#there was one small(ish) part they changed that bugged me a little but OTHER THAN THAT IT WAS EVERYTHING I COULDVE DREAMED | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marlahey · 4 years ago

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under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.) utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020)

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s��not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” ��Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #utsr redux

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tae-cup · 4 years ago

Text

Old Money and Brooklyn Babies

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Summary: “Those summer nights seem long ago. And so is the girl you used to call The queen of New York City. But if you send for me, you know I'll come. And if you call for me, you know I'll run” - Lana Del Rey (Old Money)

Genre: Modern/Realistic Au, Angst, like Fluff if you squint, rich people au??

Warnings: Yandere-ish themes, LANGUAGE, drinking, sexual tension (but no smut!), unhealthy relationships, heavy topics, maybe at the end if you think about it maybe depression?, Pathological liar (s?) are involved, your brain has been warned #trust no one.

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 7.3k Words

A/N: Ahhh this was such a challenge for me to write but I hope you guys enjoy it! PS I’m sorry. And I’m really nervous to post this because I don’t know how it will turn out askldfhsalkdfh

Other: Masterlist

Loving him was intense, a whirlwind of emotions that could only be compared to a hurricane, a tornado. There was a time when loving him was explosive, a train on its way to be wrecked. The feeling hadn’t disappeared.

You knew it when you saw him standing on the staircase, a new love around his arm. You felt the room buzz when he saw you. Now, standing in this bar of sweat and alcohol where you could barely pay for your next drink, you wondered how things went so wrong.

Just a few weeks ago, you were the queen of New York City, the heiress everyone was talking about, and now you were a nothing, just another nobody in a sea of other nobodies.

Did he see it in your eyes? Did he see the desperation? The same look you had given him a few months ago, the kind of look that he had described as beautiful and exhilarating. Now he turned away in disgust. You tightened your grasp on your glass.

It was your fault.

You had ruined it all. Like you always did.

Six Months Ago

1 A.M. wake up.

Obsess over what you were going to do for the day and plan it meticulously in your mind.

3 A.M.

Get out of bed.

make yourself a cup of coffee and stare in the mirror for a while.

You stood tall, you knew you were a beautiful woman. After all, everyone had been telling you this since you were little. You could easily pass for royalty, that’s what you always thought and you wore it well.

You jutted your chin out, running a hand along your jawline. Then you made sure to put every hair in place, perfectly positioned. The mirror had a small crack in the corner, you made a mental note to buy a new one.

You put on your dark shades sunglasses so that you could barely even see inside. Nonetheless, you stumbled around your apartment like a model, refusing to look unfashionable even in the cold abyss of your living room. Who knew if someone was peering through the windows? That’s why you kept it as dark as possible.

You tripped over the couch. Since when was that there? You asked yourself angrily, as if you hadn’t been living here for the past year, a pretty bubble world built up carefully over a year of work and dedication.

Reality couldn’t catch you here. You stumbled around blindly for a while and then found the door handle.

5 A.M.

With a decisive click, your day had begun.

Astteria Jewelry, a company your father had invested in dearly when he visited the states. You hadn’t been there, but you’d heard a lot about the visit from the newspapers.

“Hello?” You cleared your throat, tapping on the top of the glass counter until someone came over, looking a bit annoyed. The woman’s face was twisted uncomfortably before she plastered a kind smile on her face.

“How may I help you?”

“Yes, yes, I need to try those on.” You pointed to the chunkiest rings in the case. They were encrusted with large and small diamonds, all glittering beautifully.

The woman shot you a skeptical look. You just peered down at her through your dark shaded glasses. She was really straining for that pleasant smile now.

“Of course.” She said tightly and reached under, unlocking the case, and bringing the rings out.

“Ah, I quite like this one.” You gasped happily. The rock on your finger was hard to even hold up, but you liked it well enough. “I’ll take it, as you probably know, my father will be quite happy with this gift.”

“That will be $247,000.” The woman pursed her lips as she removed the ring and placed it back in a box.

“Perfect.” You declared.

“I need your card.”

“Nonsense! Do you even know who I am?”

The woman shook her head, her irritation visibly growing.

“That’s quite alright. You know, my father is a great friend and investor in this company. He has often bought for my mother from this very fine store. I think he even gave us a discount at some point?” You said casually. “My father is the chairman of Sinopec, I think you know it?”

The woman stilled then she looked suspiciously at the door and back at you. “I’ll give Mr. Betta a call.”

