His hand never leaving yours, he runs down the stairs and you have no choice but to follow him as fast as you can. 

You can’t count how many times you missed a step and fell at this particularly slippery spot, between the 5th and the 4th floor, but weirdly enough, it doesn’t happen today. 

When you finally reach the ground floor, you exit the complex and Minho hops on his old and rusty bike that he had attached to nearest tree the night before.

“There’s no way I’m riding behind you on this death machine,” you laugh nervously. The memory of that one time Minho convinced you to seat into his bicycle basket (as if you could even realistically fit in it) and you both fell seconds after he started to pedal is coming back to your mind.

Sure, it was after a long night of drinking, you were both tipsy and it was the only way to get you home since you had spent all your uber money at the bar, but still! You’re pretty sure the bruise on your butt hasn’t disappeared to this day.  

“Hurry up,” Minho groans, ignoring your complaint. You unwillingly seat on his flimsy pannier rack and wrap your arms around his torso. 

You haven’t even left, yet you’re already holding onto his puffer jacket for dear life. A giggle escapes your friend’s mouth (which you think is very inappropriate in such a desperate situation) before he lifts his feet off the ground and starts pedaling. 

You try to ignore the loud squeaking of the bicycle drive by shutting your eyes tighter and rehearsing your introduction you have prepared over and over in your head. No matter how hard you are trying, you can’t remember what you are supposed to say just after your age (which, as you can imagine, isn’t really far into your monologue). 

By the way the wind is lashing your face, you can tell Minho has picked up the speed. His breathing is getting louder, his heartbeat faster and you can’t help but think you’re probably way too heavy for him to bike you around like that. Maybe he shouldn’t skip his gym sessions with Chan so often. Or maybe you shouldn’t have eaten the leftover pancakes for breakfast after all.

You find the courage to open your eyelids and are pleased to see you’re already halfway there, probably because every single one of the traffic lights you encounter is green, and your friend is going surprisingly fast. Is luck finally starting to smile upon you? 

Your mad race comes to a halt when you reach the address of your interview. You hop off the bike and so does Minho who, by the way, is a panting mess. He’s barely able to catch his breath, strands of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, but he’s beaming at you when he realizes you’re just on time. 

“Go” he gasps, pushing you in the direction of the building’s hall. 

You walk up to the glass door but as your hands are about to push it, you pull a 180. Your friend sighs loudly, already knowing what’s coming next. 

“Wait. No. I can’t do this. I’m not prepared” you tell him frantically. “I’m freaking out. I think I’m gonna pass out.” You are now walking in circles, mumbling incoherently. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Your heart is racing in your chest and your hands are getting clammy at the simple thought of failure. But guess what? You can’t fail if you don’t even try! One more good reason to just go back to bed and forget about your sad life for a good 8 hours, right? 

“Y/N, you’re the most talented person I know, you’re gonna do just fine” Minho catches you in his arm to stop your endless pacing. You would probably think this gesture is endearing if it wasn’t just meant to make sure you couldn’t run for your life.  

“No, I’m not. What if I throw up in front of everybody like that one time during the Romeo and Juliet musical?” You look up at him and his face is only inches away from yours. You’re sure you would be swooning at how beautiful he looks if you weren’t so terrified at this very moment.

“You were nine,” your best friend says, and you swear you have never heard him speak to you in such a sweet tone before. His voice is like honey and lavander but it doesn’t soothe you like it should. 

You manage to break free from his embrace to crouch down, in an attempt to slow down your breathing. If only you had data left, you could be watching those short relaxing videos on your phone. They always work. But no, you had to spent it all on online games, just one week into the month. You really are beyond help.  

“Y/N I know you’re scared, but if you miss out on this opportunity, you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.” Minho is lowering himself so that you can hear him, even though you’re curled up in a ball. 

“And I’m warning you, I won’t want to hear you complain about it,” he adds, this whole situation obviously starting to get on his nerves. 

If you were him, you would have probably left a long time ago. But this isn’t your best friend’s way of behaving. You know he would never abandon you no matter how annoying you could be (and you could be very annoying sometimes). After all, he is always the one holding your hair while you puke in the toilets when you had a couple too many drinks.

It takes all your willpower to stand up but there is no other way, you have to do it. You can hear the time ticking dangerously in your mind, as if your brain had turned into a clock.

“You’re right. Slap me,” you say, looking at him straight in the eyes, dead serious. 

“Wha -“

“Slap some sense into me. They do that in movies when people are panicking. It’s like throwing a bucket of cold water in someone’s face. But clearly we don’t have a bucket and we don’t have cold wa- “ you start blabbering. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not gonna slap you!” Your friend isn’t usually that horrified at the thought of beating your ass. In fact, he has felt the desire to rip your head off more than once, especially when you’d steal all the duvet at night, but at this moment he is just scared you might have actually lost your mind.  

“Just fucking do it Minho!” you scream, your hands clenching the front of his grey hoodie he always looks so divine in. 

Minho has never obeyed you, and this is not the day he is going to start. 

He puts both of his hands on the sides of your face and crashes his lips onto yours. 

You would be lying if you said you have never imagined the day your best friend would kiss you. It happens pretty much every single time you look at his cute pout a little too long. But one thing is certain, it isn’t like you pictured it to be at all.

You were convinced your heart would go so wild it would burst out of your chest and your head would spin so furiously you’d lose your balance. You thought your stomach would fill with butterflies to the brim and your whole body would be on fire.

But none of that is happening. On the contrary, every single muscle in your body relaxes under his touch. The way his soft mouth presses gently against yours makes you calmer, almost at peace amongst all this turmoil. 

Minho is kissing all your tension and stress away and you catch yourself letting a sigh of relief escape your parted lips.

As if you have kissed him already hundreds of times in your past life, Minho feels like home. He’s a safe haven you can always take refuge in during troubled times. Ever since the day you met, he has never left your side.

When he breaks away from the kiss, you notice your breath isn’t so ragged and your mind isn’t so foggy anymore. You’re serene. His cold hands are still cupping your face, slightly squishing your cheeks, and you feel like an idiot sandwich for asking him to slap you seconds before.

“That can work too, I guess…” you mutter.  

“You’re okay?” he asks, staring at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen.

You just nod, unable to say one more word, and sprint to the entrance, not wanting to make your interviewers wait any longer than they already have.

“Good luck!” You hear him yell just before the door closes behind you and you can’t help but grin from ear to ear.

- - - - - 

Thirty minutes later, you finally step out of the fancy lobby to find a very bored Minho leaning against a tree, patiently waiting for you.

“You’re still here?”

“Of course, I am,” he says, his mouth full of croissant. He gives you a large iced coffee he probably went buying to kill time. Your lips unconsciously curl up into a smile when you notice it comes from the same chain that the one you spilled on your lap on the day you first met him. 

“How did it go?” he asks you, sticking his buttery pastry into your mouth so that you can take a bite.

“Way better than I thought” you answer, right after you swallowed. You hate the way flakes would always get stuck between your teeth. But Minho is always there to warn you about it before anyone else notices, and even pick them for you if you can’t manage to, which, when you think about it, is kind of gross. 

There are two things the boy knows about you: you’re the greatest pessimist on earth and you’d rather die than admit you were wrong (especially if it meant he was right). So for you to even say it wasn’t that bad, means it went phenomenal.��

“I don’t want to say ‘I told you so’ but I told you so.” He smiles so wide you can barely see his eyes anymore. You have to look away, otherwise you know you might become instantly blinded by love.

“Maybe I could use some more of your luck” you mumble, staring at your shoes and kicking the red leaves that were surrounding your feet on this sunny autumn morning. 

“Really? And what makes you think I’ll share it with you,” he teases you, leaning forward to incite you to look at him in the eyes. 

“That.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him in, in order to close the space that is still left between your mouths.

At first, Minho stiffens, taken aback by your bold move. But soon enough, he caves into your touch. He kisses you back fervently, like he means it. 

His fingers entagle in your hair, his arm wraps around your waist and his chest presses against your body. You’re melting in his embrace, submerged by a wave of bliss which he alone seems to know the recipe. 

It feels new, yet so familiar. Like it was supposed to happen, like it was written in the stars. 

He tastes like croissant and Americano. Like fortune and fate. 

And you can’t help but think you’re the luckiest person on earth.

Who cares about winning the lottery when Lee Minho is your lucky charm? 

[ms-march]

Old Hollywood AU- The Lucky One

Here is the first chapter/one shot of this AU that is a collab and crossover that @tolstoyamericanrevolution and I have been working on it since November! Please keep an open mind to character interpretation because this is AU territory and a lot of a character who isn't necessarily the focus of the AU can be warped for plot and time accuracy purposes over character accuracy! So let's get to it and happy last day of TURN WEEK 2021!!!!

Global media was in a buzz, Today was the Hollywood equivalent of a royal wedding. With all the bells and whistles belonging to the West Coast set. New & old money all united around the superficialities of silver screens and unions and dubious desert deals. All neatly swallowed down with a glass of wedding champagne- the same brand as Buckingham palace yet here it looked slightly gaudy, American.

The media was here to adore, this was a decade before your Grace Kelly’s and other exports could wear centuries-old crowns.

Here it was harsh, fiscal, temporary, silver over platinum yet it was royal, majestic, lovely- every bit worth the soundbite.

This was the American monarchy, all a blend of the finest breeds and worst mongrels.

Dressed up in such a lovely, splendid crowd that Philadelphia, New York, Houston, Los Angeles & Chicago would all be running titles.

“Adoring Crowds rewarded at last! The Marriage of America’s Sweetheart”

“Hollywood Royalty! Adrienne Fairfax & John Laurens tie the Knot”

“ Media Heiress & Tobacco Heir; Los Angeles’s Marriage of The Decade”

Those picking up the papers would all sigh the same thing; how lovely.

The crowd was lovely.

At least, she was sure it was. Adrienne Fairfax had not yet been seen by a single member of the crowd, anxiously sitting before a vanity in a wedding gown three times her size, wringing satin gloved hands until the gloves began to crease. Her hands shook with the same fear that was responsible for the turning of her stomach as she removed them.

Today was her wedding day and it was exactly as she had always dreamed. Every detail was perfect and precisely to her liking.

Every detail was impressive.

Every detail would impress them.

The crowd was lovely.

The crowd had cheered for her, applauding her on the engagement just as they did when she was on the movie screen. Adrienne had been just as shocked as them to hear of her engagement. She would certainly remember being proposed to at the ripe age of seventeen. She certainly would have remembered if the man who did so was twenty-three years old, making him five years her senior.

The crowd had buzzed with conversation, just as they did now, outside of the open windows that were meant to cool her down. The cool breeze in the mountains this time of year should have corrected the heat filling her face and chest as it billowed through the open windows of the room, carrying the sounds of society in with it.

Her wedding was exactly as she had always dreamed.

It was in the mountains, away from the pollution of the billboard lights and American mile cars. She could see the stars from here, the real ones, in the sky. Not the ones in the velvet curtains in the ballroom, or the ones on the tule that coated the tablecloth in the grand dining room of the house she had barely spent a night in since she was a very young girl. Not the ones taking their seats in a church to watch Adrienne make the most irreversibly horrible decision of her life.

The crowd was lovely.

She was sure it was, and she was grateful for them. Their own chatter drowned out the echoes of old ghosts that still haunted this house’s halls. Adrienne’s eyes fluttered down to the picture frame propped up on the vanity in her childhood bedroom. She had been watching it like the smiling couple in the photo would decide to leave their seats on the terrace and walk away.

It was impressive.

The woman had light-colored hair, and the man’s was some odd form of grey in the yellowing black and white photo. She wore the most beautiful gown of pearly ivory layers and lace, the very same gloves Adrienne had just pulled from her own clammy hands graced the woman’s hands, the tiara atop her head in the photo matching the one atop the pile of blonde curls that she had just arranged in the vanity mirror.

It was just as she had imagined it.

Adrienne had found her mother’s wedding planning book years ago, and she fell in love with it the moment she first laid her eyes upon the beautiful fair-haired woman, leaning happily into the man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair.

Adrienne had not stepped foot over the threshold of this impressive Georgian English Manor style house since the last time she was dressed head to toe in black.

Adrienne had not crossed the threshold since the day of their funeral when she crossed from the foyer to the stairs down the drive with her belongings in tow.

She had gone home with a family friend that her parents had entrusted with her care and upbringing. The Washingtons were more superficial people than her parents had been. Not to say that they consumed more, that much was about the same. Rather, they were more concerned about success than they ever were with her. Growing up with the Washingtons, Adrienne had so many nannies, nurses, and governesses she often forgot their names. Not that it was important really, none of them integrated with her more than they absolutely had to.

Martha Washington had been insistent that she was to be the only maternal figure to the young heiress. Which would have been perfectly alright if she did not despise Adrienne’s own mother so deeply, making her maternal affection very few and far between.

Today is her wedding day.

It was Martha that had opened the door without a word, simply raising her brow, impatient with the blonde girl before the vanity. Adrienne managed one last look in the mirror before rising from the small chair she had sat on, donning her gloves over the clamminess of her sweaty hands, and breathed.

She breathed carefully as Martha pulled the veil to cover her face.

In and out.

In and out and suddenly she could pretend she was not being made to act as a witness as George signed over all she was to gain upon her 18th birthday to a man named John Laurens. He had shown up to sign the papers himself, a courtesy to George, she was sure. He was to be her husband, or so she had been told.

He had not even looked at her.

He did not greet her when he came through the door, only George. He did not converse with her, only George. She could have gotten up, smacked him, and walked out of the room and he would still not have noticed her.

He was to be her husband and she had not met him but once before. She knew who he was, vaguely. He worked at the studio as an actor. He was the son of an influential South Carolina politician who had a family fortune in the tobacco trade. But she had only met John Laurens once before her wedding day was set for the day of her 18th birthday and not a single day later. A week after watching her life be signed away into his hands he had paid her a visit.

Another courtesy to George, she was sure.

He had arrived with no specific plan, and walked through the gardens with her, talking now to her for almost an hour straight. She had even tried placing both tea and whiskey before him to shut his ramblings, both attempts failing miserably as he continued on about himself. He visited for almost two hours and had not asked her a single thing about herself.

He was to be her husband and he did not know a thing about her.

They met four other times during the short engagement, most of which were public niceties, another courtesy to George. There was not a single newspaper, magazine, or television hour that did not wish to have some kind of word with her on the topic of her wedding. None of them dared to advise her, she had been out planning the very best in the country since her earliest teenage years. A popular anecdote she had heard more in the past few months than she had anything else in the rest of her life went as following:

The Pope had come to visit the re-elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the White House but found the most pleasant time in the company of the most eligible girl in America, all the way on the West Coast.

The crowd was lovely.

That is what George had told her with a peck of a kiss to her cheek before he took his seat. She would walk herself down the aisle.

The harp and violins played as the grand doors to the ballroom opened on her, exposing her to the crowd and their whispers. The ceremony looked stunning. It was just as she had imagined it when she was little.

She only now began to wish that she had imagined the man at the end of the aisle so that there might be at least something she could find fault with.

There were familiar faces among the crowd that she passed on her long and slow walk to the man at the other end of the grand room. The clicking echo of her heels on the floor being the only thing keeping her trembling legs on course, but even worse was searching as discreetly as possible for those familiar faces. Anything to not have to face the harsh reality of who— no, of what— waited for her at the end of the crowd.

Among the crowd, her eyes locked with another blonde-haired man and she begged herself not to look desperate. He saw her looking too, but he managed far more composure than Adrienne did. Of course he did.

He must be thrilled.

Adrienne had the thought before she could stop herself. John Andre was another executive at the studio alongside George. Before her engagement, there had been pressures from all around for the two of them to marry. It would be a fitting trade, they justified, the daughter of an executive to the wife of an executive. It was a natural transition.

Perhaps that is why he had not spoken out about her engagement and marriage being written into her contract. He stood there, pretending he was not looking at her in his black tailored tuxedo, hair done in the most fashionable way with a small wave curl to it. He pretended that she was not on a death march.

He pretended far better than her.

He had his vices, that much she knew, but he was respectful. He spoke with her, not just to her. She knew him. She knew him and even though she had never found him more than physically attractive she found herself wishing it was him at the end of the aisle, and not for the first time since her engagement.

Today was her wedding day.

In a few minutes, she won’t be engaged anymore.

In a few minutes, she would be married.

In a few minutes, she would be married to a man that did not know a single thing about her.

She would be married to a man in less than a few minutes, and suddenly Adrienne understood all those runaway brides, leaving their fiance’s at the altar. Her heart pounded, hammering in her chest as she composed herself with a warm indifference. She had been doing so well. Then she saw him.

John Andre was an executive at the studio with George. There was pressure from all around for them to get married.

It was a fair trade.

He remained silent for his own sake. One cannot be forced to marry a woman who already belongs to a husband of her own.

She would be married and he would remain a bachelor till the end of his days, just as he wanted, receiving pity for her engagement everywhere he looked, exempting him from the very idea of marriage. Exempting him from being held accountable for his vices.

He must be thrilled, signing her life away to a man who doesn’t know a single thing about her for his own peace of mind.

It was a fair trade.

He had played the game and played it well.

He had won. And it was fair.

This will all be over soon, and she could find solstice in the stars over the sleepy Manor estate, talking to a ghost from the lawn as if he never left her. He had never left her, calling her to look up and scour the sky for stars whenever she felt lonely.

He had called her “my star.”

She was his star, and soon it would all be over. She could disappear into the night and be with the stars, chatting with ghosts from a happier past.

It will all be over soon.

She was looking through the crowd for familiar faces.

She was doing so well. And then she saw him, in the doorway she had just come from, a man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair. “It will all be over soon.”

And she heard him from the other end of the aisle, loud and clear, as if he were right beside her, as he should be.

Executive’s daughter married,

Media magnet meets Southern industry

John Andre: Hollywood’s Most Wanted Bachelor Remains Unwed

It was easy to feel remorseful, heroically guilty when you had nothing at stake.

No real risk to gamble.

It was the prisoner that escaped the hanging and looked sympathetically to the damned, fingers crossed behind their back. That was John Andre on this fine nuptial day.

If it had been him standing at the end of the aisle, where another John stood, he would be less prone to sympathy and instead resentment. Resentment of having his wings clipped and arranged around him, in exchange for a slip of a girl whom he felt no connection with.

By no connection, he meant romantic or intimate or lustful- none of the trilogy of connections worth considering matrimony.

Instead, he felt an observer's connection, a connection of pity, of sympathy- lightly powdered amusement and a genuine kindness that came from recognizing another piece on the chessboard of the older generation.

You could have as much power or success as you wanted in this city, as an executive you would assume John had made it to the top, and yet you would always be a puppet on someone else’s string.

Ask any man and it would be a woman, a mafia deal, a boss, an older competitor, or simply the moths that floated around the sparkles of fame ready to consume you if you stepped out of line.

[thatmultifandomhoe]

Knitting You a Home - 3

Pairing: Wolf Hybrid Namjoon and Human Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Genre/Rating: Hybrid AU - Established Relationship - Angst - Fluff - Smut - PG-13

Overview: Things have changed for you and Namjoon. It’s been a year since the two of you got together, and despite a rocky start, it was impossible to deny the bond and love you shared for each other. But ever since Hoseok had been separated from his Mate, Namjoon has been withdrawing himself from you and doesn’t come home until late at night.

With questions far larger than either of you imagined, you can’t help but wonder if he’s let his past and old fears come back to haunt him. You had shown him that it was possible to have a home and be loved once before, but will you be able to do it again?

Warning: Implied abuse from previous owners.

Playlist:

Main Master List:

Knitting You a Home Master List:

Mated Love is Never Easy Master List:

Sneak Peak - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - ?

©thatmultifandomhoe Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without permission.

Namjoon groaned as he stood from his desk chair, the cracking of his back echoing the small room. The moment he had come back from visiting you at work was probably the last time he had moved, and that had been hours ago.

He knew that if you were here, you’d probably scold him for sitting for so long until he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you onto his lap. He could picture you struggling for a few moments and try to reclaim your argument, but all it would take was him nuzzling your neck for you to melt in his embrace.

The daydream, like always, brought a smile to Namjoon’s face. He wasn’t sure when the last time you came to visit him at work was, but he was willing to bet that Ma wouldn’t mind watching over the store for you to do so either.

Although…with a glance around his studio, his lips curled into a smirk as he stared at the couch he had against the wall near the door. It was question on whether or not work would get done then.

Rolling his neck, he stretched an arm above his head and held it for a few seconds before doing the same to the other. It was another late night for him and Yoongi. The rapper they were working with had decided that he no longer liked the vibe of one of the songs, so they were forced to scrap it as the artist worked on finding his, ‘muse’ as he told them. Until they had a new version, they were busy finishing up the other tracks in the time being.

After hearing every version of all twelve songs, he knew them all by heart at this point. Which was probably why when someone knocked on his door, he didn’t hesitate to lean over the desk and pause the music, calling out for them to come in.

“What’s up Yoongi?” Namjoon asked, smelling his friend’s familiar scent as he entered.

Yoongi grunted, the door shutting behind him on its own as Namjoon straightened up, turning around in time to see his friend lounging out on the couch, his cat tail lazily hanging over the edge.

“I’ve been up since four,” the cat hybrid murmured, his eyes slowly looking around the room.

Not surprising, Namjoon thought. With a twist of his hand, he turned the chair around to face Yoongi and sat back down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Then go home. There’s not much left for us tonight.”

Yoongi finally looked up at his friend. “Yet we’re still here at…” He glanced behind Namjoon to see the time on the computer. “…midnight.”

Raising an eyebrow, Namjoon glanced at the watch around his wrist, startled to see that it was as late as Yoongi said. By now you’d be in bed, hopefully sleeping, but he knew that you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until he got home safely.