“You better.” You snapped back, your patience wearing thin. You were the daughter of Sinopec’s chairman. Everyone knew you, obviously.

The dial tone was especially loud in the quiet store. A few rings and he picked up.

“Yes?” You heard the muffled voice.

“Sir, there’s someone here claiming you gave her family a discount?”

“Who?”

“From Sinopec.” The woman turned away, whispering furiously. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea. Okay okay, I will.”

“Well?” You turned to her, looking every part the agitated socialite,

“Mr. Betta seems to be under the impression...that you should be allowed this ring and we’ll charge your father.”

“Of course.” You said quickly, taking the box out of her hands and striding out of the store.

Your heart was racing. You felt a weight on your chest and it wasn’t the ring.

Heather was rich. You knew her to be Old Money, everyone did. You always expertly placed yourself next to her in class. She didn’t seem to mind. She was beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than you, but you would never allow that thought to come to fruition.

Heather held herself like a commoner, to put it lightly. She got her morning starbucks, waited in line, ordered and waited patiently, got on a bus, commuted to school and got to class early. You realized a big part of being a ‘normal’ person was waiting around.

“Heather, I was also at that party the other night.” You said to her as she scrolled through her photo album.

“Oh? Really?” She chewed on gum, the sound smacking across her lips. You felt an itch of irritation, but pushed it away.

“Yeah, really.” You drawled.

You carefully placed your ringed finger close to her line of sight. She glanced down for a second then back at her phone, then back at the ring. She put down her phone.

“Where did you get that ring?” She inquired, suddenly very interested in you. She picked up your hand and surveyed the ring from several angles.

“Astteria.” You said nonchalantly. “My father is a good friend of Simon Betta.”

“Who’s your father?” She glanced upwards with a confused look.

“Zhao Dong.” You said easily.

“The chairman of Sinopec?” Heather looked up, confused. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize you! You’ve changed since I last saw you.”

You smiled and nodded at her words.

“I know. I spent some time away.” You looked nonchalantly at your nails.

“Well you look great, Y/N.” She continued with a small smile.

“Thank you, I know.” You tossed your hair. “Tell me, Heather, are we close? Would you consider me a close friend?”

“I…” She stuttered awkwardly. “N-not close close, but I know your father and...your mother?” She interlaced her fingers and looked away, embarrassed. “Truth be told, I haven’t been keeping up with Sinopec as of late.”

“That’s perfectly alright.” You assured her. “Now, I’ve been looking for a charity to donate to. My dad has been bugging me about the yearly donations.” You said the words so easily, like water out of a waterfall.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you know any because...well, I know you’re into those charities and non-profits.”

The sound of pages being turned filled the room and you turned back to your work. You didn’t even bother reading the page or taking notes, you had another mission at hand. Heather turned back to her work and after a while, she cleared her throat slightly.

“There’s actually...a gala for an organization that helps fight for LGBTQ+ rights. Would you like to come? I could get you an invite if you just send me your address.” She lowered her voice.

You glanced around. Everyone was focused on their work so you nodded.

“I’m really into helping out when I can, you know? Here I’ll give you my number-” you stopped, thinking it over. “Actually, give me your number.” You prompted.

“Oh? Alright?” She recited her number and you typed it into your phone. You felt her heated stare on the old phone in your hand.

“It’s a friend of mine’s old phone.” You said. “My father has yet to send me the latest one.”

“I see.” Heather narrowed her eyes and went back to taking notes.

You sent her a quick hello and smirked, going back to write down notes. Columbia College had been quite pleased to hear about all the non profit work and extracurriculars, not to mention your straight As in school. It was what you deserved.

“Y/N!” Heather waved you over and you descended the stairs with a smile.

There stood Heather in the middle of this grand ballroom. You tried not to look impressed.

“Heather.” You greeted her with a smile.

She pulled you into a quick hug and then grabbed two champagne glasses. Gold rimmed and bubbling with clear yellow liquid, she handed you a glass. The room was decorated lavishly with red drapes covering dark alcoves and chaise lounges positioned in the corners. These lounges were occupied by men and women all dressed to the nines. This type of luxury was what you deserved.

“You look gorgeous!” She complimented as she took in your appearance.

You had borrowed a dress from your much richer friend, though you personally believed that you pulled off the look better than her. You were the most beautiful after all.

“Ah, thank you. You look exquisite as well.” You brushed a stray hair from your face.

“Ah, Ms. Y/L/N.”

You turned to the voice and were met with a familiar face. You were shocked to even see him at a place like this. He hadn’t struck you as this kind of person.

You had first met Park Jimin in a club. The lights were dim and you could barely make out his face, but you knew he was beautiful, just like you. The club was a world of beautiful people, all pressed against each other and sweating.

“How old are you?” He asked, looking you up and down as you sat at the bar. You smiled slyly, swirling your drink to the pounding music.

“Probably too young for you.” You shouted over the music.

His hands went to his hair. “Listen! My hair looks gray but I can assure you I am a 25 year old man in good standing!”

You laughed. He seemed nice, genuine. It was a breath of fresh air. His entire aura screamed that he was important, yet his personality quite opposed this notion. You looked him up and down.

He was a man of stature, standing tall and proud amongst the crowd, his hair was a silver gray, his eyes of a similar shade. Jimin was either high society or had no idea how to have fun. You were a perfect match.

“I believe you.” You replied happily, setting down your drink. “Want to get some fresh air?”

He smoothed down his coat and you wondered why he was dressed so formally to go to a nightclub.

“I’d like that very much.”

“Jimin.” You greeted him happily. He gently took your hand in his and kissed the back.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He said cordially, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“And you.” You bowed your head gracefully.

The music of the gala swelled and Heather cleared her throat. Her eyebrows were raised as high as the bronze arches that hung above you.

“You two...know each other?” She asked, eyeing Jimin.

Jimin nodded. “Yes, we met, achem, a little while ago.” You were grateful he didn’t mention the club.

“Well, Jimin is actually performing tonight, aren’t you?” Heather turned to him expectantly.

“Oh? Performing?”

The man seemed embarrassed by the sudden attention on him. He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ah, yeah, well, I’m just singing-”

“Jimin is an excellent singer.” Heather nodded and you followed suit.

“I’m not that great. My mom just had enough money to bribe the manager.” He joked and you chuckled along.

“Yeah, I get that.” You agreed. “But I’m sure you’re an amazing singer, Jimin.” You looked him up and down, a smile growing.

“He is!” The other girl chimed in before Jimin could protest. The clock chimed 8:00 P.M. and you glanced upwards.

“I think that’s my cue to go.” Jimin announced, waving off a waiter who offered him a glass.

“Alright! Best of luck, Jimin.” You bowed your head politely and he did the same.

Heather watched the interaction intently. Once he was gone, she started laughing which caused you to look over at her sharply.

“You guys really just eye fucked each other for a whole five minutes. I didn’t think it was possible after seeing Anna’s reaction to him. At least it was mutual this time.”

“Anna?”

“Yeah, the daughter of the guy who made Adobe or whatever.”

“Oh, of course, I remember her.” You said easily, grabbing another glass of champagne.

You were going to need a lot of alcohol to make it through this night, but these luxuries were what you had always wanted.

“I would be careful, though, Y/N.” She glanced around. “He doesn’t have the best track record with women, though he attracts them like bees to flowers.”

“Oh I see.” You followed her eyes. “But from the way you look at him, I can assume you’ve been one of those women?”

She narrowed her eyes and then chuckled, though the sound was a bit strained.

“Me And Jimin? No, no. I can admit he is handsome, but we would never make a good pair.” Heather was quiet for a moment and then she crossed her arms, her gaze growing distant. “He’s too caught up in himself. You remind me of him.”

“I beg your pardon?

“Forget I said anything.”

The music began to swell and you looked up from your conversation as the curtain on the stage began to lift. The din of the room died down. A man with a rainbow pin and black tuxedo stood center stage. He held himself with confidence.

“Thank you, everyone, for attending this charity event for the Audre Lorde Project. Today, we are so grateful to be able to present Mr. Park Jimin as our entertainment for the night. If you donate, he will sing a song of your choosing!” The MC leaned in. “Just don’t be inappropriate, folks.” He winked.

“Now presenting….Park Jimin!”

You watched as the familiar man walked on stage. He looked quite dashing, sporting a rainbow tuxedo and white shoes. You were sure they must have cost a fortune. His rings alone must have cost at least $21,000. Then his shoes, oh, his shoes. They were perfectly clean, so white they could reflect the dim lighting.

People were quick to go up and pay for a song. The songs started at $1,000 and you pursed your lips, checking your wallet. Did you have enough? Yes, of course you have enough, you’re the daughter of Sinopec.

You set your mind on deciding a song. Heather began chatting to you about school, but you were hardly paying attention. You started drifting towards the box that held the donations. Heather moved along with you, unknowing to your next move. You straightened, holding up a hand, which quickly silenced Heather, and zeroed in on the box.