“Go home,” Yoongi suggested, seeing the flash of disappointment on Namjoon’s face. “You’re the one with a wife at home. Go be with her Joon.”

At the mention of you, he sharply inhaled, suddenly shifting in his chair and turning sideways so he could see the computer screen. However, next to his computer was a picture of you and him.

He was sitting on the couch with you in-between his legs, his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you close as you held your arm out to take the selfie, all while holding up the official adoption document in your other hand. The two of you were smiling and at the time, the right side of your neck hadn’t been marked yet.

It was one of his favorite pictures, one of the happiest days of his life, but it also served as a reminder of the dreams that he had taken away from you.

“Angel’s not my wife,” Namjoon softly corrected, his favorite nickname for you soothing his emotions for a brief moment.

The atmosphere in the studio immediately shifted. The easy and slightly stressed out tension dropped as Namjoon’s emotions slipped, changing to reflect on his sadness and disappointment. Usually he had a tight grip on his feelings when his friends were around, but this time, he didn’t care enough to reign them back in right away.

Yoongi’s ears pressed down to his skull, his tail swaying back in forth in distraught as Namjoon’s emotions washed over him. It was nowhere near as bad as when Hoseok grieved over being separated from Sarah, but it was close enough to remind Yoongi of that.

“Is she okay?” Yoongi sat up, wondering if you had been hurt in any way. If that were the case, then why was Namjoon here? His instincts wouldn’t have let him leave you while his mate was hurt.

Namjoon nodded, taking the pencil that had been laying on the desk. “She’s fine.”

“Then what’s…” Frowning, Yoongi’s tail lightly hit his leg as he thought, trying to understand the sudden turn in events. In the last year, the only time he recalled Namjoon being withdrawn, was when they first met. All Yoongi had said was to go home and be with…his wife.

“Namjoon,” he gently called out, watching as the wolf Hybrid refused to look at him. “She’s your Mate. It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Namjoon bitterly said, lightly tossing the pencil back on to his desk, watching it bounce a few times before landing on the floor. Staring at the photograph, at your unmarked neck, his eyes watered up. “Angel will never be my wife, Yoongi. She’ll only ever be my owner.”

Running a hand through his hair, Yoongi clenched his jaw, trying to not let Namjoon’s emotions distract him. He took a deep breath, refusing to be suffocated by the guilt and frustration his friend felt. “We’re Hybrids, Namjoon. In our world she is your Mate. She bears your Mate Mark. Angel is, to use the human’s term, your wife.”

A whine ripped through Namjoon as he turned to look at his friend, feeling Yoongi’s own disappointment and pain as a result of his own emotions. Yoongi just didn’t understand it.

“No.” He simply said, shaking his head. “The humans will never see us as husband and wife. One request to see my adoption papers is all that it’ll take for them to make up their minds once they see her name. They might humor us and say we’re Mates, but to them, she’ll always be my owner. I’ll never be able to call her my wife and be taken seriously.”

Yoongi stared at his friend, blown away at the sudden anger that swirled around him. He had known that this bothered Namjoon, but never in a million years did he think that it was kept locked up deep inside him.

Despite the law changes in the last twenty years, Hybrids had more rights now than when they were first created. But for some reason, humans never did away with the law denying marriage between a Hybrid and their owner, even when lawmakers knew that it was a common occurrence.

Apparently, a Hybrid marrying their owner was seen as, inhumane.

Even with that one law, it typically didn’t matter what the humans thought, as long as the Mate bore the Mate Mark, then they were a married couple in Hybrid society. The mark served as not only a physical declaration, but the mate’s scent would no longer be just theirs, but a mix of their own and who had marked them, announcing to every Hybrid in the area that they were together.

A wedding was simply done for the human’s benefit.

Namjoon knew all this. So why was he refusing to listen to facts?

Licking his lips, Yoongi remembered a similar reaction coming from Namjoon, back when it was winter and the two of them had been walking with Hoseok to Sarah’s shop, when they had forgotten about the laws.

“Is this all because of last winter?” He asked, knowing that it was true when Namjoon’s ears rested on his head. “Joon, why? Why are you dwelling on that?”

He shook his head. It was stupid and Yoongi was right. You were his Mate and that meant more to Namjoon than anything in the world. But it riddled him with guilt because he would never be able to give you what you wanted.

“I’m still part human,” he simply answered, staring at the floor. “I’m not just some animal like they want to think.”

There was no doubt about that. Every Hybrid was still half human, and even with the laws that had been created to protect them from abusers, there were still people who were prejudice against them simply because their DNA wasn’t one hundred percent human. It was something that every Hybrid dealt with at some point in their life. There was no getting around it, unless by some miracle you were raised within a home with purely kind humans. That was a rarity, but after seeing you and Namjoon together, and then Hoseok and his Mate, it gave Yoongi hope that the future generation wouldn’t have to suffer like they had.

Namjoon roughly wiped his eyes, forcing back the tears so that they wouldn’t slip out. Now that he had spoken his piece, he began to collect his emotions, hating that he had let them out in the first place.

Standing up, Yoongi silently walked across the floor and to Namjoon’s desk, opening the drawer on the left-hand side. Inside was a notebook, battered from use and if Yoongi were to flip through the pages, he’d find Namjoon’s delicate handwriting filling the pages. Lines crossed out and rewritten. Some underlined and with coffee stains or doodles in the corner.

He waited for Namjoon to take the journal before speaking again. “Then write it out. Take all the fucked-up crap the humans’ dish out about us, and serve it back to them. Make them regret everything they’ve said and done to us, but Namjoon…don’t you ever forget that you have a Mate back home who loves, and we both know she waits up for you to come home.”

The notebook fit perfectly in Namjoon’s hands. It had been a gift from you in the early days, not even a week after he came to stay with you and it became clear that he was incapable of sleeping through an entire night, without having nightmares.

“Write.” You said, gently smiling at Namjoon.

He took the notebook from you. It was simple with a brown moleskin cover and a spiral ring to make it easier to turn the pages. “Write what?” He asked, turning it over in his hands as if it would reveal the reason for why you gave him this.

You shrugged. “Whatever you want. It’s yours now. Notes about your day, ideas, thoughts that you want to remember. Hell, you can even write a grocery list if you want. I saw it while at the store and thought…well I thought if you wrote in it, it might help you to sleep at night.”

As you explained, he looked up from the journal to watch your reaction, seeing that you were being genuine. Your emotions were nothing but kind and wanting to help him, and it surprised him. You were different from the others, and he couldn’t help but wonder why.

But he didn’t get the chance to ask. Instead you glanced at the kitchen with a smile, getting out of your seat. “I can smell the cookies baking from here. They should be done soon, but I wanted to give you this before you went back to your room for the night.”

And write, he did.

It took some time for him to feel comfortable writing about the nightmares that plagued him, the memories that were so realistic he tasted the blood building up in his mouth when he abruptly woke up in the middle of the night.

He had tired documenting his memories, but each attempt had been painful and felt wrong. It wasn’t until he began to write songs that everything fell in to place. Growing up, he had attempted songwriting as a way to cope with his life, and he thought the habit had long since been forgotten over the years, but it came back to him like he never stopped.

The lyrics, the beats and melodies he found himself hearing in his mind and tapping out on the flat surfaces were coming to him like water drifting in a river.

“Go home,” Yoongi encouraged once again. “Go home to her. Go to bed. I’ll finish up listening to the songs and make sure everything’s set for tomorrow. Okay?”

There was no more arguing with Yoongi. He was right. Sleep and holding you close was what Namjoon needed, and with how his visit had gone at the store this afternoon, he knew you needed it too. With a nod, he stood up from his chair, watching Yoongi settle into it and scoot closer to the desk.

The conversation wasn’t over though. Maybe just for tonight, but they both knew that it would come up again whether they wanted it to or not. This wasn’t something that could be buried forever. For right now, they were both willing to cover it up until they weren’t exhausted and emotional.

“Thanks Yoongi,” Namjoon slipped his bag over his shoulder, stealing a glance at the photograph once more.

Yoongi merely waved it away, his tail waving back and forth. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep for both of us.”

He watched as Namjoon left, and even then, he didn’t turn back to the computer until he could no longer hear his footsteps. With a shake of his head, Yoongi sighed as he stared at the same photograph.

He wondered if Namjoon knew that back then, even without you having his Mate Mark, they looked like a couple in love. That even back then, they were always destined for each other. Whether the laws wanted to accept them or not.

The world passed by Namjoon, although there wasn’t much of it to see at this hour. Besides the bus driver, he was the only passenger which wasn’t uncommon. Many nights he wanted to tell you about the people he saw on the bus only to have wait until morning when you were awake, settling for scribbling reminders into his notebook.

The lack of passengers never bothered him. The quiet was actually comforting to him after listening to music all day, the silence allowed his mind to wander as he watched people through the window. Tonight however, he was focused on the flyer he held.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he wasn’t too surprised that this had been on the bulletin board, but the fact that he had discovered it under the hundred other posters was a miracle in itself. The thin white flyer was advertising an underground rap battle taking place at the Lotus.

He had been to Lotus a few times with you, but he wasn’t able to recall where exactly a rap battle would be able to place. The last time he was there, bodies had been pressed against each other as strobe lights bounced off of jewelry and exposed skin, recalling how you were lit up in blues and pinks while you danced against his front with a drink in a free hand, the music thumping in his ears as he stole sips from your glass.

Maybe there was a place for it. He had just been too preoccupied to look for it.

“Alright Namjoon, we’re here.”

Lifting his head, he was surprised to see that they were already at the last stop for the bus. “Thanks Jerry, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Son, don’t you ever sleep?” Jerry turned in his seat to look back at Namjoon.

Namjoon simply grinned, folding the flyer in half and sticking it in his pocket as his tail bumped against one of the poles. “When wolves start sleeping at night I will.”

Jerry chuckled, waving as Namjoon exited the bus to begin the walk back home.

The bus stop was a twelve-minute walk from home and like with riding the bus, he enjoyed this time to himself. Besides you, the only company he needed was the one that nature provided all on its own. Crickets chirping in the grass, the fluttering of the tree leaves as birds and owls moved around. It was peaceful, and right now, that was what he wanted.

Deep down, he knew that Yoongi was right. That in their world, you were rightfully his wife, the Mate Mark simply taking place of a wedding ring. His heart knew it and so didn’t his soul, but his mind kept fighting it.

The human side of him knew that without a wedding certificate and wedding bands, society wouldn’t acknowledge him as your husband. They might lightly toss around the term Mate, but they would never mean it. To them, he was your Hybrid and nothing more.

Reaching for his phone in his other pocket, he slowly unwrapped the earbuds, slipping one in his ear while scrolling through his music. He would have put in the other, but the memory of you worrying that people might sneak up on him without hearing them came to mind and kept him from doing so. It had been adorable to see you so concern about him, and since he hadn’t had anyone to worry about him in the first place, he didn’t have the heart to tell you that his other set of ears would have picked up on the sound of twig snapping off in the distance.

What bothered him the most about all this, was that he had known. He had known since he first started living with you that you dreamed about one day marrying the love of your life. As he walked down the memorized path, his mind wandered back to that morning.

Namjoon’s ear flicked towards the closed bedroom door as he laid in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin as he forced himself to remember where he was, like he has been for the last three days.

He had come to stay with you at your house due to the overcrowding at the Shelter, all the scents and noises had been too much for him. Your place was quiet, allowing him to uncoil and calm down.

The most important thing, was that he was safe here.

If memory served right, then today was the start of the weekend. Glancing at the clock that you had on the nightstand, he doubtfully looked back at the door and then back at the device, wondering if it was wrong. It was six in the morning.

From the bedroom he was able to hear low voices and the soft pap of your footsteps against the wooden floor. That was you alright. But why you were awake? Weren’t weekends meant to be used for sleeping in?

Sitting upright, he ran a hand through his hair, his other hand clenching the blankets as he scanned the room once again. Did this mean you were expecting him to be up too? You had been nothing but nice to him since the night of the storm, but he knew how things have a habit of not being what they seem. It had been three days and already you exceeded his expectations of him staying with you.

It was like…you enjoyed his company.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden buzzing, your hurried footsteps echoing this time instead of being quiet. He waited with bated breath, at first thinking that you had been running to the guest bedroom that you told him he could stay in, but there was nothing but silence right outside his door.

Namjoon pushed back the blankets and stood up, making sure to smooth out the blankets and pillows so that they appeared undisturbed, leaving the room once he was satisfied. He was curious as to what was happening, but he hadn’t been expecting the smells to hit him.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled his senses as a sweet tart had his mouthwatering. Without thinking, he followed the smells to where it opened up into the living room and kitchen, spotting you by the counter. Next to him, the TV was on to a show with women wearing white dresses, the volume turned down to low so it didn’t travel down the hall to the bedrooms.

His footsteps were silent as he entered the kitchen, curiously watching you plate the large muffins onto a glass plate. In front of you was a light blue mug with steam wafting up from it. With a deep inhale, he realized these were the things he had been smelling.

As if you had been expecting him, you turned to look at Namjoon, gently smiling as you plated the last muffin. “I’d thought you be sleeping for a while,” you spoke, setting the empty tray back on top of some potholders he hadn’t noticed.

Namjoon didn’t speak, and apparently, you didn’t mind. “I’m so used to getting up early that it’s hard to sleep in sometimes. So, I tend to do a lot of baking in the morning to have something to do.”

You reached up to brush a loose strand of hair back, automatically patting the back of your hair to make sure that it hadn’t fallen out of the messy bun you threw it up in. Still dressed in bed clothes, an oversized shirt that was tied at the side and a pair of thin pajama pants, you took one of the small plates and set a blueberry muffin on it, handing it to Namjoon.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, hesitating to take it.

But you waited, and after a few minutes, he carefully took the plate.

“They just came out of the oven so they’re hot,” you reminded, pointing at the butter and the knife on the table. “I recommend cutting it in half and spreading some butter on them, they taste so good.”

Namjoon didn’t move.

With a lick of your lips, he saw the emotions in your eyes waver as you made your own plate and went to the table, doing exactly what you had suggested he do. He knew that you were holding your emotions in check for him, but he didn’t say anything as he started to copy your movements. At the sight of the butter melting on the hot muffin, his stomach growled, making his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“There’s more than enough if you want a second,” you gently encouraged. He didn’t even need to look up to hear the smile in your voice.

The morning after the storm, trees had been knocked down so you had stayed home while the roads were getting cleared, claiming you didn’t want to get caught up in the cleanup. At lunch time you had knocked on his door to tell him that lunch was ready if he was hungry, and despite your promises that it was okay, he lingered at the hallway, unsure if you were sincere that he could not only just eat, but to enter the room. When he finally joined you at the table, he had sensed your shock at how little he had taken – barely enough to feed a small child – and again you encouraged him to eat as much as he wanted.

He never said it, but he had heard crying coming from your room that night. His ears had flattened against his skull at the muffled sound of your sadness, feeling a wave of the emotions you were experiencing. You may not have known what Namjoon had gone through, but you had begun to piece together the possibilities.

“Would you like some coffee too?”

Your voice had roused him from his thoughts, glancing up at you to see you pointing at the mug you had set on the table. Another sniff and he was nodding, watching you smile before going around him to get a second mug, this one a warm orange, and recreated the drink.

“Here you go,” you murmured, your smile growing as he accepted it without waiting.

He was hungry and for the first time, he was starting to feel okay with taking the things that you were giving him.

"I’m going to sit on the couch,” you explained, drinking your own coffee as you picked up your plate again. “You can join me if you want.” With that, you went into the living room, comfortably sitting down as you turned the volume up a little bit.

Namjoon didn’t join you right away. Instead, he readjusted the grip he had on the mug, and cautiously took a sip. Instantly the inside of his chest warmed up, the slightly bitter taste of the coffee beans waking up his mind that was still foggy from sleeping.

He stared at you from where he stood, awake but confused. Why were you being so polite, so kind to him? Was there something you wanted from him that he hadn’t been able to sense yet? Yet every time he tried to understand your emotions, he got nothing but unrelenting patience and happiness from you. He hadn’t even spoken to you yet, and you were happy he was here. At least, that’s what he was assuming from how you felt.

Making up his mind, he quietly sat on the other end of the couch with a seat in between you and him, gingerly taking a bit out of the blueberry muffin now that it wasn’t so hot it hurt. It was like heaven in fluffy bread that melted in his mouth, the blueberries bursting with sweetness and the occasional bitter taste.

On the TV, a woman said yes to a dress and her friends were screaming in happiness, capturing his attention as he tried to understand what was happening.

“They’re shopping for wedding dresses,” you explained, having seen the confused look on Namjoon’s face. “I’ve binge watched every episode for this show, I love seeing all the different gowns and weddings, gets me excited for the day that I get to go through this. But that won’t be for a long time.”

There was a longing in your voice that had peaked Namjoon’s interest, and as you explained, he noticed that your eyes had lit up with the unmentioned dream. He knew what marriage was and that humans didn’t always marry the right person, and while he didn’t really see the point in them, he hoped that one day you’d get to live out your dream.

You deserved it.

Namjoon winced as his shoes echoed in the silent entryway, snapping out of his memories when he sensed your steady heartbeat. It was with a start that he realized you were actually asleep, not just pretending to be like you usually did when he was this late.

It was good that you were asleep, but as he walked to the bedroom, guilt filled him at the thought of missing these quiet moments with you. Passing by the couch, he turned off the lamp that had been left on, enveloping the room in darkness.

He was already discarding his shirt when he entered the bedroom, tossing it in the hamper when he saw you. His body relaxed at the sight of you curled up under the blankets, your hair off of your neck to reveal your Mate mark. A soft growl came from him as he took his pants off, sliding under the blankets in just his underwear, too tired to bother pulling on a pair of sweat pants. Not that you would complain anyways.

On instinct, he curled his body around yours, wrapping an arm around your waist as he buried his face in your hair. Your scent of nutmeg and crisp apples was comforting him, the sound of your soft sigh and the way your body automatically curved backwards into his embrace even as you slept didn’t go unmissed by Namjoon.

With you in his arms, it was easy to push away the rest of the world, especially like this. But it also only served to remind him what he’d taken away from you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the Mate mark, lips brushing against your skin with every word. “I’m sorry I can’t fix this baby. I’m so sorry Angel.”

[something-tofightfor]

Seasons to Cycles / 4

Pairing: Logan Delos x Reader

Word Count: 10,760

Rating: M (Some language, mentions of sex and drug use)

Summary:  Logan’s got an invitation for you - but is it what it seems? Is it real, or is he looking for something in particular?  Later, both halves of his life come together in an unexpected - but not entirely unwanted - way. 

Author’s Note: Here’s where things start to get very interesting. I hope this chapter answers some questions for you ... but it’s also going to raise new ones. Song lyrics come into play in this one, too, which is what I’ve been waiting for. 

 Enjoy. (Thank you for the feedback!)

ALSO.

A couple people have asked about Logan’s apartment and Juliet’s house, so here are the listings I’m using as reference:  Logan’s High Rise

Juliet’s House

I had one for reader’s studio apartment, too, but apparently it’s not for rent anymore, so it’s not showing. Sorry! 

From the 46th story of Two California Plaza, Logan looked out over the city. It always took him a day or two to get used to being back in the office after trips to the parks, and the abrupt end to the most recent trip had made it worse than usual. But I’m happy to be home. He leaned back in his chair, one arm bent and behind his head, and smiled. At least the weather’s good. He’d been surprised to return to his room at the Mesa and find multiple messages waiting from Ariella, one of them apologizing for the way that she’d acted before she’d left his place - but even more surprised to see a rambling message from you, sent in the middle of the week. She’s curious about the parks and the Hosts.

He’d called his fiancée back, for once ahead of her in time zones, and while the conversation had been fast, the woman on her way to meet with her parents, it hadn’t been unpleasant. But that’s probably because I haven’t looked into what she got up to in Amsterdam yet. Logan hadn’t called you back, though, and he hadn’t returned your text, either. But why? 

 Standing, he pushed away from his desk and began pacing in front of his window, one hand in his pocket and the fingers of the other running through his hair. I wanted to. He had. In fact, he’d thought of you a lot while in the park, his usual distractions occupying less and less of his mind as the days passed. He’d sought out Clementine, not having to look far once they’d arrived in Sweetwater, and spent the night with her before setting out with his business partners the following day. Logan had timed the arrival so that just as they were leaving, Hector and his bandits were arriving, and though that had given him something else to focus on, by the time the four of them had reached Las Mudas as a stopover on their way to Pariah, you were on Logan’s mind again, remaining there for the entirety of the remainder of the ride out to the hidden city.

 The men and women in Pariah were more than willing to accommodate his requests, and the time they spent there was pleasant. Logan let loose and drank heavily, the sweet-smelling air perfumed by the spices sold by the street vendors wafting in through his open windows and keeping him awake long after his chosen partners had drifted off. Hasn’t always been that way. The first time, it was … I wore myself out. 

 Pariah was Logan’s favorite area in the park, because the overall tone suited him, but each time he returned to Westworld, he also remembered what it felt like to be appointed as one of the leaders of the Confederados, the men listening to him without question, following his orders even though they made little sense. Because it’s like it is out there. Just less...real. Even that train of thought led him back to you, though it didn’t happen until he’d read your message and was already back on his way to Los Angeles. Why am I thinkin’ about this? 

 He stopped moving, pulling his hand from his pocket and settling both on his hips, elbows bent. “You’re the boss, Logan. Act like it.” But he lowered his head, hair moving out of place and falling over one eye. “Shit.” He straightened up, eyes narrowed. Get it together. You have a meeting in an hour, and the rest of your week is … But instead of sitting back down at his desk to read through notes, a few minutes later, Logan was sitting beneath one of the permanent umbrellas on California Plaza, his phone in hand, and your number on the screen. He only hesitated for a few seconds before he called, wondering if he’d catch you on a break again, or you’d push him through to voicemail. After two rings, he got his answer. 