Withdrawing your money, you wrote a quick check for $1,000. Then you haphazardly tossed it into the box. Then you wrote your song on the sign up sheet and went back to the center of the room. You waited, tapping your foot impatiently. You wanted everything now, but you could try to be patient for once.

Heather continued talking about...whatever she was talking about. Halfway through her rambling, a familiar tune began to play. Your eyes shot up from where they were resting on your drink to the stage. You could feel Jimin’s heated stare.

“I think I'm too cool to know ya. You say I'm like the ice, I freeze. I'm churnin' out novels like Beat poetry on Amphetamines.” He sang and his voice was a perfect tune.

You felt your toes curl pleasantly as his sweet voice tingled your eardrums. Brooklyn Baby by Lana Del Rey. You eyed him up and down, taking note of a particularly expensive looking Rolex watch.

As you made eye contact with him through the crowd, your heart thumped an untimely beat. Mine.

Jimin left hand in hand with you. What a sight to see. A couple that no one had expected, one out of the blue. You giggled, shifting over in the back of the cab to Jimin’s place.

His hand slowly inched its way over to your thigh and gave it a light squeeze. Your eyes stayed trained on his face. The dark city streets casted eerie shadows over your figures, but you felt calm nonetheless.

Your hand reached out and touched his cheek. A wordless communication. May I? To be answered with you may. And he leaned in, diving into your arms, melding his lips against yours like you were meant to be. You both gasped for air, but it was a battle for dominance and neither of you were about to back down.

You bit playfully at his lips, devouring his strawberry lip balm like it was your last meal. He pushed against you so your back thumped against the door. His hands found your hips and he pressed into you tightly.

Your hands gripped his hair and you refused to part from his lips, the cold metal of his Rolex dug into the fabric of your dress. You wanted that watch.

The taxi slowly pulled up to the apartment complex and you both hurried out. Jimin haphazardly overpaid the driver and you both took a break to get your bearings before walking into his high end apartment building.

“Hey, let’s try to look like we didn’t just make out like animals, okay?” Jimin patted your arm.

So you went about smoothing down your hair, pulling down your skirt a little lower, and patting your cheeks gently to try and, in vain, dispel the light flush.

You both stumbled your way inside, laughing drunkenly. He helped stand you upright, a strong arm wrapped around your waist. There was a jingle of something falling to the ground, but you paid it no mind. He helped you all the way up to his apartment where you leaned against the wall while he searched for his keys.

“Shit!” He cursed, sinking down beside you, his back thumping against the wall. “I lost my keys.” He grumbled.

“Ah, that’s fine.” You laughed, “Just my luck.”

“You seem pretty lucky, Y/N.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky, I guess, but I want a lot more than luck, you know?”

“And what do you want?”

“You.” You answered quickly.

And that was the first time a lie had registered in your addled brain. Because that wasn’t true, no, not at all. Jimin was wonderful, handsome, smart, but you wanted something more material than these flimsy emotions.

You wanted money. As you watched his expression melt into a lustful haze, you flexed your fingers and clenched them over and over. You could play his game of emotions, you could do it. You thought as he went in for another kiss.

It was a cold morning. Jimin had black out curtains. You could hide from the world very nicely here. You were awake at 1 A.M.

After a long night of searching and making out, the searching part of which you found far more enjoyable, you found his keys. He had dropped them in the lobby on the way in and the desk attendant had grabbed them. You went through your routine, replacing yourself with a pillow in his arms.

“Huh. I always thought that only worked in movies?” You tilted your head and went back to your routine. After a while of getting ready, you sat beside the bed, watching him.

He breathed steadily. You glanced around, finally deciding to explore. You stood, picking up discarded clothes and observing his apartment. It was big, bigger than yours.

There were expensive things everywhere. You could guess he was old money. A glint of gold in the morning light caught your eye. You walked over, carefully not to disturb the floorboards. On his bedside table was the Rolex watch.

“You can keep it.” His gruff voice said. “It’s not important to me, but you’ve been eyeing it all night.”

“Why would you give this to me?” You asked, lifting the watch to look at it in the slim sliver of light that cracked through the curtain. You wanted to applaud his awareness and observation skills.

“There’s something about the desperation in your eyes, Y/N. It’s exhilarating, beautiful, new. People are so...complacent, so okay with their situations nowadays, especially when you’re in positions like you and I. I’m giving it to you as a promise that this wasn’t just a one night thing. I’m serious about this.” Jimin rolled over in bed. “I like people like you, Y/N. I fall in love with people like you.” His words were soft, his expression was stone cold.