 “Logan, hi!” Your tone excited, you greeted him, and he felt a smile spreading over his lips and lifting his cheeks before he could stop it. “Did you have a good trip?” She sounds happy to hear from me.

 “I did.” He leaned back in that chair, eyes on the fountains in front of him. “Got your text.” 

 “Oh, Logan, I shouldn’t have -” Embarrassed? No reason to be.

 “Are you at work now, I hope I’m not -” You assured him that it was fine, and that you were taking a long lunch. “The only way to answer that would be to let you meet Hosts, you know?” He licked his lips, thinking. “An’ it’s different for everyone, so I don’t know how you’d… what you’d think of them.” That was the truth, and though it wasn’t difficult for Logan and Juliet to tell the difference, he knew - all too well - that it wasn’t the case for everyone. “If you were in one of the parks -”

 “You and your sister, Logan. Both of you keep trying to get me into those damn parks when I …” You were laughing. “I’m not the type of person you need to impress, I’m just curious.” 

 “Jules wants you to go to the park?” It was his turn to laugh. Doesn’t surprise me. “Well then you know it must be -” 

 “Maybe in another lifetime, Logan.” You took a deep breath and he pictured the way your shoulders would settle, the subtle tilt of your head. “What did you call for, though? That didn’t answer my …” Maybe she doesn’t need to be in the parks to… He leaned forward, thinking. It would be easy, I can ask… 

 “I’m gonna work late tomorrow.” He stood, heading back for the entrance. “Get some extra shit done, but if you want to stop by the office after you’re out of work, I can answer your question in person?” It was unnecessary, but the seed was planted. “We’ve got a restaurant on-site, so we can get somethin’ to eat, and have a working dinner.” I want to see you, want to see how you… 

 “If you’re working late, it must mean you’re busy, and I don’t want to keep you from…” He heard the doubt creeping into your voice again, and Logan cut it off quickly, already in the elevator back up to his office. 

 “I’m the boss. It’s fine. Promise.” The doors opened to his floor, and Logan stepped in front of his office, leaning down to let the small camera scan his eye, the door unlocking almost immediately. “I’ll text you a visitor’s parking pass, and if you let me know when you get here, I’ll meet you in the lobby.” 

 “Sounds good. Is it alright if I get there around…” You thought for a second. “Five? It should only take me about twenty five minutes, so …” 

 “Perfect.” He was sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keyboard and he sent you the pass, and again after, as he opened up a blank email. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

 “Yep.” He could tell you were smiling, and Logan smiled again, too. “I’ll be there.” There wasn’t much else to say, and so you hung up shortly after, Logan’s lips still curved upward. This is either going to go really well, or it’s going to backfire on me. 

 --- 

 He met you in the lobby the following afternoon, standing back a few feet while you spoke with Cal, one of the receptionists. One. Your interaction with the man was pleasant but nothing special, and Logan watched you grin at him, reaching out to take the visitor’s badge in one hand. He called out your name, striding over to where you were standing, using one hand to clip the piece of plastic to the strap of your bag. “Logan this place is amazing.” It is. 

 “Didn’t always look like this.” He touched your elbow, guiding you through the lobby. “My father wasn’t a fan of the open plan, wanted everything to feel… intimidating, so when Juliet and I took over, we made some changes. She did, first. Then I… “You’re right though, this is much better.” He eyed you as you took in the tall ceilings and artwork, the sculptures and the fountains; the clear liquid splashing onto the marble tile of the floor and dripping into the recessed drains. “You look tired.” He finally took a good look at you when you stepped into the elevator, Logan typing in his code for access to the lower floors. “Long day at work?” You closed your eyes and nodded. 

 “Yeah, I work in admissions, like I said, so we’re in kind of a … slow spot right now, but the entire system went down this morning, and so I spent my entire shift doing data entry, and I …” You rubbed your eyes with both hands. “My eyes hurt.” He grinned at that, but didn’t say anything. “Thanks, though, for pointing out that -” 

 “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that you don’t look…” He paused. “Alright, yeah, that does make me sound like a dick.” That got you to laugh, and by the time the two of you stepped out into the entryway, Logan was laughing with you. “We’re not goin’ into my office yet. Follow me.” You looked confused, but Logan was eager to show you the first part of the reason he’d invited you to Delos. “This is somethin’ most people don’t ever get to see.” He pressed his hand against a panel next to a set of glass doors, a green light illuminating and the panes separating. “An’ it’s not …” Should I be doing this? “You’ll see.” 

 “Logan, what …” You were right next to him, and though the hall was well lit, the rooms you were passing weren’t, most of them completely dark. “I feel like we’re in a …” But you stopped speaking as you reached the end of the hallway, where the room was well lit. Here we go. “Logan…” He heard it in your voice - the moment you realized where you were and what you were doing, and only a second later, felt your fingers closing around his wrist. “Are those …” 

 “They are.” Only glass separated you from the man and woman in the room, the two of them dancing in a slow circle. “We’re workin’ on a new … project. It’s not a park, and it’s not on the island, so …” He looked over, expecting you to be focused on the window, but instead you were staring up at him, eyes full of shock. She’s lookin’ at me instead of… “So they’re here. Some of ‘em. We’re trying to…” 

 “Logan, they look so much like people, how …” You finally tore your eyes away from him and took a half step closer to the glass, fingers still circling his wrist. “This is …” He remembered what it had been like to see the Hosts for the first time, to speak to them, to touch them - feeling the way that they filled the room at the penthouse bar, Logan only realizing what was happening as Angela giggled and lifted her finger. It was incredible. And it still is. “She’s beautiful, Logan.” You had one hand on the glass and you finally let go of him with the other, reaching up to press your fingertips to your cheek, slowly moving them up and down. 

 “She is. When they design the hosts, they model ‘em off a composite of actual people.” He leaned closer to you, not wanting to raise his voice. “So some of them? You’ll look at them, and it’s close enough that you might think ‘oh, he’s got Timberlake’s eyes, or Skarsgard’s lips… or she’s got Keira Knightly’s…” 

 “Did you just give me a list of the people you find attractive, Logan?” You nudged him with your elbow. “Or are you telling me that I could go into the park and find someone as -” Always listening to what’s between the … 

 “We make ‘em so that they appeal to people.” He set his shoulders, eyes back on the couple, the man and woman still dancing, but laughing at the same time, one of his hands combing through her long, wavy hair. “So yeah, sometimes they pull features from real people, just to… make things more lifelike.” Logan took a breath. “We gotta get permission from them, of course, and even then, the techs change things like eye color or birthmarks, or …” He shrugged. “A lot of the Hosts are entirely new, but we’ve got hundreds of them in each park, and with this project, we need to …”

 “You need to keep things familiar, because this…” You pulled your hand away from the glass, taking a deep breath. “Logan, I’ll be honest with you right now, I’m just looking at them, and it’s hard to believe that they’re real, that this … exists. Any of it. It’s overwhelming. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in one of the parks, surrounded by …” 

 “It’s a fuckin’ trip.” You turned to face him, though he watched your eyes dart back to the left before they focused on him. “Every time, even though I know none of it is real.” He watched your lips tremble slightly, and Logan contemplated his next words. How much do I … “It only gets as real as you let it, and the parks are designed so that the Hosts can’t really hurt you, but if you forget that - and it’s easy to, sometimes - it can get… pretty goddamn wild.” 

 “I bet.” You swallowed and turned your head back toward the window, not saying anything else, and Logan watched you, eyes roaming over your profile. You weren’t reacting the way that he’d thought you would. He hadn’t expected you to flip out, or talk his ear off, but he wasn’t expecting the almost stoic silence, either. Is she not impressed? Is she … “Why are you showing this to me, Logan?” You took a deep breath. “There aren’t supposed to be Hosts in the United States, Delos signed a -” She’s lookin’ into us? 

 “We did. And technically, these Hosts aren’t in the United States, because they’re confined to this building, to specific floors, and if they leave? They cross the barriers?” He reached out cautiously, knowing that you could see the movement, and when you didn’t stop him, he laid one fingertip at the base of your neck, pressing gently. “They’ve got implants, and… boom.” He felt you shiver, watching your eyes close. Is that causea the… “They keep a close eye on ‘em, too, and the only people that know they’re here are the ones we trust.” 

 “So why am I here?” You turned your entire body to face him, and because the movement shocked him, Logan’s hand moved along the side of your throat and over your shoulder before he could pull it back. Fuck. The contact stunned him, leaving him speechless for the span of two breaths. Oh, fuck, that’s not … He watched the look in your eyes change, realizing that you hadn’t meant for it to happen either, his touch visibly affecting you, and then Logan spoke again, the tiniest wavering of his voice audible. 

 “Because you asked how real they were, an’ the only way to explain it is to show you.” He drew his hand back, sliding it smoothly into his pocket and gesturing with the other toward the glass. “And this is nothing. It’s different when you’re talkin’ to them, or you’re in bed with them, or you shoot one of them, an’ watch them fall, or when they…” He stopped himself. “But.” Logan sucked air through his teeth before letting out his breath. “At least you’ve seen ‘em now, yeah?” You nodded. “An’ I know you won’t say anything about this, because ...” Because I trust you already, and that’s… “Because I think you wanna be my friend, and you know that …”

 “Who would I tell, Logan?” Your eyes were shining. “I never thought I’d…” You looked back, the male Host dipping the female backwards, one of his hands rising to the side of her face, thumb skating over the fullest part of her cheek. “Jesus.” It was impressive - he had to admit it. The Hosts had come a long way in the years since his first private demonstration, and Logan was glad for it. They’re gonna be the only thing that gets me through… He shook his head briefly. Not now. “I won’t say a word, Logan, I promise.” You reached toward him, squeezing his hand and Logan let you, eyes flicking down so that he could watch as you gripped his fingers briefly, not even giving him a chance to squeeze back before you let go. “Thank you for showing me.” 

 That shocked him - not that you’d thanked him, because he’d figured you would, but that you accepted the short viewing of the Hosts as the extent of what he was offering, and hadn’t pushed further. I guess I kind of expected that, too. And it means that I was … “You’re welcome.” Logan’s mind was racing, the man trying to keep up with his thoughts. “D’you wanna go back upstairs now? I meant what I said about havin’ dinner. You can ask questions, or …” 

 “I don’t even know what I’d ask, Logan. I wasn’t expecting … this, and now I …” But you haven’t even … “But yes. Let’s go back up.” We should. “You said there’s a cafeteria? I didn’t actually get to eat lunch today, so -” 

 “Come on, then. Let’s get you some food.” And get to the second part of this. 

 --- 

 The cafeteria - like the rest of Delos - was sleek and modern, wide open, with windows that overlooked the city, and you felt yourself smile as you looked around, more than a few other people still in the space. I’m surprised there’s… 

 But the more you thought about it, the more you weren’t that shocked. Delos was a 24/7 company, employees working around the clock in different departments. And based on what I just saw, it makes perfect sense. Logan showing you the two Hosts had been a total surprise, and you’d been in awe at how lifelike they were - barely a few feet away from you, focused on each other like a couple in love, their mannerisms - from what you could tell - no different than your own would have been. “You’re not even listenin’.” You shook yourself out of your thoughts and focused back on Logan, the man leaning across the table and toward you. “And I thought I was interesting.” Oh, you are, Logan. I just … 

 “Did you have a good trip? Juliet told me one of your guests got sick, so you came back early.”

 “I did. It was niceta get back into the park, and …” He grinned, winking and taking a long drink. “Have some fun.” Can I ask? Should I ask? You wanted to, wanted to know Logan’s take on things, and with a deep inhale, you decided to do just that. “Logan.” You bit your lip, blinking. “When you say fun, do you mean -” 

 “Yes.” He answered without hesitation. “That’s exactly what I mean. Along with some shooting and fighting and …” Ok, so he answered that. But will he… 

 “So when you go into the park, you …” You raised an eyebrow. “Sleep with the -”

 “Not doin’ much sleeping, usually.” He winked at you, but you didn’t let it deter you. You’re not gonna get me that easily, Logan. 

 “Ok, so that’s my next question.” You took a drink from the cup in front of you. “So you don’t consider that cheating then? Since you’ve got a fiancée, and yet you still…” 

 “No.” There was no shame in the reply, Logan’s eyes locked onto your face. “It’s not cheating if they’re not real. And they’re not real, no matter how real they look or feel or act, so…” He ran a hand through his hair. “The Hosts are one of the only habits I haven’t broken yet, an’ between you and me?” He leaned in, tone serious. “Out of all of ‘em, it’s the safest.” You’re right. You widened your eyes as he spoke, but tried to hide it. He… Sex with the Hosts presented very few risks to Logan - or his reputation. The parks weren’t traceable, and there was no chance of getting any of them pregnant - or catching anything from them in return. They can’t hurt him, they can’t start any rumors, and there’s no … there’s no permanence. “Any other questions?” 

 He was resting an elbow on the table, chin atop his hand. So many. But before you could speak, you heard someone say his name, turning your head to watch a man heading toward your table. Oh, this will be awkward, he’ll have to introduce me. “Logan! Good to see you, I didn’t realize you were back.” Logan straightened up, grinning. “Who’s this?” 

 “Hey, Gideon.” Logan nodded once. “This is my friend.” He introduced you, and there wasn’t even time for you to say anything before the man was holding his hand out to you, saying hello. “She had a couple questions about the parks, and I figured it was easier to talk in person.” He gestured to the chair. “Sit with us?” You were focused on the second man, though, eyes on his face and on the warmth you saw in his eyes; green tinged with blue and gold. He’s… The man was attentive, repeating your name even as he removed his hand from yours and dropped into the chair next to you. “What have you been up to?” 

 You watched the two of them speak, both animated as they continued their conversation, turning toward you every now and then to include you. They must be friends, this is … Taking their conversation as an opportunity to observe, you eyed Gideon, smiling as the man reached up to scratch his chin, never looking away from Logan. He’s handsome. You realized it after only a few moments, letting yourself eye the man without restraint. Really handsome, I wonder if all of the employees are … But your thoughts were interrupted by Logan asking you a question, and you pulled your attention away from Gideon, focusing back on the other man. “What? No. I’ve only been to Juliet’s that one time, aside from when you and I went.” I was paying attention, Logan. I might have been watching Gideon, but… “She invited me back out to use the pool again, but so far, no.” 

 “You’ve never invited me out to swim at your sister’s Logan.” Gideon was laughing, and though he spoke to Logan, he was eyeing you. “And you’ve already gotten a callback?” He winked at you, grin widening. “You’ve got to tell me your secrets, about how you won Juliet over so fast.” Logan remained quiet, but as you glanced at him, you saw that he was watching the two of you, barely concealing the smile on his face. But if he’s friends with Logan, wouldn’t… 

 “No secrets, Gideon.” You shrugged, taking a bite out of your burger. “But it is a nice pool.” The man laughed loudly, eyes closing as he nodded. 

 “Fair enough.” He rested his forearm on the table, leaning slightly closer. “Logan said you have some questions about the parks?” You said yes, once again glancing at Logan. I’m almost positive this guy is hitting on me, but … “Maybe I can answer. Logan’s got the money and the power, but I work in Asset Development, so I’m much more … hands on, if you know what I mean.” His boldness took you by surprise, but as you thought about his words, you realized that if he was hitting on you, he was doing it without worry. Logan’s engaged, of course he wouldn’t care that someone was … 

 But even as you continued the conversation with the two men, Gideon supplying answers when Logan couldn’t, the man asking you questions and inviting you to visit him in his office sometime to talk more, you were slightly distracted. But Logan said …  when we were in the apartment, that he liked me … he tried to … You looked back and forth between both of them, trying to keep a neutral expression, and then focused on Gideon’s face. Logan’s too calm. There’s no way that he would … Gideon scratched his chin again and you sucked in a breath, trying to keep it quiet. Not only me, he was basically hitting on Juliet, too, and Logan wouldn’t… there’s no way that … Not if it was real. “Logan.” You whispered  the single word, locking your eyes on the man’s, finding that he was staring at you. “Logan.” 

 “That’s enough, Gideon.” The second man stopped speaking, and Logan continued. “All that we need is too close to be seen.” Without another word, Gideon stood and turned away from the table, heading back in the direction that he’d come from. What the fuck. “You figured it out.” Logan leaned closer, a note of pride in his voice. “How?” 

 “He was a…” Logan nodded. “I thought I was …” But Logan didn’t speak, only watching you quietly. “It was mostly you, Logan. He didn’t do anything, not really, but you … your reaction to him hitting on Juliet and... The way you just sat back and watched? You said it’s never real, and I think that if he’d really been doing that, in front of you? And including me? You wouldn’t have been so calm.” Maybe. He looked surprised at your words, but nodded. 

 “So I gave it away?” You did, but … “Gideon’s one of our newest. We use him as a test subject. He does work in Asset Management, but he’s going to be something else down the line.” So he let me meet a … he introduced me to … “Are you alright?” Logan’s hand moved as if he wanted to touch yours, but he stopped short. “I shouldn’t have …”

 “No, I’m....” You shook your head, lowering it. “I just wasn’t expecting to…” Bringing your gaze back up, you met Logan’s eyes once more. “He scratched his chin a few times, Logan, I caught that. And his eyes were … I’ve never seen eyes like that, especially on someone that seemed like -” But you stopped, not wanting to finish your sentence. I don’t need him to think I’m reading more into this. 

 “Seemed what?” But it wasn’t going to be that easy, Logan still talking quietly. “You gotta tell me.” 

 “I’ve never been hit on by a guy that looks like that.” You gestured in the direction that the man had gone. “But it felt real, so I… went with it.” 

 “Yeah you have.” He gave you a quick smile. “Because I’m pretty sure that I’ve -”

 “You don’t count, Logan. You’re practically married, so… you flirting might be honest, but it’s not going to …” It’s not going to lead anywhere. I don’t know what’s worse - the robot blatantly doing it that could have led to … or Logan, who can’t … “Wait, you were hitting on me?” You rolled your eyes, trying to lighten the mood. “You must be losing your touch, because I -” 

 “Oh, shut up. You know I was.” It was Logan’s turn to take a drink, watching you from over the rim of his glass. “So what did you think? Cal an’ the two in the basement, and Gideon?” Cal? You mean the receptionist? “Yeah, he’s a Host, too. Like I said, we’re rotating the new Hosts through different positions, just to make sure that they can integrate into real situations, when it comes time.” He’s telling me their future plans like I… “So you’ve talked to two of ‘em, touched two of them.” I did, they were … they felt like … “And?” 

 “And … what?” You were confused, overstimulated, still in disbelief that because of a chance encounter, you’d gotten an opportunity to - in person - see and feel the Delos Hosts. “I had no idea at first, Logan. Is that how it is in the parks? Are -”

 “No, they’re dialed back here. They have to be. The parks are meant to be … real, but still over the top. I can’t explain it. They’re tryin’ to get your attention from the second you step offa the train. It’s all a come-on, and everyone’s got a part to play. But here? They gotta fit in, blend in. There, you know that you’re interacting with them a lot of times, but here, you can’t know. 

 “Well they fooled me, Logan. Both of them, I -”

 “Not entirely, though.” He looked slightly worried. “You said you noticed Gideon scratching -”

 “Only because I was already focused on the way you were acting, Logan. Without you right here, I probably wouldn’t have …” Stop talking. The more you say, the more he’s… Logan wasn’t an idiot, and you knew that you’d likely already said too much. The look in his eyes confirmed your suspicions, and the next words he said solidified them. 

 “So you could tell I wasn’t… acting like myself?” You thought about lying to him - for a split second - making up an excuse that wouldn’t make it seem as if you were trying to read into his behavior - and then you didn’t. 

 “I could. Especially with Juliet. I don’t think any man would have the balls to talk about her like that in front of you.” You took a breath. “And I guess, Logan, that I don’t really think you’d just casually try to pawn me off on someone that I don’t -”

 “You’re right.” He chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “On both counts, actually. The last person that … disrespected Juliet in front of me? He got what he deserved. Eventually.” You watched Logan’s eyes go cold, lip curling slightly. That’s a sore subject. “And you? You’re damn right that I wouldn’t just sit back and... “ He stopped himself and you felt your heart thud, though you knew it was pointless. He’s just being a good friend. “But a Host?” Logan let out a long breath, closing his eyes and smirking for a few seconds. “They’re built to be fuckin’ irresistable, so…” One eyebrow raised, Logan finished his sentence. “It’s not a problem.” 

 “So wait a second.” You took another bite, needing a few seconds. “Does that mean that if Ariella were to go to the parks, you wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing -”

 “Nope.” He lifted a forkful of pasta salad to his lips, and when he’d swallowed, he spoke. “And I know that a lot of people think that’s bullshit, but as long as you know it’s not real? It makes it a hell of a lot easier to let your guard down, to look at it objectively.” 

 “What do you mean?” I get it, I think, but … “You could just watch her go off with one of them, knowing that -”

 “I could. I have.” He took another long swallow of his drink. “And not just Hosts, either.” That’s… wait, what? “Everyone’s got a history, right? With people, you never know what the fuck the other person’s doing; where they’ve been or who they’ve been with. With the parks? Every Host gets taken offline and cleaned up between Guest encounters, so it doesn’t matter. We’ve gotta protect the people in the parks, and we’ve gotta do what’s right. There’s no risk. No diseases, no pregnancies, no attachments.” His words echoed your earlier thoughts, but Logan continued. “I could take you right now, to where Gideon is, and bring him back online completely. He’d start the conversation with you where it left off. You guys could do whatever, and then go your separate ways… but the next time he met you? He might not remember it, depending on what we’ve had him doing between. To him, it’s like nothin’ happened, when we reset him, even though it did.”