And you knew what game he was playing at with extravagant promises and carefully chosen words, you were playing the same game. So you simply let him win.

You could do that, for him, because as much as you were using him to help yourself gain a boost, your heart was beginning to lead you astray. And you could not let that happen. Still, that scent of cinnamon and the taste of strawberries would likely always remind you of him.

Perhaps it was obsession that took you back to his place over and over again. It wasn’t so much him, but the idea of him. Maybe it was the idea that he was rich, that he had money, that he was handsome, but all that aside, you were perfectly incompatible.

Jimin was old money, old money that was long gone. For as long as Jimin remembered, his father had worked very very hard to run his company into the ground. Whether it be with the drinking or the extravagant parties, his money was gone.

He had an unquenchable thirst for money. Some could call it an unhealthy obsession. So when he met you...oh boy. You exuded this confidence, the kind only old money could have. He wanted it.

Call him cruel, but he didn’t mind stepping on a few toes to get where he needed to be. He didn’t mind crushing some woman’s poor dreams. He really didn’t mind. You were another stepping stone. You were supposed to be just another tool for success.

In his alcohol induced state, probably drug induced state as well, he came to the conclusion that you two would make quite a pair indeed, a power couple. But he needed you to become more powerful. It would be a mutually beneficial relationship.

“I don’t know, Jimin, I can get pretty nervous at interviews.” You had told him in response, but there was a gleam of excitement in your eyes, he didn’t read too much into it.

“I think you’ll be fine.” He patted your back with a smile.

Looking back, he never should have gotten you that interview with the New York Times. It was a poor decision on his part. Maybe if things had gone better, if he still remained ignorant of his situation and drank himself into debt like his father, he would be able to continue living his fantasy world. However, this would not be the case. He was not someone who was afraid of getting his hands dirty. And oh how dirty they were to become.

“Thank you, Miss Y/N, for joining us.” The reporter settled down across from you.

“Ah, it’s a pleasure.” You smiled. The woman smiled back and prepared her notepad.

She was a hardworking woman. She wore flats and a nice outfit for this interview, but as you analyzed her posture and position, you knew she would most likely prefer something more comfortable. She slumped ever so slightly, her lipstick was well applied but her nail polish was cracking and half peeled.

“I’m Anna and I’ll be interviewing you.”

“Anna? As in Anna, Adobe Inc’s daughter?”

“Yes!” She nodded happily. “I’m glad you remember me! You know, I only met you once really and we were children so I’m not surprised to see you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Let’s see here…”

The interview began.

“What was it like, growing up with Zhao Dong as a father?”

“Well, Anna, he was absent a lot.” You said without a second thought, thinking back to your childhood sadly. “But he tried his best. I think I get a lot of my outgoing nature from him. He’s really a role model for me.”

“And do you have the same goals and aspirations that he has for the company?”

You chuckled lightly at the question.

“Oh dear, oh no.” You said, like it was some preposterous question. “Honey, he is all about the money. I am nothing like that. I’m all about human connection.”

Anna seemed pleased by this. Her eyes lit up and she hurriedly went to write down notes.

“You seem like such a nice, down to Earth, person, Y/N, how do you get this mindset after being raised so...well, rich.”

“I’ve gotten used to a lot of luxury, yes, but this does not take away from the fact that my father was always strict on discipline. He put a huge emphasis on respecting others and respecting situations we cannot comprehend. It is a valuable lesson I take to heart.” You nodded seriously, your hands gently folded in your lap.

Anna was, once again, pleased by your answer. You seemed to be telling her the right things.

Soon enough, your face was on the cover of every newspaper. The rich heiress to Sinopec is here in New York City! Or Y/N Dong, the future of the wealthy and elite.

You could bathe in the attention all day. In fact, you bought about 15 copies of the story and spread them around your apartment. You meticulously cut out each and every sentence that called you beautiful, complimented you, or even mentioned you and pasted them to the blank walls of your home. Even bad press was still press. After you were done with your hard work, you collapsed on the sofa.

“Knock knock!”

You jolted upright. You looked around your apartment. The curtains were drawn over the windows, just like they always were. You looked around. Your apartment was a mess.

The floor was littered with pieces of paper, the fridge stood open and there were expertly placed scissors just lying on the ground waiting to be stepped on. You blinked wearily. It was a disorientation akin to being hungover but not quite.

“Knock knock?”