“Logan, that -” 

 “It’s safe. It’s smart. It’s efficient. Think about how many relationships could be saved if people went and fucked Hosts instead of real people? Think about how many fewer problems there’d be, people blowin’ off steam by goin’ to bed with -” He swore, cutting himself off, muttering under his breath. “D’you wanna do that? Go find Gideon, or maybe even Cal? Have some… we’ve got private rooms here, in the building, you could -” Why is he… why does he think I… 

 “No, Logan.” You narrowed your eyes. “Gideon was good looking, but that doesn’t mean that I … it doesn’t matter that he’s a Host, I’ve spoken to him for fifteen minutes, and I -” You paused. “That would have been like you and I fucking in the Whole Foods parking lot with that damn ice cream melting in your trunk.” He snorted at that, giving you a look that you couldn’t quite read. I don’t know what’s going on right now, but this isn’t the same… he’s thinking about something different, something … “It would be different if I was in a park, Logan, and we’d known each other for a couple minutes, because that’s … that’s what it’s supposed to be like. But out here? This is real life. I can’t just get back on a train and leave, it…” You’re explaining this really poorly. 

 “Aren’t you curious? You’ve seen ‘em. Felt them, talked with them. Don’t you want to -”

 “Of course I’m curious, Logan, but that doesn’t mean … this is a lot to think about. I -”

 “What do you think?” His tone changed again, Logan’s eyes once again filled with warmth. “You asked me if I thought it was cheating, fucking the Hosts in the park, but what do you -”

 “It’s not.” You wet your lips. “It would probably be hard the first time, to know that someone I cared about was probably in bed with someo… something else, to see it happen, even just watching y… them walk away with the Host, but it… yeah, for the duration, it’s real, but… fuck, Logan, if I’m paying $40,000 a day? If they are paying $40,000 a day? Fuck all the robots you want and get your money’s worth.” That got a laugh from Logan, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned. 

 “I’m offerin’ you, right now, the chance. No forty grand, no park, no … strings. You and onea those two, in a -”

 “No. Thank you, Logan, but no.” This is… are we really having this conversation? “If I’m going to sleep with one of the Hosts, I want it to be… the real circumstances, not just one basically hand delivered to me by the fucking CEO of the company that’s designing them.” And I don’t really want a Host, either, I… “What does that say about me, hmm?” You tilted your head to one side. “Need someone to play matchmaker for me, and the match isn’t even a real…” 

 “You don’t need me.” Logan interrupted. “I’m just in a position to offer you somethin’ you can’t refuse for a hell of a lot less than the going rate.” The playful tone was back in Logan’s voice, but you still heard some hesitation. What is … why? “Except you’re refusing it. Are you sure? Gideon’s a hell of a -”

 “I’m sure.” Though you were surprised to hear yourself reply so quickly, you were certain of your answer. “I appreciate it, but I…” You shrugged. “He might be designed to be perfect, but I’ll be honest and tell you he’s not what I usually go for.” You saw that Logan was surprised, but the man kept quiet, raising one hand and lifting his shoulder in a shrug. Not even close. 

 --- 

 The following weeks kept Logan busy with finalizing contracts, the man flying between LA and Boston for work multiple times. Though he kept in touch with you via text, you didn’t see each other again, and Logan thought that it was likely for the best. Because the last time she .. she gave me a lot to think about. 

 You’d picked up on his behavior both in front of the Host room and in the cafeteria, though you didn’t know him well. You’d paid more attention to him than to the Hosts that you’d been confronted with, even while Logan had seen you eyeing Gideon, almost in disbelief. And that was before she knew. It had been wrong of him to surprise you with so much information in so little time, but Logan had wanted to see your genuine reaction to the Hosts, and if he’d clued you in, it would have ruined everything. And she … she didn’t … 

 The disbelief he’d understood. Seeing and meeting them for the first time was special, even if their true potential wasn’t on display. But what he hadn’t understood was how quick you were to turn down the opportunity to get closer to either of the two men, though it was apparent that you understood the true stakes of the offer itself. She didn’t care. It wasn’t just about … the experience. You didn’t think that you’d ever make it to one of the parks, and were still willing to turn down the chance to take a Host to bed, no strings attached. Wish my fiancée was the same. 

 Your questions and comments about cheating, about the safety of being with Hosts had gotten to Logan, and though he knew that you had no idea about his relationship’s parameters, he’d been unable to stop thinking about what you’d said - and how you’d said it. She meant it. Really didn’t think I was honestly flirting with her, was surprised at me saying that I’ve watched Ariella… I’m sure she saw the way I reacted to talking about all those relationships. He swore under his breath, propping his feet up on the railing of the balcony. And then I tried to fucking get her to go off with … 

 The look in your eyes as he’d suggested you sleeping with one of the Hosts had surprised him the most. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you’d take the opportunity if presented with it under normal circumstances, but he’d put you on the spot, and he knew it. But she… Instead of agreeing out of shock and excitement, you’d turned his offer down repeatedly, providing him with legitimate explanations for your refusal. There was something she didn’t say, though. He lifted the beer bottle to his lips, taking a long drink as the LA skyline twinkled in front of him. Something she was thinking. If Gideon - or Cal - weren’t your type, then what was? There’s gotta be… 

 He’d told William once that the park managed to seduce everyone at some point, and while he’d been trying to make the man understand what he was in store for, Logan believed the words himself. The park, the Hosts, the stakes … it’s a lot. But she … she’s still...

 The more he got to know you, the more he wanted to understand. She’s not like … Logan’s mind drifted to his fiancée, and at the realization that she’d be back in Los Angeles within sixteen hours, Logan winced. Ariella woulda fucked them both, no questions asked. The woman had very few boundaries, and despite the fact that she was wearing a diamond he’d given her on her finger, that deficiency extended to the bedroom - and to her partners. She’s here for my dad’s party, and then we’ll have some meetings on Sunday with vendors, and then she’ll be gone again, and I … He rubbed a hand over his entire face, letting out a sigh. “Same fuckin’ thing.” 

 Staring up at the slowly darkening sky, Logan watched as the clouds moved across it, his mind racing. He truly didn’t care about the Host interactions, because that was what the parks were for. But each week that passed, each time he checked the woman’s private accounts, or his lawyers had to race to keep stories from leaking about her indiscretions, the amount that he cared about their future decreased, too. Might not be a traditional relationship, but goddamn, she could at least … He knew he was a catch - educated, wealthy, good looking - but Logan’s self esteem dropped each time he saw his fiancée, the woman barely lukewarm toward him, unless she knew the cameras were on. I was in bed with her more when we weren’t anything serious. Who would have … 

 Logan finished his drink and stood, striding back through the living room and into his kitchen, opening the drawer where Ariella had stashed the small container of drugs. I can’t believe this is … Setting the bottle down on the counter, he picked up the tin, turning it over in his fingers, a frown on his face. He felt the faint pull, deep in his chest, thinking about the days when he wouldn’t have thought twice about opening it and seeing what she’d left for him; carrying it into the master bathroom and dumping out a small mound of the white powder onto the back of his hand, covering one knuckle. It’d be easy. His fingers curled, the container solid in his hand. She might not even remember it’s here, so she wouldn’t know it’s gone. He lowered his head. Or maybe when she gets here, we can say fuck Jim’s party, and…

 But before that thought could continue, Juliet’s face - and then Emily’s flashed through his mind. Juliet’s features were schooled into the same mixture of sadness and fear that he’d seen when he woke up in the hospital after Westworld, Emily’s eyes filled with disappointment. I can’t do that. Not to them, not again. Not to myself. His eyes opened and he glanced down, head shaking back and forth before he set the container back down and slid the drawer shut. She’s not worth it. He knew it to be true - knew that every moment following the agreement that they made, every second of their relationship was worse than the last, but Logan was hesitant to let himself focus on it. I can’t. It’ll ruin everything, but no one … no one notices, no one sees… 

 At that thought, Logan also thought of you, the way you’d noticed his actions, noticed the subtle changes in his demeanor after only spending a few hours with him. He thought of the way you spoke to him - unafraid to question him, and even less afraid to tell him the truth, even when it differed from what he said or thought. She would notice. He knew that it was the truth - knew that the moment you saw him and Ariella together, you’d know something wasn’t right. Maybe that would be … He sighed, moving down the hallway and into his bedroom, laying down atop the blankets and folding one arm back beneath his head. But then I’d need to explain, and she wouldn’t … it’d be like I was lying to her, and I’m not. I just can’t … “Fuck.” He closed his eyes. “God fucking dammit.” 

 He’d never done so much as touch you anywhere but the arm or the back of your neck; hadn’t even come close to kissing you or holding you, but Logan couldn’t deny that he was interested in you. And it’s not … not even physical, it’s… everything. He wouldn’t act on it - even with the arrangement he had in place with Ariella - because Logan knew that you deserved more. And I think it’s … I don’t think it would be as easy as … He rubbed his eyes with one hand but didn’t reopen them. And if she knew, it would mean that I’d either have to refuse to say anything else, or … or tell her about Billy, and what started this whole thing. 

 The extent of the William Incident was something that very few people knew. Juliet knew all of it; his therapist knew everything, too. Ariella knew that he’d had a bad experience, but he hadn’t ever found the will to explain to her - preferring to only blame his drug use and excessively destructive lifestyle to nearly dying in the desert, without detailing it. And fucking Jim still doesn’t believe me, otherwise he wouldn’t have … Logan swore again, letting out a long breath. He’d never truly wanted to tell anyone, because the more Logan thought about it, the more he blamed himself - for taking William, for pushing him, for not seeing the signs until it was too late. Do I want to tell someone?

 There were days he believed that it would have been easier if he’d died in the desert - all of his shares in the company and his fortune rolling over into a trust meant for any future children of Juliet’s when they turned 18, the only stipulation that they not be touched by William in any way, shape or form. Fucking him out of that would have been something that he didn’t expect, and it would have… ruined him. That got a small smile from Logan, eyes cracking open as he turned his head toward the window. “But I didn’t.” He repeated the words, sitting up. “I’m still here, and still at Delos, and he isn’t.” 

 Logan pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet flat on the floor. If it came down to it - and you ever met Ariella - Logan knew that you’d have tons of questions for him. But would I answer? He frowned, lower lip jutting out. Do I want her to ask? He sighed, standing. And what would Ariella … would she say anything? Would she see the way… “The way what, Delos? She’s your friend, and …” But if I wasn’t engaged, I think it would be… “Different.” 

 --- 

 “Ari, come on.” He was sitting on the couch, one arm stretched out over the back of it. “We’re gonna be late, we’ve gotta stop over and pick up Jules on the way.” His eyes were on the TV, a movie playing on low volume. “You -”

 “I’m ready, Logan.” He turned his head at the sound of her voice, Logan’s eyes landing on the redhead. “I don’t know why we’re not taking a car, it makes -”

 “Because I need to be able to leave whenever I want to.” He stood, swallowing. “”You look great, Ari. That’s a -” His hand landed on her hip, and the woman’s hands moved to his chest, palms flat. “That’s a good color on you.” He wasn’t lying - the woman did look great, the navy blue cocktail dress hugging all of her curves, her long hair swept over one shoulder and held in place by a jeweled clip. “You look like you got some sun, too, you -”

 “You never know who’s going to be at these things, Logan.” She rose onto her toes, kissing his cheek. “Have to make a good impression, right?” No, you don’t, because you’re going to be my wife. No one will … But he didn’t say anything in response, pulling away from the  woman and grabbing his jacket from where it was hanging over the back of a chair, folding it over his arm. “Who made the guest list this time, Logan? Anyone I’d know on it?” Probably. 

 They rode the elevator down, Logan reciting some of the people’s names that would likely be there, Ariella rifling through her purse as she half listened. You asked, and now you … He rolled his eyes as the two of them exited into the garage, the woman waiting until Logan had opened the door for her to lower herself into the seat. As he slid into his side, buckling his seatbelt, Logan turned the car on and backed out of his spot, hearing the woman let out a breath. “What?” 

 “Can we turn the air on, Logan? It’s disgusting here, it’s so sticky out -” Oh, you better not have … He swung his head to look at her, eyes landing on the woman’s nose before they moved up. But Ariella’s eyes were clear and there was no powder beneath either nostril. So she’s just complaining. Got it. But he flipped the dial, and within only a few seconds, the interior had cooled off. “So why are we picking up Juliet? I thought she’d drive herself, maybe bring -”

 “She didn’t want to drive herself, and as far as I know, she didn’t ask anyone to go with her.” Logan turned onto 10, shaking his head. “So I offered to drive her, because I figured it’d be easier.” And because she’ll have to head home earlier because of Emily. “Besides, it’ll give the two of you more time to talk, since you haven’t seen each other in a while.” Logan knew that Juliet wasn’t the biggest fan of Ariella, and that she felt somewhat responsible for Logan’s situation. But she doesn’t need to. It’s my own … He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, merging onto 110. “Ari, I set up a couple appointments for tomorrow. A wedding planner and a -”

 “Yeah, about that.” She reached over, letting her hand rest on his knee. “Logan, I don’t … Do we have to meet with them? Can’t we just pick one, and then put them into contact with…” Logan groaned, feeling more disappointed than he thought he would. She doesn’t even … “I’ve already narrowed down the dresses, and I think that I’ve found a way to sell the first look at …” 

 “We have nothing planned, and you’re already worrying about who you can sell a story to?” Logan switched lanes, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t that seem -” 

 “We’ve set a date, Logan. Everything else will fall into place.” She squeezed his knee and then pulled her hand away. “I can have my publicist get ahold of yours so that we can coordinate, but honestly? I don’t… Logan, it’s not like this is …” Yeah. I know. “We might as well make the most of it, right? Get as much out of the whole thing as possible? We don’t need to plan it, we just need to show up.” That’s not what I… But he again fell silent as they continued to drive, Logan unsure of what to say to the woman. So she’s taking it less seriously than I am. I should have known, but … He let out a breath, glancing over at the woman and was unsurprised to see that she’d pulled her phone out, her full attention on the device. I could ask her what she’s been… but I don’t want to fight. I just want to… “Look, right on time.” 

 She finally spoke again as they pulled around a dark blue SUV and into Juliet’s driveway, the gate open. We are. Actually, we’re a few minutes early. “Do you want to come in and see Em? It’s been -” 

 “I guess.” The woman shrugged. “I haven’t really ever spent much time with her, so I don’t know how …” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ariella looked truly uncomfortable, a small frown on her face. “Does she know who I am?” She does, but … 

 “Yeah, Ari. Of course she does.” He grinned, running one hand through his hair and sliding his keys into his pocket. “Come on.” They walked across the driveway and up to the front door, Logan knocking once before pushing down on the handle and opening it. “Jules? We’re here.” They stepped into the entryway, Logan glancing around the corner. “Em?” He heard the little girl before he saw her; an excited shriek of his name followed by the sound of her footsteps as she ran toward them. Probably in her playroom. The little girl rounded the corner, her arms held out to Logan, who crouched over and reached for her, the grin never leaving his face. At least someone’s happy to see me. He hugged the girl to his chest, turning his head toward Ariella, who was watching with the same uncomfortable smile on her face, but what Logan wasn’t expecting was a second set of footsteps following the little girl’s, abruptly stopping along with the movement that he saw out of the corner of his eye. What … Squeezing Emily one more time, he set her down, still staring. There’s… why? In disbelief, Logan stood up again, lips parted slightly as he said your name, confused. “What are you -”

 “Juliet’s babysitter canceled last minute.” You shrugged, taking a step into the room and toward Logan and Ariella, even as Emily returned to your side, one arm going around your bare leg and your fingers barely brushing the top of her head. “And I was supposed to come over tomorrow anyway, so I …” You shrugged. “I just said I’d watch Em, so Juliet didn’t have to miss the party, and …” He heard it - the slight waver of your voice as you looked between him and Ariella, your eyes never lingering on either of them. “So, while you guys are eating all of that fancy food and drinking that alcohol, and schmoozing... Emily and I are going to swim, and roast marshmallows, and …” He heard his niece giggle, watching as you looked back down. “Have fun, right?” 

 The little girl nodded and Logan felt himself smiling as he watched the two of you interact, you barely paying attention to Logan and Ariella. Where are you, Jules? Why didn’t you … Logan’s heart was thumping in his chest, and he felt closer to panic than he had in months, but he wasn’t quite sure why. “How do you two know each other?” Ariella finally spoke, stepping forward, her heels clicking against the floor. “Are you a friend of -”

 “Logan and I met in a Whole Foods like … six weeks ago?” You tilted your head to one side. “He was buying a card for his housekeeper’s kid, and we talked for a few minutes.” You took a breath, clearing your throat. “Emily, go ahead back into the playroom. I’ll be there in a little while.” But before she did as you asked, the little girl let go of you and sprinted back toward Logan, her arms held out for another hug, which he gave her without pause, telling her to be good for you. As she disappeared through the doorway, you stepped closer to Logan and Ariella, blinking. “And after that, he introduced me to Juliet, because I live kind of close, and …” You shrugged. “It worked out, because…” Logan glanced at Ariella, watching as she assessed you, her eyes slightly narrowed, but still curious. What is… she’s never … “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, Ariella, from both Logan and J-”

 “I haven’t heard anything about you.” Her tone bored, Ariella stepped away from Logan, reaching up with her left hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. Why is she… “Are you sleeping with Logan? You should.” He sucked in a breath at the woman’s question, Logan’s eyes going back to you and seeing yours widen, head jerking back in surprise. “You’re not really his type, but it wouldn’t…” 

 “Ari.” He finally spoke. “Stop, there’s -” But you scoffed, shaking your head and rolling your eyes. 

 “What kind of a question is that? He’s engaged. He’s been very upfront about that since the second I met him and realized who he was. So no, Ariella, I’m not fucking your fiance.” You didn’t flinch as you spoke, which impressed Logan, the man focused entirely on the way that you were holding your ground, arms loosely by your sides. “Besides, even if I wanted to, Logan’s not the kind of person to cheat on -” 

 “You didn’t tell her?” Ariella laughed, looking away from you and back at Logan. “Really?” No, because it’s part of the fucking … “Oh, you...” Ariella laughed again, refocusing on you. “He’s engaged, but it isn’t a real…” Stop it, Ari.

 “Hello, Ariella.” The three of you looked up, seeing that Juliet was standing on the stairs, arms crossed over her chest. “So good to see you.” Logan caught the ice in his sister’s tone. “Thank you for coming to get me, Logan. I’m almost ready, I just need to say goodbye to Emily, and then we can go.” He nodded, still feeling slightly numb. I need to … But he wasn’t sure what he needed to do, and though he’d thought that he wanted you to meet Ariella, the fact that it was actually happening had unsettled him. 

 “Juliet, it’s great to see you.” Ariella smiled brightly. “While you go and say goodbye to Emily, I’m going to go and use your bathroom. It’s so hot out, I want to check my makeup.” Juliet waved a hand vaguely at the stairs as she crossed the hallway toward where you stood, and without even acknowledging Logan, his fiancee stepped past him, taking the stairs quickly. I should follow Juliet, spend a few more minutes with Emily. 

 “You look great, Logan.” He heard you speaking, finally finding it in himself to meet your gaze. “It’s been a couple weeks, your hair got long.” It did. You hadn’t moved, still standing in the doorway, but you’d crossed your arms, a small frown on your face. “I didn’t realize …” 

 “Thank you.” Logan watched you, unsure of what to say. “I need to get it cut, but I don’t…” 

 “Nah, it makes you look younger.” You finally cracked a smile, but he saw the confusion in your eyes. “I’m sorry, Logan. I don’t know why she assumed that -” No. Don’t you dare apologize. 

 “She assumed it because that’s what she thinks of me.” He shrugged, deciding to say as much as he could without saying anything. “I’m used to it, and I should be, because of my past, but …” He wet his lips, frowning. “She had… no right.” 

 “She should know that. Maybe not about me, because she doesn’t know me, but she’s marrying you, Logan, she should …” You looked up, sighing. “It’s not my business. And neither is …” Swallowing hard, you looked at him again, and instinctively, Logan knew what was coming. “What did she mean, Logan? That you’re engaged, but it’s not … not a real what?” He expected it from you - the direct questioning - but still didn’t know how to answer. He paused, searching your face for a few seconds, but before he could reply, Juliet spoke again from behind you. 

 “That might be a conversation for another day, hmm?” He watched as the woman squeezed your arm. “We’ve got to leave, and if you guys get into that, it’ll…” She grinned, but Logan could tell that she was unsettled, too. “Em’s playing with her dollhouse, she knows that she has to listen to you, and I think she’ll be good.”

 “She will.” Logan spoke, pushing his fingers through his hair again as Juliet stepped past you and next to him. “You won’t have any problems. And if you do?” He widened his smile. “Tell her Uncle Logan’s going to -” 

 “Uncle Logan’s going to what?” Everyone’s attention went back to the stairs, Ariella descending quickly, one hand on the railing. “Usually that threat comes before he takes his clothes -” Stop it. Logan’s eyes were on the woman’s face, and it only took him a few seconds to see that she was once again out of it, pupils wide and the smile on her face artificial. You couldn’t even wait until we … He heard Juliet hiss from next to him and Logan fought back a wince, his eyes going to you for a brief second. She looks disappointed. “He’s good at making threats… promises… you name it.” He felt Ariella’s hand on his arm, her fingers curling around the space just beneath his elbow. “He’s good at a lot of things. You sure you haven’t -” 

 “How’d he propose to you, Ariella?” You cut her off, and Logan watched the forced smile on your face, the expression not reaching your eyes. That’s the question she asks? “I saw the pictures in some of the magazines and online, but I’ve been really curious about how he …” What is she doing? Why does she… But Logan realized that you were trying to redirect the woman, reminding her that you knew he was off limits - and Logan didn’t think he’d ever appreciated something more. “I bet it’s a really good story.” 