Your neck almost snapped with how hard you looked at the door. Shit. You immediately stood up, groaning in pain as you ripped your hand from the couch. You had somehow managed to glue your fingers to the fabric and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

You started madly sweeping the paper, quite literally, under the rug. Then you threw open your windows and were reminded of why you kept them closed. They faced a brick wall. A lovely sight to see.

You frowned, but rubbed your eyes and carried on in your cleaning frenzy nonetheless. The knocks sounded once more and you finally answered.

“One sec-” You cleared your gruff voice. “One second!”

You tripped over the coffee table and you withheld a scream of frustration. Instead you threw your hands up in anger and let out a silent shout.

“Everything alright in there?”

“Yup! Just- give me- a moment-” You held your stubbed toe and every curse you knew flew through your head.

You then ran to the mirror and quickly brushed through your hair. Finally, you made it to the front door, looking as presentable as possible.

When you opened the door, two familiar people shoved their way in.

“Ah, this place is smaller than I expected.” Heather announced, setting down a gift bag, Jimin entered after her with a shy smile. His face conveyed Heather’s words.

“Yeah, sorry, it’s only temporary. I used to live down at Wall Street but then there was a pipe problem with my neighbor and you know...water damage is a real problem.” You clicked your tongue unhappily and they nodded sympathetically.

“That’s completely understandable.” Heather said, moving to get a closer look at your walls. “Interesting decorations.”

“I like words of affirmation to hang around my apartment. It helps build self confidence.”

“Looks like you already have enough of that from the article I read.” Jimin chuckled, fingers brushing over a sentence plastered on the wall.

“Oh, you read that?” Your cheeks heated up. “It was nothing, really.”

“You’re practically everywhere, Y/N.” Heather pointed out. “It’s like knowing a celebrity.”

“But I’m no celebrity.” You said humbly. “I’m just a normal person.”

“My normal person.”

Possession. It was a common theme in your growing relationship with Jimin. You quite liked it. Your heart would always thump. A smile grew on your face and you gave him a quick kiss, one he returned gladly.

“You guys are disgusting. Get a room.” Heather huffed. “Anyway,” She turned and grabbed a gift bag as you and Jimin parted. “I’ve got this gift for you. Call it a congratulations for being on your first ever cover. I was only 15 when I was on mine, but whatever.”

“You didn’t have to.” You exclaimed, but happily took the gift. You threw out the tissue paper like an animal. “Oh! Earrings! I love them!” You exclaimed, surveying the expensive earrings. You assumed they must be at least $30,000.

“Well, it’s just a little thing. Also, I forgot to mention it, my birthday party is next week and I’d love for you to come! I’ll send you the invites!” Heather interlaced your fingers with hers and you shot her a wry smile.

“Of course, we’ll be there.” Jimin answered for you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Oh! I forgot to ask, has your father seen your article?” Heather inquired, it was a simple ask, one that had you twisting your hands nervously.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure he has.” You said softly. “But he’s very busy as you know, so he just hasn't gotten in touch yet!” You assured her and when she nodded, you breathed a sigh of relief.

You didn’t want to know much about Jimin besides his family, his money, and how he looked. You just wanted him to be yours.

Jealousy. Yeah, that was definitely the green monster, as green as a freshly mowed lawn at bucking-fucking-ham palace. This feeling in your stomach was definitely jealousy. You told yourself you couldn’t feel jealous of Heather.

Heather even explicitly said she’d never fall in love with Park Jimin, but that was a real trick, a trap, because everyone fell for Park Jimin. There was something about the way she held onto his arm that had you transfixed, how she casually brushed his side when reaching for something.

You were seeing green and red. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of her fucking hand for one second, even when other people were trying to get your attention. The party was high caliber, celebrating the birthday of said woman. But you could care less that it was her birthday, that man was yours.

You were like a predator, stalking the perimeter before swooping in for the kill. You puffed out your chest and walked straight into their little conversation.

“Jimin, Heather.” You greeted them with a warm smile, but inside you were screaming. It was a primal urge.

“Y/N! I’m so glad you could make it!” Heather pulled you in for a hug and you both balanced your champagne in one hand while doing the awkward one armed move. “Jimin and I were just discussing the latest actions of the Audre Lorde Project.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” You smiled slyly, all teeth and no glimmer of joy in your eyes to be found. “I just wanted to personally deliver my gift to you.” You thrust out the package.

“Oh no no, you don’t have to! Besides, if you do, then suddenly everyone will want to come over and I just want to talk to you guys for now.” She lowered her voice and smirked.

You nodded, though your fingers clenched around the handles tightly. You trudged over to the gift table and haphazardly threw the bag among the other gifts.

It wasn’t anything special, just the ring you had gotten from Astteria. You had wanted to get rid of that old thing anyway. You glanced at the two, still talking. You gritted your teeth and stormed away to the bathroom.

You and Jimin did many things together. You learned his favorite color, his mother’s name and her favorite song, you learned about his life, his backstory. However, your favorite thing to do with Jimin was to make out.

Now, this might seem shallow, but making out with Jimin was like heaven on Earth. He knew how to move his lips, touch just the right spots, to get you melting.

He was the sun in a New York City heatwave and you were a popsicle melting below. It was truly a sight to behold, although Heather would disagree. As your hands would play a game of untying ties with his suit, your mind played a different game, a far more deadly one.

“I love you.” You reeled him in. He followed you like a moth to a light. “I love you a lot.” You declared and he simply fell away under your grasp.

You had always enjoyed the sight of people falling beneath you as you stripped away their exteriors to find what made them tick.

“You’re mine, Jimin, all mine.” You breathed heavily, gasping for breath as he moved to your neck.

He made quick work of the clean skin, littering it with purple marks, delicately crafted by his skilled lips. His teeth grazed your ear, making you suck in a breath. Your, his, rolex watch pressed into his warm skin.

“Tell me, Jimin, tell me you’re mine.” You said desperately and he groaned in delight.

“I love it when you talk to me like that.” He peppered kisses along your jawline. “I love that sound, begging for me like a dog.” He gripped your jaw, pulling you closer, but you didn’t mind. “I’m yours, baby, but only if you’re mine.”

“I’m all yours.” And he dove back to your lips like an animal.

“I’m madly in love with you, Y/N.” He murmured. “And you’re all mine.”

It was a perfect fairytale, but all fairytales need a villain.

I have no idea who this woman is, posing as my daughter. She is an imposter for sure, or delusional. The subtitles on the T.V. read as you flipped through the article that just landed outside your door.

You seethed, feeling your heart sink as one by one, the article undid your many lies. You almost wanted this destruction, because with it came release.

The release of pressure on your chest, from the weight of all these lies. They were carefully built, framing you in the perfect light, but you didn’t want everything to be undone.

“What’s going on?” He picked up the phone. Your hands were shaking. “Y/N? Are you alright?”

“I-I...don’t read the news, meet me outside my apartment door.” You said quickly, your voice quivering. You heard him roll out of bed.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

You sent the same sentiments to Heather. You needed to explain this before they found out. You needed Jimin to understand your side of the story. Jimin was yours. No one else should have him. Ever since you’d set your eyes on him, you had known he was to be your newest obsession.

“Y/N?!” Heather’s screeching voice echoed up the stairs and you knew it was too late for her.

“I know what you think about me, Y/N, but I don’t feel the need to flaunt my riches. I may seem like a real stupid bitch, but I’m not.” Heather snapped, slapping the newspaper down in front of you while you waited with Jimin. He picked up the paper before you could stop him.

“Y/N? Is this true?” He asked cautiously, his eyes scanning the page.

“Y/N? How could you?”

“Y/N?” Y/N Y/N Y/N. The chant was dizzying. Everyone wanted a piece of you, damn it.

“Shut up! Shut up!” You cried, breathless.

They both stopped. Heather’s eyes were pure anger, but Jimin looked confused, lost. He abruptly stood and you went along with him. Heather turned on her heel, storming out.

“Don’t talk to me again, freak.” Heather said, her words bitter as she exited into the cold morning air. Mornings were always cold it seemed.

“How many things have you lied about? Are you even Y/N? Is that even your name?!” He questioned, the buzz of anger growing.

“I can’t...I can’t tell you that.” And you couldn’t. You’d lost track a long time ago.

“Jimin! Jimin please! Wait!” You grasped his hand desperately. He turned around furiously, sharply.

“What do you want? You wore your little disguise so well and I, like a fool, fell for it.” His voice cracked.

“I know I’ve lied about-about a lot of t-things, but I know one thing that’s the truth,” You pleaded. “I love you.”

His gaze hardened. “How do I know that’s not a lie?”

And you couldn’t tell him that either.

A pathological liar. Your mother would have been heartbroken by the label placed upon her precious daughter. You would have been offended as well if it weren’t for the objective truth.

Even when Columbia University expelled you for not only lying about grades and extracurriculars, but also just for being an awful person as they tried to lightly put it, everything still hadn’t hit home.