 “You know, I don’t…” Ariella laughed. “I don’t even remember where we were when he asked.” Logan couldn’t stop the recoil at her words, his mouth dropping open. I didn’t … really? “Oh, come on, Logan. It’s not that big of a deal. We’d been drinking a lot, and it was mostly for show anyway, because we knew that the press was expecting it, so I guess…” She turned her head toward him, smirking. “He probably remembers, though. Logan remembers everything.” 

 “It’s time to go.”Juliet spoke again, her voice even frostier than it had been. “Logan, are you ready?” I’ve been ready. “If you need me, call. I can be back here in half an hour.” Logan watched you collect yourself and then nod at the woman, keeping your eyes averted. She must have so many … 

 “We’ll be fine, Juliet. I promise.” Your voice didn’t waver, but Logan heard something in it, a thinly veiled concern, maybe. I … she… “Hope you guys have a good time.” We won’t. You didn’t say anything else, instead turning away and beginning to step out of the room, but Ariella said your name, telling you to stop. What is … 

 “I meant it.” You looked back over your shoulder at them, and Logan again froze, waiting. “You really should see what he’s like in bed before we get married and he’s not allowed anymore.” The woman laughed and Logan couldn’t stop himself from pulling his arm away from her, eyes wide and jaw dropped. “He might not have told you what the deal is, but I’m here - right here - telling you that I don’t care what he does.” She raised an eyebrow at Logan, lips curved into a satisfied smirk. “Everything stops when we get married, but not a second before, right darling?” He felt rage, the emotion coursing through his blood stronger than it ever had before; moreso than when William had left him in the desert, stronger than when Juliet and his father hadn’t believed him, sharper than when he’d been disappointed in himself for making such destructive and dangerous choices about his health. Because this isn’t just about me. This is … “Then again,” Ariella drawled out the words, her accent all but disappearing. “Someone like you might not be able to stop when it’s time, since I’m positive you’ve never had anyone like Logan before.” 

 You blinked twice and Logan saw that you were close to tears. Unacceptable.  “Enough. It’s time to go.” He reached for her arm, gripping it with his long fingers and pulling her back toward the door. “You’re being a real asshole, Ari.” She only laughed, wrenching herself out of his grip and turning toward the door, her back to you without another word. Juliet moved too, following the other woman, but Logan focused on you, his mouth opening and closing a few times, though he didn’t speak. What do I even… Rather than saying anything, you closed your eyes, shaking your head back and forth before opening them again, gaze locked on Logan’s face. You mouthed the word “go”, reaching up to swipe beneath your eye with a knuckle, biting down on one corner of your lip, and while it was the last thing he wanted to do, Logan felt his shoulders slumping as he did what you asked. I hope she … hope she lets me explain, lets me apologize… 

 But Logan had the sinking feeling in his stomach that the friendship that the two of you had built up over the previous weeks had been damaged beyond repair due to Ariella’s interference - and the information he’d kept from you, despite the necessity of doing so. 

 ---

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[dishearteningmediocrity]

From Picturegoer Weekly, July 29, 1933

Transcript follows:

“The Woman Who Thrilled Me, by Colin Clive”

In an interview with John Gliddon

It has become a Hollywood habit to send an urgent message to Colin Clive asking him to jump on the next boat for a rush journey to Los Angeles.

It has happened once a year since his first spectacular dash to Universal City to play his original part of Captain Stanhope in Journey’s End.

Now Colin is wise in the ways of Hollywood and has become an expert at packing his bags and leaving England at less than twenty-four hours’ notice; he packed in a hurry to star in Frankenstein: he did it again when Hollywood wanted him as Katharine Hepburn’s leading man in Christopher Strong.

That time he had two big thrills--meeting Katharine Hepburn, the Star Who Can Act, and finding out at first hand what it feels like to be in a Hollywood earthquake.

Let’s hear what Colin has to say about the Hepburn thrill before the earthquake is staged; but let me warn you about one thing. Colin Clive is one of those grand fellows who Hates Being Interviewed; he thinks going to the dentist is much better fun.

Maybe he is right. When I explained to him that we might just as well have a chat about Hollywood and not call it an interview, he brightened up a whole lot and ordered another drink.

Said Colin Clive in enthusiastic tones: “Katharine Hepburn is a grand girl. She is certainly different. There is nobody quite like her in Hollywood--or anywhere else, for that matter. What is her appeal? Certainly not beauty; she isn’t beautiful in the least, yet she has a magnetic personality and terrific vitality.”

“Katharine has got something bigger than beauty; she has got brains and above all things she is an actress, to her finger-tips.

“She is not just--a face, but a great personality. I said just now that she is not beautiful; that is true, though she understands the art of acting so amazingly that she can convey the illusion of beauty if the situation demands it.

“When you get to know Katharine Hepburn you are impressed by her natural intelligence. She can talk; I don’t mean chatter the usual Hollywood gossip, but talk like the intelligent woman she is about interesting things that happen in the bigger world beyond the Hollywood circle.

“Few stars talk interestingly on any topic--except themselves, but Katharine Hepburn is the delightful exception.

“On the set, I was impressed by her powers of tremendous concentration. She likes to rehearse, and rehearse until she feels the scene is right, even though her director may be quite satisfied by the scene as it stands.

“No, she always seems to strive after perfection in her acting.

“I have never known a star to be as painstaking as Miss Hepburn.

“In Christopher Strong, we both had the novel experience of being directed by a woman--Dorothy Arzner.

“Miss Arzner is a clever technician, but it seemed a bit queer, at first, being told what to do--by a woman!

“I got used to it after awhile, though another thing that struck me as a bit strange, until I got over the shock, was that Dorothy Arzner never lost her temper. I suppose she leaves that privilege to the male directors. She is very reserved, very gentle, very clever, and she is an ‘ace’ for angles.”

When shooting on Christopher Strong finished, a bank crash hit Hollywood, and nobody was allowed to draw out any money.

Colin wanted to return home. He took his cheques to the bank, but the banks were closed, and he had to wait until they were re-opened. He waited a few weeks and was getting tired of kicking his heels round Hollywood when the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studio snapped him up for Service, the screen version of Dodie Smith’s play of shop life.

The only bright spot in those weeks of waiting for the banks to resume business were some happy week-ends with Elizabeth Allan and husband Bill O’Bryan.

This young couple have made a hit with Hollywood.

Then he told me about that other big thrill--the earthquake.

“I was sitting in my hotel room writing to Jeanne (Jeanne de Casalis, Mrs. Colin Clive), when suddenly the radio started to screech and the lights flickered. Then I heard a rumble, the house quivered, my books came tumbling down, and great cracks appeared on the ceiling.

“I rushed downstairs and out into the street. There was tremendous excitement. People looked scared. Two girls fainted just in front of me. For a few moments there was panic.

“Then, though it seemed longer at the time, a few seconds later it was all over. There followed a series of small shocks but I wasn’t taking any chances and went back to my room and stood in the archway of the open door. That is the safest place I was told to stand when an earthquake is on.

“Coming home, I dreamt about that ‘quake and woke up in my cabin, having forgotten I was safely at sea, and jumped out of bed to stand in the archway of the cabin.

“Then I woke up--properly, and realized it was only a dream. You see, they are nasty things--earthquakes!

I gave Colin Clive a minute or two to get the impression of that earthquake out of his mind before asking him to talk about two other interesting members of the cast of Service, Lionel Barrymore and Lewis Stone.

“I have never met an actor with less personal pride than Lionel Barrymore,” he told me. “He is an extraordinarily well-read and intelligent man. When he talks it is always about something worth while, though I think he likes sleeping better than anything else.

“I have seen Lionel Barrymore enjoying a sound sleep in his chair at the side of the ‘set,’ yet the instant his cue comes he is wide awake and ready for the ‘shot.’

“Lewis Stone is another very delightful man; in fact he is one of the nicest men I have ever met. Reserved, cultured, charming and courteous to everybody, he certainly seems to know all there is to know about picture acting, yet, with all his experience, he never questions his director, or make suggestions of his own about how the scene should be played.

“Lewis Stone always does what he is told, and how well he does it!

“It was certainly an interesting experience, playing in Service with such splendid actors as Lionel Barrymore and Lewis Stone, though--what pleased me most of all--was the knowledge that ‘Liz’ Allan is regarded as one of the most promising of all Hollywood’s younger stars.

“It’s a grand break for an English girl to win personal popularity in Hollywood. But ‘Liz’ Allan seems everybody’s favourite.”

At the end of Service, James Whale offered Colin Clive the leading part in The Invisible Man, but as it meant waiting two months for the picture to begin, Clive felt he could not accept, though the part appealed to him as being “down his street.”

Colin Clive gets a kick out of playing parts like his grim role in Frankenstein; he certainly does not see himself as a leading man or a romantic lover. He wants the strong stuff.

When Colin Clive is home in England you will have to look for him right in the heart of the country.

Somewhere in Kent, he and Jeanne de Casalis have a small cottage where they spend as much time as possible, winter or summer.

“I have no use for parties,” Colin said to me, “I never go to them, and the only life I really enjoy is away from London, pottering about in the garden at the cottage.

“I suppose it may sound a bit queer for a fellow to say that there is no spot on the earth to compare with England when you want the joy of the simple life. Well, I have yet to discover anything better than English country life.”

That is a true portrait of Colin Clive, the star Hollywood always wants--in a hurry.

[recentanimenews]

SPOILER-FILLED REVIEW: Talking About That Evangelion 3.0+1.0 Ending

  A note on safety: The following movie review undertook the strictest of safety procedures to watch the anime film in cinemas in Japan, including washing hands with disinfectant before and after, sitting in seats apart from others, going to a cinema outside of the busy metro area, and wearing a mask during the entire runtime of the movie. We strongly urge everyone to follow the recommended safety protocol in your country and always wear a mask when in public — not just for your sake, but everyone else’s as well.

  For those who are outside of Japan and want to know how the latest (and final) Evangelion film stacks up, we have already published our completely spoiler-free review. For those that want to know more, please read on.

    After the airing of the NHK documentary which followed Hideaki Anno and the four-year production of Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time, the unofficial “spoiler ban” was lifted by Studio Khara on March 22. This means, as much as Khara is concerned, we are free to discuss anything and everything Evangelion: 3.0+1.0, like how [omitted for spoilers] kills [spoilers] and LCL [spoilers]. 

  Seriously though, if you don’t want to read any spoilers for Evangelion: 3.0+1.0, then leave. Immediately. Close the tab, don’t scroll down.

  This is a warning.

  I’m not kidding.

    I’m putting an image here as a buffer. It's sweet right?

    If you scroll past the next image you will be spoiled for everything in the film. This is your last warning.

  "Asuka" as a kid

  Welcome to Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time where I may have lied in my previous review, cause things go tumbling down — but in a good way. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t recall the exact right terminology here on out: between the Doors of Guf, the hundreds of Evangelion models and ships we see, and that ending, it’s hard to keep it all in one head. That’s why this film has four directors. 

  If you’re already here, you’ve probably read the synopsis going around the internet right now. Yes, it explains what happens on screen, but experiencing it is a different story. Evangelion 3.0+1.0 takes a lot of cues from The End of Evangelion in its final act, but prior to that it is mostly a story of growth for Shinji, where he rejects being depressed (after a heart to heart with black-suit Rei, who then turns into LCL), learns that things aren’t 100% his fault. Shinji goes on to tackle his source of depression head-on; owning up to his past mistakes and taking down his father, who is now literally just a vessel of his own desires.

  Unholy Gendo

  Something truly missing from Evangelion 3.0, and one of the reasons I loved Evangelion 2.22, was just the gang hanging out together and interacting with the — very scarred — world around them. That scar has vastly grown throughout the 14 years Shinji was missing from the actual 3rd impact (the one at the end of 2.22 was a “near-impact event”) which saw the world covered in the red haze we saw in 3.0. Luckily, WILLE has purification pods that keep the core-ification of the world at bay. We saw that being used in the 12-minute preview, but throughout the film, they’re used extensively to keep the Evangelion wandering the landscapes on the red earth away from the villages that are helping the WILLE cause. They need to get food from somewhere.

  This is where we spend a lot of time learning how the characters from Shinji’s class all survived, got paired off, and that Asuka is staying (and is probably in love) with Kensuke. She confesses to Shinji that she loved him when they were kids, but 28-year-old Asuka can’t keep loving someone who hasn’t changed in 14 years. Shinji does accept the confession, saying to her that he loved her too, and she turns into LCL — though that’s in the Anti-Universe and after Asuka meets the “original” Asuka (I’ll get into that). As I said, it’s The End of Evangelion 2.0.

  Rei discovering herself in the village

  One of the nicest parts of the film is black-suit Rei discovering human emotion and society in the village. Being a clone that likely spent all of her time locked in her room (and without the love of the now inhuman Gendo, which original Rei got), it was unlikely that she learned anything that makes humans human. The concept of “hello” and babies from Toji and Hikari confuses her as she finds a place herself in this village. Admittedly, it was sad to see her go and turn into LCL (from a lack of LCL exposure), but serving as the catalyst for Shinji to get over himself and face his demons was worth it … I guess?

  After this, Shinji grows up. Even Mari on a re-introductory sniff claims as much. During his time in the village, he discovers how the settlement stays afloat and that the 14-year-old son of Misato and Kaji (the latter perished in the real 3rd impact) helps keep the village alive. A picture of Shinji and Kaji Jr. helps warm Misato’s chilled heart and gives her the confidence to let Shinji pilot Unit 01 again, much to the disdain of multiple members of the WILLE crew.

  All of this is nice. Unlike the despair and hopelessness felt in 3.0, the entire first three parts of the film are uplifting and bring moments of joy. Seeing black-suit Rei smile as she came to terms with herself was just utterly beautiful.

  Then Shinji decides to get in the robot. 

    This is where I’m going to get into the Hideaki Anno talk, because this film, as well as the rest of the anime versions of the Evangelion franchise up to this point, is basically just a self-examination of the man’s mental state. In the spoiler-free review, I called Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 the antithesis of Evangelion: 3.0. And that’s true, but it is also an antithesis to The End of Evangelion: A rejection of the depression Anno felt while creating the 20-plus-year-old film. There’s no doubt in my mind that the journey of Shinji through these Rebuild films is the journey of Anno creating Evangelion, with 3.0 being the lowest point.

  But this isn’t just felt in the story of 3.0+1.0, it’s also felt in the way it was presented. The entire final act of the film is basically a happier version of the “tumbling down” scene from The End of Evangelion, just with some more interesting aspects to it along with some inventive filmmaking — including making Lillith’s face live-action. That was haunting.

    This includes the above scene, which got a lot of flak on social media for being very poorly animated when it appeared in a trailer. Even I was confused over the inclusion of such poor animation in what is one of the most hyped anime films of all time. Funnily enough, it was Anno trolling. The scene comes from the ending, where the two Eva’s fight through the history of Evangelion, with this scene either representing a testing stage for CGI or one of the many Evangelion video games. The poor animation makes sense in the film … mostly.

  Over multiple film-like sets, the two Evangelions duke it out — one with Shinji, the other Gendo — over their ideals. This takes them to Misato’s apartment, the school, and even where Pen-Pen (or his offspring, I don’t know how long Penguins live) resides in 3.0+1.0. Before cutting to each of the different scenes, an Eva smashes through the set wall and onto a production stage. 

  I also said in the spoiler-free review that Anno “takes everything he knows about animation and filmmaking to deliver the perfect end to Evangelion,” and it shows when you see the (animated) production stage filled with props, miniature cities, and controls that you’d probably see on a production stage for a live-action Evangelion. Again though, this part is animated.

    Mari at the End

  The surrealness doesn’t end here. When Shinji “wins” and chooses to reset the world without Evangelion, the animation breaks. Shinji devolves into key animation, then layouts, then into a storyboard, which is then broken by Mari bringing color back into Shinji’s world on that beach. No “how disgusting” here, only happiness.

  The film ends with an adult Mari and an adult Shinji at Ube Station. As the music of Hikaru Utada’s “One Last Kiss” swelled up through the speakers, the animated backgrounds slowly transitioned into a live-action drone shot of the area surrounding the hometown of Hideaki Anno. 

  A poster for Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 showing Shinji on the tracks outside Ube Station, which I discussed when the poster was first released. 

  This is how I know Hideaki Anno is done with Evangelion. While yes, he has said he is done and feels no personal connection to the franchise anymore, the end of the film is a deeply personal one that clearly shows the anime creator cares about his creation and is now happy enough to see leave home and become its own thing — if anyone else chooses to pick it up.

  Shin Evangelion (the Japanese name for the film) is the true form of Evangelion that Anno set out to create over 25 years ago. While it wouldn’t have looked anything like it does now, the emotion poured into one of the longest animated films ever made makes that point as clear as the bright blue sea.

  Some other various interesting spoiler points:

  I’m not sure if character designer Yoshiyuki Sadamoto was lying about him not knowing Mari’s story and just making that one-shot chapter of the Evangelion manga on a whim or whether Anno took what Sadamoto wrote and expanded on it, cause Mari was right there in school with Gendo and Yui exactly as the chapter laid it out. Unless she’s also a clone...

There’s a really good shot of CG Asuka trying to force-feed Shinji, which was a direct evolution from this test footage back in 2018.

On the topic of Asuka, she had a small version of a purification pod in her eye that, when opened, unleashed an angel, and in turn let her meet her “original.” It’s not explained whether the original is Langley Soryu from the TV anime series or not.

Also, she’s a clone, like Rei and Kaworu as part of the “Shikinami” series. Interestingly, Mari Makinami also has “nami” in her name...

Ritsuko did nothing but shoot Gendo, mimicking the scene from The End of Evangelion. The shot was as useless as her character arc in the Rebuild films.

This film has to be set in at least the third continuity of Evangelion, as the TV series is directly referenced in the production stage and thrice does mean three...

Sakura is one of the most grounded characters in the film, with her asking the true question of “why the heck are you letting him in ANOTHER Evangelion?!” Let’s hope the live-action world she is now in is good to her.

      Evangelion: 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time is currently showing in theaters across Japan, there’s no word on an international release at this stage.

        Daryl Harding is a Japan Correspondent for Crunchyroll News. He also runs a YouTube channel about Japan stuff called TheDoctorDazza, tweets at @DoctorDazza, and posts photos of his travels on Instagram. 

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features.

By: Daryl Harding

[rottenroyalebooks]

Rotten Corpse

Chapter One

-Originally written on Wattpad-

Pairing: Corpse Husband x OC! RottenRoyale/Sienna Colt

Genre: Real Person Fic, Romance, a little bit of angst.

Warnings: None for this chapter.

Series Summary: A life full of deception can only lead to her downfall, will he be there to catch her?

~*~*~

I could see the sun rising in the window next to me and I groaned, looking at the clock on my studio wall realizing that I had spent all night recording and editing a video when I should have been studying for my college classes, again.

My phone vibrated on the desk next to me as my alarm went off that was supposed to wake me up; but not today.

I turned off the alarm seeing a text from my mom.

"I made breakfast for you whenever you're ready. It's in the kitchen of the manor, I'll be in my office if you need anything." I smiled and chuckled at my mother's text, looking out the window again and gazing at my family's Manor, and seeing my mother waving at me from her office window.

When my videos on YouTube started taking off and I started gaining popularity, my parents let me move into the guest house that's located in the backyard, fixing it up and turning it into my studio.

I stood up from my desk, stretching slightly and walking out of my office, and heading to the first floor. I exited my studio and walked across the backyard and opened the kitchen door to the manor.

I saw the plate on the island counter and smiled to myself; hopping up on the stool as Miranda, our live-in maid walked into the kitchen.

"Ah good morning Sienna! What is on the agenda today?" She asked walking over to the kitchen to clean the dishes.

"I'm going to stop at the coffee shop by the university and cram in some last-minute studying until my noon financing class. Then, when I get out of class, I will head back to my studio, shower, and get ready before I stream. Busy day." I say with a smile.

"Sounds like it. Make sure you eat before you stream. Do you want me to make you some lunch today? I don't mind making your food." She offers but I shake my head.

"I'm going to be cooking on stream today, for my She Can Cook series on YouTube. I was taught by another YouTuber how to make Honey Butter Fried Chicken and he challenged me to make it so I set up my streaming equipment in my kitchen last night so I wouldn't have to rush myself today." I explained as I ate my breakfast.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and I pulled it out, seeing an email from my professor.

I opened it up and groaned in happiness as I read the subject line:

CLASS IS CANCELED

"Bless! My professor canceled class today which means I can play video games!" I said cheerfully as I went to my messages and found Sean's number, texting him.

"Hey man! Are you up for playing Among Us today?"

I sent the text as my mother walked into the kitchen, "Darling, I'm going to assume that your office light being on all night was not because you were studying." She said crossing her arms.

It was a trap! I thought to myself as I stopped chewing my food. I thought about my answer carefully as I swallowed and sat up straight.

"You assumed correctly." I mumbled looking down at my plate, "I was recording and editing a video all night, a new song."

She sighed, "Sienna, your grades are important. Midterms are around the corner-"

"And if my job flops on me then I won't have a backup." I finish the statement for her. "I know mom, I'm sorry. Professor canceled class today so I'm going to focus on relaxing today but I promise I will binge study tonight and stay out of my office tomorrow." I tell her and she nods.

"Deal." She said before walking away. I felt my phone vibrate with a message from Sean.

"I was just about to text you! We need one more person for our game in about an hour would you be okay with that?"

Meeting new people is always fun.

I met Sean a few years ago at Vidcon when he came up to my booth and exclaimed how he liked my music and asked ME for a picture. I was starstruck and we became friends from that day forward. We collaborated on a few gaming videos and because of that more people decided to watch my channel and I blew up soon after.

He isn't the only YouTuber I know. I'm also friends with Gloom (Kassie), Dangthatsalongname (Scott), LDShadowlady (Lizzie), Laurenzside (Lauren), SmallishBeans (Joel), and Joey Griceffa. I've collaborated with a bunch of other people too like Shannon Taylor.

Lots of big names, I know.

I replied to his text agreeing and for him to send me an invite.

I ate the rest of my breakfast quickly and Miranda took my dishes for me and I thanked her before heading back to my studio.

I jogged back up the stairs and brushed my teeth before hopping in the shower and getting dressed into my clothes so I wouldn't have to do so later.

As soon as I sat down at my computer I got the invite from Sean and I set up the game before accepting.

As soon as I entered the call I heard people chatting away, starting with Sean.

"Oh! She's here! Everyone, meet Rotten. Rotten, meet everyone!" Sean said and I chuckled.

"Hey everyone," I said with a smile, adjusting my headset on my head.

"Hey! I'm Lily!"

"Hi! I'm Rae."

"I'm Sykkuno!"

"Hey Rotten! Dave is here too." I smiled hearing Dave speak up.

"Rotten! Best Friend!" Glooms' voice came through the call and I smiled.

"Glooooooom!" I said in a weird voice that made everyone laugh.

"Hi, Rotten! Lizzie here!" Lizzie's voice makes me smile and I greeted her back.

"Wait! You're Rotten Royale, aren't you? That alternative singer that Marzia listens to on the daily. She is obsessed with Up all Night." Felix's voice was the last person I expected to be on this call.

I had to mute myself so I didn't say something stupid. PewDiePie knows my name AND his girlfriend listens to my music? So rad.

I quickly composed myself and unmuted my mic, "Yeah that's me! So glad to hear that someone likes my music." I joke as I design my character. My color is cyan and I have a cat head hat on my character's head.

"Oh please, your four million subscribers would simp for you in a heartbeat." Sean joked which made everyone in the chat laugh.

Then someone else joined.

A deeper toned voice comes through my headset, "Is there someone new in the chat?"

His voice set me back, deciding not to say anything as I knew he probably got a lot of comments about his voice. "Yeah, I'm Rotten." I introduce myself.

"Rotten?" His tone was questioning and Gloom giggled.

"That's her alias on the internet, well it's Rotten Royale, but everyone just calls her rotten for short," Kassie explained to me and I smiled.

He hummed, "Makes sense. I'm Corpse."

I barked out a laugh, "And you question my name?" I teased.

"Oh! Rotten, are you streaming?" Sean asked.

"Negative, Ghostrider. All my streaming equipment is currently in my kitchen for my Stream later today."

"Why in the kitchen?" Sykkuno asked and I chuckled.

"I have this series I do on my side channel called She Can Cook where I have all different kinds of people trying to teach me how to cook because before I couldn't even boil pasta correctly because my mother spoiled me," That earned a laugh from a few people, "A week ago I had Sam the Cooking Guy come to my studio and teach me how to make Honey Butter Fried Chicken and man it's amazing. I'm going to be attempting to cook it on stream and pray I don't set my studio on fire."

"Oh, I'll be watching that." Kassie chuckled.

"Yo Rotten I just listened to Up all Night and it's so good! Your voice is so Angelic!" Lily exclaimed and I let out a chuckle.

"Thank you, I appreciate the feedback," I said shyly and Sean piped up.

"I think you should be recording this, Rotten, this is going to be an interesting game."

I smirked lightly, typing quickly on my computer and seeing my third screen pop up with the recording of the screen in front of me.

"Hang on, I have to grab a cam. All of my good ones are in the kitchen." I muted my mic and rushed over to my bookshelf, grabbing a box that I put my old cam in.

After getting the face cam set up I turned it on, seeing it pop up on my other screen. I unmuted my mic and smiled, "Alright! I now have a face. Let's do this thing, momma needs to procrastinate doing her Finance homework."

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s R&S - Youthhood (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (少年时代) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN🍒

Cancelled Kiro’s R&S:

> top experimental subject (by another user)

> stunning young idol

> youthhood ♡

> heaven’s home for children (by another user)

[ Chapter 1]

Kiro sits on the highest flight of steps of TKTS. With the scorching sun directly overhead, he’s queuing to purchase discounted tickets to “Wicked” with Pei En.

TKTS, which sells discounted tickets, is located in the bustling Times Square in New York, USA. Behind it is the NASDAQ screen, and on both sides are shops selling Disney products and all sorts of fast fashion brands. The buildings in front and in the surroundings have gigantic, neat and pretty advertisements.

Among them, a gigantic “The Avengers” poster above the subway is the most attention grabbing.

This is a representation of the era. It’s a symbol of the 20th century, and is also similar to the cyberpunk world of “Blade Runner”.

“I’ve got the tickets!”

Pei En waves the two tickets to “Wicked” in his hand. Pei En is the guitarist in his band. Kiro’s agency formed a band for him, and most of the band members are French locals. Only Pei En is of mixed blood like Kiro - a child from a Jew and an Asian.

“If the performance had gone smoothly, we would have reached earlier!”

They have a final performance in New York as part of their tour, and would have to leave after, rushing to Los Angeles, California.

“This time, I’m going to hide the donuts in an even more secret location so the person who inspects the tickets wouldn’t discover them!”

While Kiro says this, he finishes the donut in his hand.

Donuts from Dunkin’ Donuts are very sticky. Only Kiro can treat such things as delicacies.

His ringtone sounds. With a glance at the number on the screen, he hangs up immediately. Pei En is very curious to know who the caller is. He has expressed curiosity regarding everything involving Kiro, and Kiro knows why.

“Is it that fellow Lawrence again?” Pei En asks. Lawrence is the agent of their band.

“Nope, but it’s definitely a harassment call.”

“It should be.”

Pei En seems to be a carbon copy of Kiro. Aside from his hair not being golden coloured, he is extremely similar to Kiro in terms of bubbliness and openness, and how simple-minded he is. 

-

[ Chapter 2 ]

After purchasing the tickets, both of them return to the agency. Lawrence is at the side, looking through the program booklet for their performance tonight. Lawrence is overwhelmingly ambitious. He won’t give up until he bags a Grammy Award for the band.

“Did you know? Another group of strange people came to look for you again.”

The moment Lawrence sees Kiro, he pulls the latter to a corner. Pei En curiously watches on.

“What kind of people did you provoke? They look like they shouldn’t be trifled with.”

Kiro shakes his head. “What do you mean by ‘they’? Fans?”

When Lawrence sees the innocent and harmless expression on Kiro’s face again, he knows that his questions wouldn’t get him anywhere. Kiro always manages to find ways to conceal himself.

“How’s the preparation for the concert? You’re the lead singer, and all the girls are flocking here for you!”

“I’ll definitely perform even better than usual!”

Kiro looks to be full of zest and in high spirits. He genuinely loves being on stage, and loves how he radiates brilliance. Who doesn’t like seeing fans go into a frenzy over them and be captivated by them? It enables Kiro to fully feel that he is still living on this earth. And that on this earth, there are still so many people who like him...

“I’m guessing you went to buy a souvenir again today.”

Lawrence comes to such a conclusion after glancing at Kiro’s bag. Kiro has a hobby - to buy some souvenirs wherever he goes, whenever convenient.

From Paris to Munich, Zurich to Stockholm, Vancouver to Montreal - wherever he goes on tour, he would buy local fridge magnets and postcards, and he would always buy two sets.

He wants to collect these things, so if a day comes when he can meet her again, he would show them to her, and say:

“Look! This world is so beautiful, and you no longer have to be afraid.”

But till now, he has yet to find her. He remembers her eyes. One day, he will find her in a vast sea of people. 

“Did you know that the agency from China has sent someone to negotiate with us? They want you to sign on with them, and the amount they’re giving you is basically--”

Lawrence’s tone is exaggerated. “How are people in China so wealthy!”

“What if I said that I wanted to go to China?”

“Hey, buddy, the band can’t do without you.”

“Haha, Pei En is much more outstanding than I am.”

At this point, Pei En is still watching them. Kiro understands him too well. He’s much too curious. Also, he’s only curious about Kiro, which could very quickly expose Kiro’s hidden identity.

Did that group of people actually send Pei En to monitor him...

He kind of underestimates Pei En though.

“But that fellow is always so absent-minded. God knows what he’s thinking about.”

-

[ Chapter Three ]

Americans enjoy overstating things. At one moment, they go “only God knows...”, and at another moment, they go “for the sake of God...”. Some people can’t stand it, but Kiro finds it very interesting.

Very quickly, Kiro begins rehearsing with the band. His style of singing changes a lot. When they were in Europe, they mostly played rock music. When they reached America, they started playing country or jazz music.

Kiro likes the southern accent of the keyboardist from California. But Lawrence prohibits it. “The southern accent is the most crude and coarse form of English! Why can’t you learn the way the British speak?”

Lawrence has always favoured people who can speak eloquent British English - to him, only such people are refined and elegant. But Kiro grew up in France. When he first started learning English, he tended to pronounce “ch” as “sh”. Actually, French is genuinely elegant and pleasant to listen to. And English tinged with a slight French accent can make one absorbed in it.

-

The concert ended smoothly.

The fans are cheering in a frenzy outside, wanting them to perform one more song. But the agent has already told them to leave.

Pei En and Kiro take a car and rush to the theatre to watch “Wicked”. This is the final Broadway show they want to watch, and it was a shame that Kiro didn't get to watch the well-known Hamilton.

At the entrance, that group of fellows stopped him again. 

The person standing at the forefront is a Caucasian woman. She walks up to Kiro elegantly and greets him, signalling for the person next to her to bring Pei En away.

“I’ve already given you a response through e-mail, and I hope you won’t disturb me again.”

The Caucasian woman proceeds as usual, showing him an FBI ID.

Kiro grumbles in his heart.

“I swear I won’t disclose the contents of ‘The Avengers’. Even though I’ve already watched it on my laptop, I’ll definitely watch it again in the cinema!”

The Caucasian woman laughs.

“Mr Kiro, you’re very humorous. Even though we know that apart from Disney, you’ve also hacked into Universal Studios and Paramount Pictures, we’re not here to talk about this.”

She continues: “KEY - that’s you, isn’t it?”

-

[ Chapter 4 ]

Kiro doesn’t respond, his eyes widening as he glances around. 

“In order to track down your IP address, we had to destroy four computers.”

“Are you looking for me to make compensation for the computers?”

“Mr Kiro. Ten years ago, you expended no effort to hack into our computers, and left behind a string of mysterious characters.”

The Caucasian woman smiles at him amiably. Kiro’s expression grows serious. Ten years ago, that KEY who hacked into their organisation wasn’t him...

“Ten years later, you’re back again. I think you're trying to provoke us.”

“I don’t have such an intention.”

“Whether or not you do, we can’t let you continue this way. Mr Kiro, this is a serious issue. We are now sending you a sincere invitation, and we hope to work together to do more noble things.”

Kiro is silent. He had previously found a clue leading to his own master. Finding out that he had entered the American FBI website and left behind a series of symbols - he thinks this is message to him from his master. As such, he entered it as well, and found that series of symbols, but until now hasn’t been able to decipher it.

It’s a series of very strange symbols, reminiscent of a new language formed using Latin and Roman symbols. He managed to decipher it a little, and it appears that the series of symbols seem to be pointing him to a location.

And the FBI had found him quickly, sending him an e-mail. It was a solemn reminder that if he was unwilling to be enlisted by them, he would lose his rights to use a computer forever.

“You’ve stated these things clearly in the e-mail, and I’ve already replied.”

“I don't think you have considered the severity of this matter. Mr Kiro, we can detain you.”

"In that case, I’ll just sing in jail then!”

Seeing the displeased look on the Caucasian woman’s face, Kiro continues smiling simple-mindedly.

“I hope you wouldn’t regret this in the future.” The Caucasian woman leaves a final statement that is often found in a script for a classic villain. She leaves with the large group of people. 

Pei En walks over frantically, and Kiro walks towards him as well.

“Tell them that I’ve met with some trouble, and will need to leave America immediately.”

Pei En pretends to be puzzled.

“You understand the meaning in my words, don’t you?”

For the first time, Kiro looks at him seriously. During serious moments, he doesn’t smile. 

“Where do you plan to go? We can send you to Russia.”

Pei En is no longer smiling. His expression changes, along with his entire aura.

As expected, Pei En is much too similar to him. If Kiro were to leave the band, Pei En could take over his position as the lead singer, and that group of people had considered this fact too.

-

[ Chapter 5 ]

The face of the little girl surfaces in Kiro’s mind again. 

The girl is lying with him, and is all smiles as she looks at him.

“Don’t be afraid. When I’m out, I’ll buy you donuts, okay?”

The girl draws the shape of a donut in the air.

Back then, Kiro didn’t speak. He just stared at the ceiling in a dazed state.

“Don’t worry that I won’t have enough money. My dad will give it to me.”

Kiro remains wordless, quietly listening to the little girl speak.

The little girl struggles to pull on his hand.

Their fingers lace together, the warmth from her palm gradually coursing into Kiro’s heart.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

Kiro turns to look at her - to look at her determined brown eyes, to look at how the corners of her lips angle upwards. Kiro slowly learns how to curl the corners of his lips from her. It’s the first smile to appear on his face. 

Suddenly, the door is flung open. A group of people wearing doctor’s coats enter and drag him away. The little girl watches him in a daze, and he stares back at her. They agreed to go out to have donuts - can they still eat them?

-

“I want to return to China.”

Pei En shakes his head, alarm in his eyes. “Why? There’s so much freedom here, and I’m the only one who monitors you. And I’m inclined to trust you more now. You won’t betray us.”

“No... I still want to go back.”

Not just for the little girl. The symbols left behind by his master seem to point to a certain location in China... Where exactly is it? And why did he leave the symbols with the FBI? Could it be the place he’s hiding at right now?

No matter what, he wants to solve this riddle.

“All right. I’ll handle it for you as soon as I can. I think you’d have to use a false identity this time.”

“As long as everything goes smoothly, it’s fine.”

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing they can’t do.”

He wants to wait till he returns to China before telling Lawrence about what happened. Lawrence will definitely be extremely frantic. After all, he’s been following Kiro ever since he debuted in France.

And Pei En will definitely be happy. He can finally take over Kiro and become the favourite member of the group, and obtain love from the fans.

Kiro is someone who doesn’t lack love. But he always subconsciously wishes that he could obtain even more love. More and more...

-

[ Chapter 6 ]

Before Kiro retuned, Pei En gave him materials pertaining to the agency in China.

“Your agent is called Savin. He doesn’t seem as eager for instant success and quick profits as Lawrence. Mr Savin is a very amiable person, and you should be very happy interacting with him.”

“Is he one of your people?”

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t know?”

Pei En shakes his head. “I rank too low, so I don’t have the right to ask. I’m just an elementary spy.”

Kiro nods, taking his luggage and preparing to leave. He’ll set things straight eventually.

“Kiro, I don’t think you’re transparent. They say that what’s in your heart is easy to guess, which is why they put me by your side. But I think they have underestimated you.”

Kiro looks at Pei En’s troubled eyes, then showcases his signature sunny smile.

“How can that be? Do you want a postcard? When I get to China, I’ll mail you one. I also want to mail them to Lawrence and the members from the band. Treat it as an apology.”

Like Kiro, Pei En showcases a sunny smile. “In that case, we’ll wait for your news. You’ll definitely be at the height of popularity in China.”

“Let’s work hard together.”

“Yes!”

After parting with Pei En, who has been with together with him from morning to night for so long, Kiro lifts his luggage and embarks on an unknown journey. 

As what Pei En said, he isn’t transparent. His brilliant smile conceals something underneath, just as the brilliant sun shrouds darkness underneath.

Hidden in the depths of his secrets are things even darkness doesn’t know of. If darkness had a mind of its own, it might think it doesn’t fit with this pure and simple youth.

Just as how everyone think he’s a simple, innocent Kiro, the sunlight casted on him can pierce through him completely, the rays of light refracting onto the floor. 

Actually, since a very long time ago, he was no longer a youth...

But, for her sake, he's willing to become a youth again.

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll protect you.”

He once again recalls what the girl said to him.

“This time, I’ll be the one protecting you.” Kiro says excitedly. He stands outside the JFK Airport, his eyes staring directly at the sun.

“I’ll find you, and protect you. I even have a mountain of souvenirs stored in my luggage. I’ll give them all to you. And my purest heart - I’ll give it to you too!”

-

Other cancelled R&S: here

[crowdedimagines]

Who Is That? Part 2 (Harry Styles)

PART ONE

In the span of a week Harry and I go on two dates, our third taking place in a few hours. I’ve never moved so quickly with someone, but I’ve also never felt so comfortable with someone so quickly.

By the time I got up to my apartment I already had a text from Harry asking when he could see me again to take me out on a date. I immediately called Hannah to gush over what had happened. She seemed to be just as shocked as I was, especially being that I wasn’t exactly thrilled with him the last time she saw me.

Our first date, Harry took me out to eat. We only waited until the next day before we decided to meet up again. The more we got to talking the less we wanted to wait. Over dinner we were able to get to know each other a little better. Harry made me promise not to google him before the date. He found it refreshing to come across someone who didn’t know of his stardom. Instead he got to tell me all about it himself. I got to tease him about how this was the second time he was paying for my meal, but only our first date.

It took a while to meet up again, I officially started teaching. It took me a few days to get into the swing of things. In the meantime Harry and I texted and called to keep in touch.

Our second date was my idea. I decided it might be nice to go on a hike. I hadn’t been on any of the trails in Los Angeles in years, so I was glad to be back. Harry seemed to be thrilled with the idea as well. It was surprising how for someone who looks to be in shape, he becomes out of breath quite easily. We would talk the whole time, pausing to take in the view. Another successful date.

Hannah couldn’t help but freak out that things were going so well. She felt responsible since it was her idea for me to go up to him in the first place. She liked to gloat and tease me about giving a speech at our wedding. She also claimed that if she wasn’t godparent to at least one of our kids she would be pissed.

Tonight is Harry and I’s third date. He asked me when he dropped me off after our hike and he’s given me no details. We’ve talked and I ask him how to dress and what to bring, but he hasn’t budged on anything. Haven’t wavered even slightly on giving me some details.

“So, what are you wearing tonight?” Hannah asks, she watches me on facetime digging through my closet.

“I have no clue.” I huff, “I just don’t know what to expect. Like are we going out to dinner? Should I dress fancy? Or our last date was hiking so what if we’re like going rock climbing? I hate this.”

I sigh and lay back on my floor, piles of clothes around me.

“I may have heard from a little bird what you’re doing, so I would dress casual and cute.” Hannah admits, I can hear her laugh.

“You know what the date is?” I ask, sitting up to look at her proud smirk. She gives an evil nod in response. Of course they’re in cahoots.

“You ass! You’ve watched me sigh over my clothes for twenty minutes now. So what's the date?” I ask, picking up my phone from my desk to get a better look at the screen.

“I’m not telling! You will love it tho.”

“Okay, so casual and cute.” I reevaluate the items in my closet, trusting that she knows how I should dress appropriately. I settle on a short floral dress and a denim jacket. I put it on and turn back to Hannah for her opinion.

“It’s perfect!”

“Well that’s good because I think I just heard him at the door.” I reach for my phone and my purse, “Thanks!”

I yell a simple ‘coming’ so he knows that I heard him. I check myself in the mirror one more time by the door before deciding it’s good enough.

“Hi.” I swing open the door.

“Hello, love.” He leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. I smile leaning into his touch before turning around to lock my door behind me.

“Ready?” He asks, walking me towards the elevator.

“As ready as I can be for a mystery date.” I grin.

We go downstairs, Harry holds the passenger door open for me.

“I don’t get to drive?” I tease, sticking out my bottom lip in a pout.

“Not when you don’t know where we’re going.” He walks around to the other side and gets in. I’ve decided this car is my favorite when the top is down. It takes my hair with the wind, pulling it in every direction. I normally would hate that for going on a date, but it does the same thing to his curls.

We drive for a while and get on the freeway, telling me that we aren’t going anywhere very close.

“So, how was your first week?” Harry asks, referring to my first week with students.

“It was great. It was a long week, I’m glad it’s Friday, but it’s only confirmed that this is what I’ve always wanted to do. How about you, how was your week?”

I squint to look at him as I wait for an answer. The setting sun casting an orange haze over both our faces.

“I spent most of the week in the studio.” He glances over at me.

“Wait, but didn’t you tell me that you recently released an album?” I tuck my hair behind my ears.

“Yeah, I did. You can never spend too much time in the studio. Plus I was feelin a bit inspired.”

“Were you, now?” I tease, biting back a smile.

He simply nods, trying not to give in to many more words. He should know by now that I’m not going to let him off that easy.

“So, have you already written a song about me?”

He bites the inside of his cheek to avoid giving anything away. I don’t pull my eyes away from him, not wanting to miss an emotion that crosses his face. His cheeks heat up in the most adorable shade of pink.

“Wow.” I smirk, “If you keep that up, I’m going to become the narcissist in this relationship.”

“So we have a relationship now?” He decides to flip it on me now.

He’s successful in shutting me up for a minute. It’s true that we haven’t discussed exactly what we are. We are heavily flirty, but we haven’t even kissed, nothing more than the cheek at least.

“I must be pretty amazing then, huh?” I fill the void, bringing it back to me, wanting to know more about what he could be possibly writing about in the studio the past week.

“That’s where I have to agree.”

Silence fills the car, but it’s comfortable. We just listen to the radio, I watch the scenery pass by as we drive farther and farther from the city. I rest my arm on the top of the door, letting my hand float in the wind. Harry pulls me out of my trance when he reaches out to the radio.

“What?” I question as he turns down the radio. He has a funny look on his face as he does it.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, “Just don’t always enjoy listening to my own music.”

“Shut up!” I grin, Harry has still been adamant about wanting to keep me in my little bubble of unawareness. He wanted us to find out things about each other organically so I haven’t been granted the pass to listen to his music yet, “This is meant to be.”

I reach to turn it back up again, letting it play loudly through the speakers. He rolls his eyes but a smile still graces his face, he gives up feigning annoyance. His arm resting across the bench of our chair drops to my shoulders to pull me a little closer. The wind was whipping my hair, but now due to his arm it’s settled. I lean in to rest my head against his shoulder, grateful for the small car. It makes the cuddling a little easier.

“So are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He continues down the freeway, the sky dimming as we go. We’re miles from the city, nothing is familiar anymore.

“Close your eyes.” He smiles.

“Why?” I squint sceptically.

“Because it’s more fun this way.” He manages to keep glancing between me and the road, “Humor me, love.”

“Fine.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and keep them shut, even as he slows. He makes several turns, we’re obviously far from the freeway now. The roads get quieter and quieter and eventually I can hear us turn on to a gravel road.

“I knew it, you are some creep.” I turn to face him, still keeping my eyes closed, “Taking me out into the middle of nowhere to kill me.”

“Shut up, would ya.” He nudges my shoulder, “You’re going to ruin the fun.”

I can hear the smile in his tone. He’s having way too much fun with this, but also it’s getting me excited for whatever he’s planned. It wouldn’t take much for him to win me over. He’s so charming, and we just click. I would be happy with picking up a pizza and talking. It doesn’t take much to fall for this boy.  

“Okay, you can open.” He’s finally parked. I picked up on outside noises of people talking and other cars.

I peek my eyes open to see where we’ve finally stopped. A drive in movie, Harry’s car parked a few rows back giving us the perfect view of the screen.

“Shut up.” I sit up, reluctantly leaving Harry’s grip so I can sit up a little more and look around.

“Harry.” I turn to look  at him, his eyes already on me, “This is perfect. Thank you.”

“C’mon, let’s go get some snacks.”

We walk over to the snack booth to get drinks and popcorn.

“I haven’t done one of these since I was a kid.” I laugh, taking a piece from the bag, “What movie are we seeing anyway?”

“Grease.” He grins, “A classic drive in movie.”

We go back to his car with our snacks just as the movie starts. The bench seating makes it so Harry can slide more to my side and avoid sitting under the steering wheel the whole time. Once we’re done snacking, we cuddle in a little more. Harry wraps his arm around my shoulder, I throw my legs over his lap. His free hand tracing patterns absentmindedly on my leg.

“I think I watched this movie a hundred times in year four.” He whispers into my hair.

“Really?” I grin thinking about ten year old Harry watching this movie on repeat.

“It was my favorite, I think I proper annoyed everyone else. Gemma hated me for it, I think she still hates this movie.”

I laugh pulling back to look at his smiling face. His eyes leave the screen once he notices I’m no longer watching.

“Whatcha starin at?” He teases.

“You.” I smirk, I focus my attention on his lips. He licks them once he notices my gaze. I tilt my head up towards his slightly, hinting. He smiles before leaning down to finally connect our lips. His hand leaves my leg to cup my cheek and deepen the kiss. I reach my hand to run through his curls, something I’ve been wanting to do since I saw him in the bar.

We both pull back to catch our breath after a few minutes of an intoxicating kiss. I peck his lips once more to get one last taste. Harry doesn’t seem to want it to be over either, pulling me close again. I laugh as he presses kisses down my jaw, trailing them down my chest. He trails them down between my breasts as far as the cut of my dress will allow.

“Harry.” I laugh, pulling on his hair lightly to grab his attention again.

“Hmm?” He finally pulls back to look at me again, he has a dopey grin. I’m still practically sitting in his lap, but I long to be closer. Needing to feel his lips burning against mine.

I push him down slowly, so his back is flat against the seat. I move to straddle his hips before I move down to join. I trace my hand along his jawline, letting the moment build this time. The tension is at an all time high, finally Harry loses patience and pulls me down to his lips again.

We continue the hot makeout for the rest of the movie. We manage to pry ourselves apart once Danny and Sandy are flying away in the car, the end of the movie. Harry clears his throat as he starts his car. I manage to stifle my laugh, Harry makes me feel like I’m a teenager again. Making out in a car, not wanting to go home just yet.

“How are we ever going to top this date?” I ask, my forehead resting against his neck. We’re just now pulling back on to the freeway, we’ve got a long way to go.

“I don’t really know.” He grins, “I’ve quite enjoyed this one.”

“I don’t want this night to end.” I reach my hand up to feel the breeze against it.

“It doesn’t have to.” His eyes flicker between me and the road, “My house is actually in Malibu. We practically have to drive right by it. We don’t have to! I didn’t mean to insinuate that we need to spend the night at my house.”

Harry being a proper gentleman, afraid he’s offended me. In reality it’s excited me.

“No, it sounds like fun.” I grin.

Harry continues driving, thankfully Malibu isn’t as far as driving all the way back into L.A. We both started non stop yawning about ten minutes ago, I think the tiring week and how late it is catches up with us. He enters the code to his gate and drives up the long driveway.

“Jesus, this is your house?” I laugh, looking around at his large Malibu home, “How’d you get this again?”

“Rockin and rollin and whatnot.” Harry laughs, putting on his best Danny Zuko impression to quote the movie. I throw my head back in laughter as he guides us to the front door, his hand resting on my lower back.

“You’re such a dork.” I whisper with a laugh.

“Oh really? I’m a dork? You seem to really like this dork.” He smirks, backing me into his house. I don’t even look around because I don’t want to break eye contact. Something about Harry’s eyes pull you in, enchanting you. Creating a wave of butterflies in my stomach.

“I do really like you.” I admit.

“Wow, she even said it without teasing.” He reaches forward to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

“I did.” I smile, “Believe it or not, I’m not always teasing you.”

“It’s okay if you were, surprisingly I like it when you tease me. You keep me on my toes.”

Harry shows me around slightly, a mini tour not going into it fully until we get to the master bedroom.

“Well this is my room.” He blushes, becoming his more shy side.

“It’s cute.” I smirk, “Do you have anything I could sleep in?”

“Yeah, of course.” He goes into his closet and comes back with a soft tee shirt and a pair of his boxers, “My bathrooms right through there.”

He gestures to the en suite. I go in to wash my face, brush my teeth with a spare toothbrush, and change. I decide the tee shirt is enough, it falls down far enough to feel comfortable. I fold my clothes and his boxers and leave them on the counter.

“You look way better in that than I do.” He admires from his bed, sitting up against his headboard.

“Tell me about it, stud.” I tease, throwing a Grease quote back at him. He lets out a loud laugh, not expecting the call back to the movie, little does he know I’ve been waiting to quote the movie since he did.

I walk over to his bed and pull back the covers to climb in, Harry sinks down next to me. I let out another loud yawn, Harry mimics it a second later. His warm arms wrap around my waist, pulling him closer to his side.

“Y/n?” Harry whispers after a few minutes of silence, checking to see if I’m still awake.

“Hmm?” I ask, struggling to keep my eyes open.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” His voice is just loud enough for me to hear it.

“Really?” I smile, turning around to see his face.

He nods, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“I get it if you think we’re moving too fast. If you don’t want the title that’s fine. I just want you to know that I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t want to pursue anyone else. I don’t want to play a game, I just want you.”

“I want you too, Harry.” I lightly trace my fingers over his jawline until I guide his face down to mine for a brief kiss.

“I would love to be your girlfriend.”

i hope you guys loved this part just as much as the first. xoxo

[actordougjones]

Helen Chavez 1959 ~ 2020

Sitting in silent conflict today, some numbness, many tears, grief, and the happiest memories that make my heart smile. To lose a close friend (whom I referred to as my big sister for the last 16 years) to complications from covid-19 and other health issues, is a blow I could not be prepared for. Yet to sit with my memories of her is a relished joy.

Many knew her as “Hellmistress” on the Sony Pictures Hellboy message boards in 2003. As I was an occasional visitor in those boards while filming Hellboy, I took special note of the witty, gentle, sarcastic, encouraging posts from this woman I found myself wanting to know more of.

She made her way into those message boards by way of her love for Ron Perlman, as she also was a contributing writer for a site called ThePerlmanPages dot com. But once in there, and once we got to interacting, Helen and I both found kindred spirits in each other, about the same age, about the same irreverent sense of humor.

She jokingly described herself as “windswept and interesting.” When we finally met in person the first time around the premiere events Guillermo del Toro had arranged for these fans of Hellboy in April 2004, I found this description of her to be true.  All I had to hear was that Helen had sold a cow to finance her flight from Scotland, and I knew I was right about this one!  Yes, she and her husband Mark raised cattle on their rural farm outside Aberdeenshire, Scotland.  But she was also a highly knowledgeable archivist at the local museum there.  With a thirst for learning, and a lover of history, artifacts, classic film, TV, music, literature, science fiction, and all things geekery, she did indeed earn her “windswept and interesting” title.

(Our first in-person meeting after “Hellebration” 2004 with Sony Pictures Hellboy message board regulars, Left to Right: Maurice Mpayamaguru, Dougie, Pat Paone, Helen Chavez - who was so excited to be having a burger with American ketchup!)

She flew away the next day in 2004, but that would not be the last of this Helen. Upon returning home to Scotland, her friend and ThePerlmanPages creator Pat Paone (who had also been on this trip) said something to Helen that lingered in the air... “After this entire ‘Hellebration’ weekend in Los Angeles, do you realize you haven’t stopped talking about Doug Jones?” which struck Helen odd since she was a devout Perlman fan who was gushing about someone other than Ron after a weekend to celebrate a movie in which Ron held the title character.

That’s when I received an email from Helen proposing an official website she wanted to create for me. So was born TheDougJonesExperience dot com, a site that was lovingly poured over and updated by Helen as her pet project that she never let me pay a dime for, no matter how I tried, from 2004 to 2014, when her own life required her to take pause. That pause from the site included finishing up her Masters Degree, still working full time at the museum, still tending the cattle, and now caregiving to her husband’s failing health ... followed by her own health issues.

She was ever the stoic type, though, who never ever, EVER wanted to be a burden on me, so I would rarely hear of her trials in life unless I told her, “I’m not hanging up until you start talking.”  She would always brush off her own issues and turn things back around to doting on me like the protective big sister she loved being.  She also took in Mrs. Laurie as her little sister with great pride.

To sum up the amount of life shared with this incredible woman would take volumes.  Volumes that could be tied together with one thread.... “cheerleader.” She championed me personally and professionally with the kind of care and tireless energy that gave my own mother and Mrs. Laurie a run for their money!

Her cheerleading came in the form of not only that exhaustive website with endless fan correspondence as she wrote with a voice that was uncannily like my own, then later helping administrate “The Tank” forum on DelToroFilms dot com where “FanSapiens” would gather to chat about little ol’ me, but also trips to see me when I was in the United Kingdom for a fan convention in Birmingham, or a make-up trade show in London.  She also ingratiated herself to Guillermo del Toro and was invited to visit our Hellboy II: The Golden Army filming set in Budapest with her old friend Pat Paone, spending a large part of that visit with me through my whole day, from make-up, to the Troll Market set, to lunchtime, to afternoon naps in my trailer for all of us, to touring the city on a rare day off. 

(During Hellboy 2 set visit 2007 at Budapest, Hungary’s “Hero Square” pictured Left to Right: Pat Paone, Dougie, Helen Chavez)

And I could never tally up the countless hours of phone chats, messenger chats, book-length emails, where she was often celebrating successes with me, calming my nerves when I had failed, giving me some well-needed big sisterly advice on life, or playfully nagging me to sleep and eat more.  Boy, was she ever stern about those last two.  If I even hinted that I had been pushing myself too hard, not sleeping enough, not eating right, she would give me “the look.”  You don’t want “the look.”   It was that raised eyebrows, all-knowing eyes searing into me kind of look, with a probing stare over the top of her glasses into my soul kind of look. You could hide nothing from her when she gave “the look.”

I adored hearing all her tales from her museum, getting history lessons all the while about who used what in what century in what country for what purpose, everything from farm tools to ancient toilet paper.  To keep me in her loop, one year for Christmas she sent me some ancient Roman coins, after I had mentioned how I love looking at coins, waving it off with, “those things are so easy to come by.” Her gifts were always accompanied by authentic Scottish shortbread cookies.  But my favorite story of hers was the mummy head she had no better place for, so he lived under her desk ... for years.  And of course, she named him “Marlon.”

I’ve always been a hugger, but Helen is the one who taught me about “Bosies.” The difference being that a Bosie is a huggle that doesn’t need to end anytime soon, where you envelop the other person in a cradle that makes them feel safe.  She was masterful at those Bosies.

I could tell Helen stories for hours, as could so many of you puppies whose lives she touched with her listening skills, mentorship, and her tireless encouragement to keep all of us creatives reaching for our dreams.

(Pictued at “Hellebration” 2008 with “FanSapiens” Left to Right: Tim Rosenberger, Katie McGregor, Helen Chavez, Stephanie Metz, Dougie, Kate Daley, Seth Lombardi)

(Pictured at Hellboy 2 premiere after party 2008 with DelToroFilms regulars; Top row: Paul Kindschi, Gary Deocampo, Maurice Mpayamaguru. Bottom row: Helen Chavez, Dougie)

But I’ll leave you with one last story.  It was 2008, and we flew Helen out to Los Angeles (I didn’t want her to sell another cow) to join all the festivities for the premiere week of Hellboy II: The Golden Army, and to see the finished product of the film set she visited with me the year before. Everything from having a salon day with Mrs. Laurie to get all done up for the red carpet premiere, and the next day she was sporting a fancy fish-print top to dutifully lead Team Blue (those beloved FanSapiens) at the Del Toro sponsored “Hellebration” party and screening night. Another experience I wanted to give her that week was her first press junket, so Mrs. Laurie gladly went to her own job that day, and Helen went with me down to the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills, where many film press junkets take place on a floor full of press suites. These are high energy days, as one after another, TV, radio, print, and dot com journalists interview us back to back all day. Helen watched from behind the monitors with Publicist John, and every time I glanced over, she was just beaming as she gave me a thumbs-up. At the end of this marathon day, we were heading home in the back of the studio-hired limo, and my eyes were getting droopy in the dark.  Helen glanced over the top of her glasses with “the look” and said with all the doting mother, favorite auntie, protective big sister she had in her, “Awe, little brother mine, come here.” I leaned my head onto her shoulder, while she pet my hair and told me how overjoyed she was with this phase of my life, and how watching me handle all the press that day made her “buttons burst with pride,” a phrase she used many a time. She always knew how to bring such peace, such calm, such encouragement, such a safe harbor.  The next thing I knew the car stopped in front of the house, and I awoke with her still holding my weary head.

Oh how I wish for one more limo ride.  One more chance to soak in her uplifting words, so I might know how to handle whatever comes next.

She went by many names -- Hellmistress, Webmaster Helen, or her preferred “Webmistress” Helen, Auntie Helen, Mentor Helen, Therapist Helen, Dear Friend Helen, Big Sister Helen, but there was only one Helen in this wacky world. She leaves a void that no one else can fill. It’s painful how much I miss her already.

I pray the angels gave her a thrilling ride to her rightful place in Heaven.  I can almost feel her gaze again right now, as she sits at the edge of a crescent moon, tilts her gaze down over the top of her glasses and gives me “the look”.....

Alright, Big Sis, I’ll eat something and get to sleep now. 

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

omg maybe she writes a song for cal before he leaves to go home? she produces it w her team and it’s more of a gift and she brings him in the studio to surprise him? but maybe she releases it and fans know it’s about cal but the two won’t admit it

Thanks for the suggestion! I combined it with @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo suggestions: 

Maybe they're facetiming snd one of them is cooking. They got too into the conversation and then the other is like "there's smoke behind you" and a tiny sexy surprise video chat. 

I hope you enjoy!

Here’s the masterlist for the Distance series. 

Here’s my main masterlist!

If you have any suggestions for this series, please feel free to send them to me. I will do my best to use as many as possible while also progressing the story along!

There is 18+ Content (Smut). Please read with caution. 

______________________________

Calum whines when the bed dips, her body rising and his arm falling into empty sheets. His nose misses being pressed into her shoulder and inhaling her scent. “Five more minutes,” he grumbles. 

“You’re the one that booked the red-eye flight.” Her voice is hoarse in his ears and he finally blinks up at her. Now, as he pushes up, he hears her alarm going off. His blaring along with it. How he missed the two of them going off, he’s not sure. He reaches for his phone, cutting it off and runs a hair over the cropped sides. A yawn pulls at his jaw and a slight moan falls over his throat. 

He hates leaving. As he sits in her bed, wrapped in her golden sheets, that somehow feel softer than his own sheets, he thinks about moving. If he lived here, or she lived in LA, things would be different. He wouldn’t think twice about this, wouldn’t think twice about what was happening between them. But every time he leaves, or she leaves, he is sourly reminded that this won’t be like his other relationships. This won’t be easy to ask her to spend the night, or to wake up early for dog walks, or going to get coffee. They’ll always have time zones and screens between at some point. 

He watches her, pulling open her closet door bottom half still bare besides her underwear. It feels so right just to hold her close. Without thinking too long about it, he pushes up from the bed and stands behind her. His arms encasing her waist and he buries his nose into her shoulder again. His lips leave butterfly kisses. “Leaving you always sucks,” he mutters. 

She finally settles on a sweatshirt and pulls the hanger down before hooking onto the knob on the inside of the door. Her nails scratch along his skin and it’s not even that cold in her house, but a shiver racks through his body. His bare chest pressed into her back. There are no platitudes, no words of reassurance that she can give him. Because it does suck. A lot. Though her leaving him sucked they hadn’t let those words fall. She turns his grasp, hands coming up around his cheek. “It does suck,” she agrees, pecking his lips. “I wish I could make it suck less.”

“Move to L.A. or somewhere closer,” Calum suggests, lips brushing against her as he talks. Their foreheads rest against each other. 

“My whole team is here and--,”

“I know, a last ditch effort,” he sighs, kissing her again. “Thought maybe in your half asleep state I could get you to slip up.”

Her body falls, shoulders rounding in and her hands fall. She tucks herself into his chest, fingers brushing along the tattoos along his collar bones. “I’d have to live in the mountains somewhere. I don’t do well with too many people.”

His laughter rumbles into her ears and Calum squeezes at her frame. “I’ll keep an eye out for anything.”

The sun is just barely rising behind the horizon when she pulls out of the parking lot of her complex. The windows are cracked a little, a breeze blows in, whistling around the otherwise silent car. Traffic isn’t bad on a Sunday morning this early. And the trees and hills roll by as they continue on the roads. It’s almost too scenic. He could see himself out here. Though she lives in a pretty quiet area, he figures it would be nice to always have a quiet place to retreat too. There wouldn’t be the blaring sounds and lights of the city constantly knocking at his door. 

When she pulls into the airport, Calum stretches across the middle console. He covers her cheeks in kisses, some more dramatic than others. She scrunches up on herself, attempting to cower away from the onslaught. Her giggle bounces around in Calum’s head. He can’t get enough. There will never be enough, it feels. But eventually, he has to pull away. He does have a flight to catch. “I’ll let you know when my flight lands.”

“And when you get home too?”

Calum nods. “Of course.” He climbs out of the vehicle, opening her backdoor to grab his duffle bag. She stretches around the seat. A black flash drive rests in her palm. “What’s this?”

“A gift. Don’t lose it now.” 

“I would never.”

“You can only listen once you’re on the plane though.”

“Listen?” She nods at Calum’s question. “You’re cruel.” He nods though to her stipulations.

“Oh, but you love it,” she grins.  

Slipping the flash drive into his pocket of the sweatshirt, he slings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder. He shuffles around, leaning in through the driver side window. And he just gazes, trying to remember the way her eyes sparkle in the rising sun and he can no longer see the lines on her face from how hard she slept. Her hands are soft as she drags her fingers over his and even plays at his rings. Something in the way the sunlight comes in from the windshield catches on her eyelashes makes his heart nearly stop. 

He tips her chin, kissing down her nose and then to her lips. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispers. And there’s so much honestly in the statement that it feels like weight off his chest. 

“But I won’t be the reason why you’re late for your flight,” she laughs, kissing him one last time. “Now, go!”

Calum laughs. “Okay, okay, okay.” He pushes away from the car, turns on his heel and then turns back around to the car. “Just one more kiss?” It’s with a laugh that their lips meet for one last brief kiss. Calum jogs to the front doors and to security. 

As the plane ascends, Calum runs this thumb over the flash drive. There’s the safety spill and he watches for the seatbelt light to go out. When they finally reach their cruising altitude, he pulls out his laptop. He almost forgot it was in his bags. Between being with her in the studio in the day and their drives at night, he hadn’t gotten much of his own work done. Now though, maybe he could get something done. Just a few emails read over.

He slips the drive into the port, watching it pop up on his desktop. It’s only with a few clicks that he opens it, finds the folder. For you, Calum, enjoy.  Slipping the headphones on, he opens it and there’s an mp3. His heart races and his finger shakes, but he watches the song load. At first, it’s a throaty creak of the piano and soon her voice follows with a soft and breathy first line, Brown irises and black tattoos. His heart skips a beat, maybe two or even three, but he lets his eyes close and listens to her singing to him, about him, about the way her heart flutters too. 

_____________________

“I’m gonna puke,” she groans. “God, what if no one likes it? What if I’m just like a one-hit wonder?” Calum pauses at his stir fry for just a moment. In three minutes, her debut album will be released. She was out with her team but her nerves were just too much. So she ducked out early, messaging Calum throughout the entire ride back up and now, she’s here. On her couch. With only two shots in her. Her dog besides her and Calum, even though it’s a screen. The eternity of the last 20 minutes have been rushing to the bathroom to stress pee early every three minutes and hovering over her trash can with nerves. 

“Lay back,” he directs, motioning to her couch just behind her. “Just lay back, close your eyes, okay?” She nods, moving so that her laptop is a little closer to her ear. “Comfy?” Calum asks. He leans onto his forearms, against the countertop, in front of his own computer. 

“Yeah, comfy.”

“Good. Now inhale for three seconds and exhale for five.” Calum can see the inhale and exhale, the rise and fall of her chest. For a fleeting moment, he wishes he could rest his head there, right in the space between her breasts and help her breathe through the nerves. “Again for me.” She inhales and exhales again. “One more time. This time in for four seconds, out for six.” Her breathing crackles in through the speakers. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I promise.”

The rumble of his voice sends a shiver down her spine. She misses being curled up in his chest in her bed. They laughed about nothing, about everything, it seemed. A stupid voice, a meme that sent them both into a fit of giggles. It didn’t matter because Calum was right there with her. He was laughing along with her. “People are gonna hear your angelic voice and they are to fall in love and you’re gonna be a superstar.”

She presses her thighs together, attempting to quell heat that starts in her lower gut. Now is not the time, she figures. “I guess.” It comes out breathy. It’s going to give her away. But there’s not much now to cover it up. 

“I know that tone,” Calum teases. He takes just a second to tend to his food, so nothing burns. But he turns back to her quickly. His gut quivers just a little too. They got hot a few times at her place, hands wandering under shirts, mouths peppering skin with kisses that got lower and lower. But they always pulled back. Calum wasn’t sure if having sex with her would be the right move. Would it make things insanely more complicated than they already were? What if this didn’t work out as a relationship?

“No, you don’t know anything!” she laughs. 

“Yes I do!” She’s still laying on her back, but her thighs brush over the other, as if that will ease whatever ache has developed. “Clearly you like something. I’m just here to help. Let me help,” he adds the last sentence in a slightly lower tone.  

She whines, not sure if she should give into temptation right now. Glancing at the clock, it’s past midnight. “It’s out,” she whispers. “My album is out, holy shit.” When she glances back to the screen, she giggles. “Cal, you might have to order out.”

When he spins around, there’s a little bit of smoke and he swears, turning up the overhead vent. It’s salvageable, for sure. But definitely not his smoothest moment ever. With the smoke finally cleared and the rice scrapped, Calum drops his head to his forearms. “It’s because of you,” he teases. It’s because he wants to see her unravel. He wants to hear her cry out for him. God, he wants it so badly, his toes are curling in his socks. He knows for now he can’t really stand all the way, it’ll give everything away. 

“Cal, you really should get something to eat, baby.”

His head snaps up. “What did you call me?” 

“You can call me baby and buttercup, but I can’t use it.”

“No, no, no,” he rushes out. “You can. I just.” He swallows thickly. “I like it.”

With a tiny smirk, she laughs. “I would bet money you’re hard right now.”

“You wouldn’t have to bet a lot,” he laughs, hoping now isn’t too obvious if he reaches down to adjust himself. It probably will be. But he really can’t be standing like this in the middle of his kitchen. 

“I should probably let you eat. Thanks, Calum.”

“Hey, whoa, why are you in such a rush to get rid of me now?” She doesn’t say anything, a not entirely unusual quietness overtaking her. But he can tell something is definitely off. Trashing the not fully burnt food, Calum dumps the dishes into the sink, hollering to his roommate that he’ll clean it up in a few minutes. His shuffle to his room doesn’t take long. She can hear the click of Duke’s paws traveling behind him too.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.” Calum’s closes the door softly behind him. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” There’s a pause as she sees her phone blinking with text messages pouring in. “We’ve just--we’ve never gone that far. And I never wanted to push you if you didn’t want to go that far.”

Calum collapses into the mattress, laptop sliding onto the bed next to him. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t want to make this more complicated.” He sits up, bringing the computer back to his lap. “I don’t wanna fuck this up with you. Normally, it’s not this hard to weigh sex. But the long distance makes things different? Not necessarily difficult, but different. Sex is like part of the package, but what does that look like for us and like is there an us? I feel like there is.”

“There is an us,” she agrees. “Definitely an us.”

“I like the sound of that.” His grin splits his cheeks and he really thinks he shouldn’t this giddy. But fuck, his body does feel electric. “I really like the sound of that.”

She laughs, her own picture shaking just a little and soon, she’s barely illuminated by the brightness of her screen. It takes a moment and then the bedside lamp flicks on. “Are you familiar with JOI?” She watches as his brows furrow for a second, pondering the question. 

“Not that I know of?”

“Jerk off instructions.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with that.” It falls off his lips a little too eagerly, with a little too much of his own breath escaping him. A knock at Calum’s door sends his heart racing and through the door, his roommate shouts about ordering a pizza, to which Calum agrees to send him the money back. “Takes half an hour, minimum,” Calum tells her, wearing a much too wide grin. “It’s not too late for you, right? If it is, there’s always another time.”

Even though tomorrow she knows she has work to do, she shakes her head. “It’s not too late. And you’re wearing one too many sweatshirts, and if there’s a shirt under that, that should go too.”

Without hesitation, Calum pulls the sweatshirt and tank up and over his head. It rouses his hair and he straights it back out before he directs her to trace around her nipple. Under the shirt. It’s more than obvious that she’s wearing no bra either. “I know you like love bites, and I really wish I could decorate your chest in them right now,” she breathes. “But I just want you to sit back. Just for a second. Close your eyes. Envision my hands and nails racking down her chest.”

Calum falls into his pillows, allowing her voice to float over him and sink into his brain. “You’re not wearing a shirt though, in this version.” Her laughter is soft and he cracks just one eye to see her tossing the pink camisole somewhere behind the camera. “Fuck,” he sighs at the sight of her erect nipples. 

“Your eyes are not closed, mister.”

“Squeeze them for me, please. And then I will.” She complies, leaning in a hair closer to the camera too and Calum groans, but drops his head into the stacked pillows. “You’re a tease,” he says. 

“Oh, don’t say that,” she laughs. “You’ll only make this worse for yourself.” 

It doesn’t take long for them to instruct each other to remove pants and then underwear. Both with hands dragging over their bodies, desperately wishing it was actually the other. Her sighs feed into his ears and crawl down into his chest. He echoes with his own, watching her fingers dance around her sex. Her hips rise and it’s obvious she’s trying hard to follow his instruction, trying not to touch herself. 

He’s on minute four of a five minute time out, for calling her a tease one too many times and is forced to sit on his hands and just watch her. And his cock is practically a leaky faucet at this point. In the end, it’ll be worth it. But right now, he just wants to give in. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. If he’ll make it the full five minutes. “Do you like them sloppy? Blow jobs, I mean?”

His head is so foggy, watching just how much she appears to be dripping onto her towel. She grabbed one just in case and the mere thought of her gushing as Calum’s head all sorts of twisted. “Uh,” he starts, working his jaw again. It hurts from how hard he’s clenching it. “I guess so. There’s, fuck,” he groans watching her hips raise again, wishing his tongue was buried inside of her. “Please tell me five minutes is up.”

“You haven’t-haven’t answered my question.”

He drops his head again, eyes fluttering close. He’s going to lose all feeling his hands at this point. “To an extent, yeah. It’s hot when they’re really into it.” 

She’s seeing stars, and she hasn’t properly touched herself but once. She lost that privilege for five minutes as well when she joked that her toys had gotten her off faster. But she won’t lie. She likes the back and forth, the small punishments. Though she thinks, it might be torturing Calum more than it is her. She makes a mental note and then sighs. “You’ve been really good. I wonder if you’ll have that much restraint in person.”

Calum doesn’t fall far it. He watches, to see how far she’ll go, if she’ll actually touch herself without his permission. But she doesn’t either. “I know what you’re doing,” he laughs. 

“Because you’re doing it too.” His cock jumps just a little, his stomach tensing and untensing. He looks like he’s about to explode. “Do you like plugs? A little backdoor play?”

“You’re dancing real close to a fire there,” he warns, the tips of her fingers are hovering over her clit. “I didn’t say you could.”

“Damn you,” she growls, moving her hands back to her tits, kneading and pulling at them. Is he waiting for her to break first? Is she going to break? She needs something, anything and if she’s this close to cracking she knows Calum’s even worse. 

“Just the head, really work your precum over it.”

The groan that leaves Calum’s chest is long, and louder than he really wanted it to be. But god it feels so good to touch himself. At the moment, as he works just the tip, he doesn’t worry about having to explain anything to anyone. “Play with your clit. Ah, fuck. Circles, okay?”

She hums, body reeling at the new found sensation. “Fuck,” she cries out. “I like it when you squeeze my ass. And if you were here right now, god, I don’t think I’d get off.” She pants for just a second, before she lets Calum fully stroke himself. 

“So you on top, huh?” 

“What? Don’t like the woman taking charge?”

“Never, no. I love it. You taking what you need from me. God, I think my heart would stop, watching you. Tits bouncing.”

She clenches and it aches that it’s around nothing. Calum would be such a delicious stretch. He’d fill her in ways she probably didn’t know existed. He’d be so firm beneath her palms. Chest solid and warm as she braced herself. God, why hadn’t do made a more serious move when he was here with her? When this could all be a reality and not through a screen. The twinge of regret doesn’t last long when her lower gut continues to tighten. She can feel the small prickles of sweat on her forehead starting to run down her skin. “Oh, fuck. Cal.”

His ears perk up at the growl of his name from her lips. It’s hard, when his eyes blink open to get her in focus. His own body is on the edge, his own pleasure is ramping up to knock him over. But he manages, between the blinks to watch her fall apart. The grunt falling over her lips and the way her teeth clash together just for a moment, the skin around her brows folding for just a moment before they smooth back out and the waves rock her core. No gush. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. 

He’s not going to last much longer. Not after that beautiful sight and his heels dig into the mattress a little, hips stuttering up into his own palm. And soon the streams are spilling over his hand and up onto his stomach and chest. His vision is a little spotty just for a second as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t even have half a mind to know if he made too much noise or not. That is until she giggles. “Did you cum or start benching presses over there? Either way, very hot.”

“I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or not.” He’s thankful that he kept the box of tissues next to his bed from his sneezing fit the other day. Though he didn’t usually suffer from any sort of allergy something got to him yesterday at some point. 

There’s a shuffle to clean themselves up and Calum waits, finished first, until she comes back to the screen. It’s clear to see she’s tired. She slide between her sheets, not bothering with clothes again and her head immediately falls into the pillows. “Don’t forget the light, buttercup, he warns softly. She grumbles but turns it off. “Sweet dreams,” he continues. “I’m gonna stream your album on repeat when it releases for me here. You’re gonna wake up to a bunch of positive reactions. And maybe 85% of them are from me, but that’s besides the point.”

Her laughter is soft, partially muffled by her pillow. “Thanks, Calum.”

“Anytime, buttercup. Anytime.” Their call ends and Calum leaves his computer on the bed. He pads into the kitchen and notices a box of pizza still out and the dishes done. And his phone is still on the kitchen counter. 

“The pizza came like twenty minutes ago. But that wasn’t something I wanted to interrupt,” his roommate laughs, walking back towards the bedrooms. “You’ve got kitchen duty for the next two weeks.”

“That’s fair. Thanks!” As he settles down at the table with the first three slices warmed, he scrolls through his phone. A message buzzes in and he just catches the preview before it disappears. 

I know I should be asleep right now. But I got caught up looking at reactions. It’s a screenshot of some tweets. A string of emojis and keyboard smashes comprise most of them. A couple fans of sniffed out which song is about Calum, but overwhelming the reactions are positive. 

I told you so.

Oh wipe that smirk off your face, I know it’s there! Calum can only laugh in response. 

[moondustaeil]

If your moots (or blogs you want to be mutuals with) were fanfics, what would they be? I personally think you'd be a 'royalty au, protective brother king!Kun × princess/prince!reader × suitor!Sangyeon' fanfic! 📚

You just seem very mature and put-together to me.

hihi, my love!! This was so nice to do even if it took a long time, I loved it so thank you. Also thank you for saying what fic I would be, I wish I could live in that fic 🥺💙

If you’re not in here, I’m so sorry, I’ll still add you if you want or next time someone asks me this, I’ll add you!

you can find the fics and moots under the cut! I didn’t go in any particular order, just who popped in my mind at what moment and émi last bc she’s my world yes. This is way longer than expected

@sunhyuck

Au: soulmates 

Pairing: wanderer!Haechan x Kei 

Backstory: ever since Donghyuck accidentally met eyes with a stranger on the street, he is greeted with sunflowers scattered along his path. Young sunflowers dance under the sun, turning to the source of warmth and light. Just like the sun is all you've been gazing at ever since you walked on the same path as your soulmate. 

Why: because I truly think of Kei as one of the people I'll always go to and when thinking about soulmates, I think of people who find each other and accept each other despite different lives. That I will connect to the weird variety of subjects we talked about. I love you, my angel (if you're reading this). 

⠀

@neo-cult-ure 

Au: demonic entities , haunted house , roommates 

Pairing: composer!Taeyong x journalist!Ley 

Backstory: Taeyong has been shouting over his music to you for over half a year, almost begging you to dedicate a column to him and his music. When his equipment starts picking up the strange noises coming from the house, it becomes clear that the clock hasn't been stopping at 3:19am for nothing. With Taeyong discovering the entity living among you, you decide to dedicate the article to Taeyong and your invisible roommate. 

Why: do I even need to explain, this queen owns horror and the horror concept. She's the one I'll bow to because I owe her a lot and she's freaking talented.

  ⠀

@ceruleanskies 

Au: secret relationship 

Pairing: soloist!Yuta x stylist!Kai 

Backstory: ever since Yuta appeared on the red carpet with a short haircut, fans hunt for the person that made the decision to get rid of his mullet. All fingers point towards you, stylist of Nakamoto Yuta, from each finger a new opinion flows into your ears: too short, not the right colour, better looking with the mullet. Though one finger shoots the arrow right in the heart "they're dating." 

Why: because I truly adore Kai even though I'm way too scared to actually tell, I don't want to mess up and make her think that I'm some kind of weird person. In my eyes, she sparkles through my screen. 

⠀

@neonun-au 

Au: dating app 

Pairing: photographer!Johnny x Mads 

Backstory: just like he with a button alters between the different pictures on his camera, Johnny alters between the different profiles, swiping them in his desired direction. That's how you strand in his life and mostly his camera roll: the pictures he takes, one by one, capture you. 

Why: because even though we don't know each other well, I truly want to capture her in my memory and think about the smiles I had on my face when reading her messages. 

⠀

@flowerhyucky 

Au: arranged by fate (you can call this soulmates but I'm calling this arranged by fate)  

Pairing: Hendery x Ana 

Backstory: one day, the flowering plant amaranthus caudatus settles itself in the middle of an empty field. Another day, someone else's birth flower is planted next to the amaranthus caudatus. The young miracles of nature grow just as their owners do, however, they don't bloom until the love between you and Hendery starts to bloom. 

Why: I really like Ana and her URL actually inspired the story, I could write so many adorable aus to fit her but nothing would compare. I truly like her vibes and her personality is so beautiful, like wow. 

⠀

@smileyjaeminies 

Au: university , writer 

Pairing: writing student!Jaemin x student!Alex 

Backstory: exam season is closer than expected for you, with only a few days to go until you scribble your knowledge down on the exam sheet and a week to go until you need to hand in your paper. However, someone is willing you help you with that paper. Na Jaemin, student and writer who seems to have more control over his life than the earth has over global warming. As the word document increases in pages, so does your liking towards the young writer. 

Why: I met Alex thanks to thesunnyshow that we're both co-admins of, and it immediately felt as if we were friends. Alex helped me through the screen when I fell off my bike (yes haha, a 21-year-old one took the wrong brake) and I try to make it work when she's busy with uni but we have a shift. So I think we're a great team and that's why I picked this au. 

⠀

@fruityutas 

Au: broken relationship 

Pairing: Taeil x Emily 

Backstory: "Can I go on?" Taeil asks himself every morning, gazing upon your sheet-covering body as you drown in the world of sleep. The wind howls outside the window, and Taeil wishes the wind would push you towards him, but the soft blowing only pulls you further away from him. You feel a soft breath against your neck, the soft lips murmuring "without you, there's no way." 

Why: I don't know why I chose this particular plot, maybe it was because I was listening to a song and based it on that. Initially, I wanted to go for a cheerful and happy plot that reminded me of her URL, but I ended up with angst. I remember we had this talk about angst and went from that. Also, I adore her so much, I probably expressed that once in a gc already but I'm saying it again. 

⠀

@afishcalledfatin 

Au: friends to lovers

Pairing: Jungwoo x Fatin 

Backstory: for as long as you can remember, you've been friends with Kim Jungwoo. In your childhood and teenage years, the term BFFs would be engraved in each object you gave to each other, but now that you two are adults, life is different. You want to give him the world because he deserves everything, he wants to give you love because his heart is longing for yours. 

Why: because she feels like a friend that I've had for years, we don't always talk but when we do, it just feels like we've been friends since forever. I love that a lot about her and I love how easy she is to approach and talk to, she's a true darling. 

⠀

@heartyyjeno 

Au: strangers to lovers 

Pairing: Sungchan x Alesha 

Backstory: trainee life is tough for Sungchan, even thinking about having to walk for over half an hour to get to the dance studio is something Sungchan stopped looking forward to. However, he meets you on his way, walking along the same path to get to a different location. One step a day with you along his side is all it takes for him to look forward to it again, to walking with you and getting to know you better. 

Why: because Alesha is a great friend and we, unfortunately, don't talk as much as we used to, but that doesn't take away I'm always there for her and she's always there for me. Sungchan's walk resembles the many different talks that we had together and not all of them were fun, but we walked the path together.

⠀

@jimjamjaemin 

Au: youtuber , vlogger 

Pairing: vlogger!Mark x vlogger!Mona 

Backstory: Mark and you have been a couple for over a year, with the growing interest in your relationship, you and Mark start a YouTube channel. From a look in the life to fun challenges, you and Mark take over the crown of cute YouTube couples. 

Why: Mona and i didn't meet in the best situation, we started to talk when there was quite some drama in the fandom. But I love Mona and the thing she made me for my birthday reminded me of an editor which led me to a youtuber au!

⠀

@chaoticdeobi 

Au: bakery/coffee shop (bc how can I not, she kicked me out of the coffee queue) 

Pairing: soft-spoken!New x coffee shop owner!Bea 

Backstory: the coffee quote that hangs inside your coffee shop, is something that Chanhee cites every day. With a soft voice, he orders his coffee and then flashes you his smile when you proceed to tell him that the cookie is on the house. As you bring the coffee to his table, the last minute of your shift ticks by, and when you sit with him, you start your shift as girlfriend. 

Why: I literally love love love Bea, sometimes she reminds me of a soft-spoken person and other times she reminds me of a chaotic deobi. I still laugh to myself thinking about our talks, thinking about having fun together. We don't get to talk as much as I'd like, but when we do, I wish we could talk forever. 

⠀

@juyeonzz

Au: criminal , badass , something chique  

Pairing: criminal!Jacob x partner in crime!Qiu

Backstory: pointing the gun at his future victim, Jacob awaits your return. You explore the house: tugging at knobs of money-filled drawers, opening jewellery-clad treasures. But you are looking for the key to Jacob's heart, a golden key dusted with scratches, poisoned with old blood from when someone else locked his heart and pulled the key out harshly. 

Why: because Qiu really gives me chique and sad vibes, when I think about her, I think about a longing feeling described with poetic words. Qiu wasn't my first mutual but if I need to mention my first mutuals, there's a big chance I'll include her because it feels like she was one of the first people I got close to. 

⠀

@atbzkingdom

Au: dream 

Pairing: Haknyeon x Dee

Backstory: if Haknyeon were to have one more day on this earth, how would be spend it? He would make a timetable of which you are the only returning factor, because he would like to drown himself in time with you. Twenty-four hours in which he is the sun that illuminates each part of the world, the world that is you, rotating until the sun is replaced by the moon. 

Why: I don't know Dee that well because we haven't talked overly much, but whenever I think about her, I think about references with the earth, sun and moon or natural things. She's just a sweet person, and it seems really natural to talk to her! 

⠀

@127-mile

Au: muse , painting 

Pairings: Ten x Émi (but there's also Renjun in here)

Backstory: from the brush that Renjun manoeuvres, droplets of paint colour the blank canvas in a self-made story. Ten, the master that learned Renjun how to portray his muse, is now standing next to Émi, the young woman returning in each painting of Ten. Never had they stood next to each other: artist and muse. Never had they consciously smiled at each other. Never had they been real. Until now. Immortalised on the canvas, Ten hugs his Émi, they might both be droplets of paint with a shadow, but behind the canvas Renjun bids farewell to his last painting. His tear streaks the painting, blurring the line between reverie and reality 

Why: because Émi and Renjun are both my muses in life and writing, creatively but also in daily things. I proclaim my love for Émi a lot but that never takes away how genuine it is, because I genuinely love her and sometimes it seems so surreal that she's in my life. Sometimes I'm afraid that she's a dot, a droplet of paint that will fade by time until I have no more remains of her. But however long we have left, I will cherish and love her each day just like she loves Ten (isn't that a sad love story, I literally cried for like five minutes after this 😂)