You were beautiful, fit for a queen. It was such a shame, then, when people also found out that you had no money. It made you hungry for the stuff. Now, the trick was to make sure they didn’t find that out.

Your mother had always been a good woman, but your father had easily gambled away all the money saved. Perhaps you got this carefree, flamboyant personality from him?

A narcissist. Not what you had expected as a new label either, but if it was in the papers, it must be true. In the end, all your little escapades had gotten you in a lot of debt, but the banks had just kept loaning you money. You had no idea why. Maybe it was like Jimin said, you had worn your disguise so well.

“Wow, a narcissist, huh?” You studied yourself in the mirror.

Your apartment was always dark, but you felt a particular chill today. You spoke to yourself, everyone else having had abandoned you.

“I don’t think that’s right.” You argued back to no one. “I’m...Y/N...the daughter of Zhao Dong. that’s me.” You said over and over, but you were no longer convinced and deep down you knew it was all a sham, a lie.

One thing had built on another and another until all the lies piled up and you could no longer dig yourself out. Your head was often spinning trying to remember everything everyone had ever told you.

But the thing was, at a certain point, it had no longer been a fib, a disguise. You had become Y/N, the daughter of Sinopec’s chairman Zhao Dong. At a certain point, you had become someone else, and that was all you had ever wanted.

Then you started laughing uncontrollably before sweeping your arm across the counter, sending various beauty products tumbling to the floor. Your body shook.

“No, no, no. It was all a lie.” You giggled. “It was just a lie, you’re just Y/N Y/L/N from a goddamn backwater town.” You slapped your cheeks, hard, as if that could erase all that was done.

It seemed that you were the villain of this fairytale, but you couldn’t quite believe it. As you looked in the mirror, the darkness of the bathroom slowly closing in around you, you could see yourself clearly.

There was no doubt in your mind that you were the evil queen and there was no snow white, just you and your shitty castle. And you were alone. Not even Jimin wanted a thing to do with you, having called your reckless actions disgusting. You had assured him you weren’t a psychopath.

You remembered the conversation on the phone after calling him several times.

“I’m sorry, how can I make it up to you?” You had asked. He had simply laughed bitterly and shifted his phone .

“You’ve already stolen everything from me, Y/N, and I fully intend to take back most of it, but you can keep the watch.” and then he hung up.

1 A.M. wake up.

Obsess over what you were going to do for the day. Fall back asleep.

3 A.M.

Get out of bed.

make yourself a cup of coffee and stare in the mirror for a while.

5 A.M.

Take a deep breath.

Start your day.

You didn’t have a home to return to. You didn’t have anyone who loved you and you most certainly didn’t have a reputation. With your face staining every front page of a newspaper, you had nowhere to hide, but you were just one person. You needed some fresh air, and where to best do that except at the top of the Empire State Building?

You were surprised to brush past Jimin on the way up to the top floor, but you should have guessed. You supposed his mother worked there. Either way, he followed you, asking if anything was wrong. Like a fucking psychopath.

“STOP!” You cried, turning to him as you reached the top floor. There had to be roof access somewhere up here.

“I want to know if you’re okay?” His eyes were kind and you were reminded of how everything had been before.

But you had already hurt each other, the past was past, there was only forward in this meaningless space of nothing.

“Haven’t I hurt you enough?!” You shouted, tears finally making their way down your face.

He pulled you back as you started to search the top floor, which was deserted save for two workers filing out for the night.

“Why are you doing this?” You whispered.

His eyes were furious, a volcano, a matchstick ready to ignite. It caught you off guard.

“Because, even though I hate you right now with every bone in my goddamn body, I would stop you from doing something stupid, like what I think you’re about to do, over and over again. No matter what.” He stopped, words stuttering, jawline clenching as he searched for the words.

“And maybe that’s what makes me the fool.”

He stepped back into the elevator and the doors slowly closed. You couldn’t bring yourself to join him, simply standing in shock at his declaration. And then he was gone. You saw him once more at a club with Heather on his arm, and after that, you never saw him again.

You would sometimes think you saw him; the flash of his silver hair, his figure ducking into a shop, the smell of him when you woke up, the taste of strawberry on your lips but he was never there. You didn’t need the money anymore. You realized...you had just wanted him.

Loving him was electrifying, like a hurricane at times and calm waters at others. You were a train on its way to be wrecked, and you had finally...run off the rails.

Fin

Blue hydrangea, cold cash divine Cashmere, cologne and hot sunshine Red racing cars, sunset and vine And we were young and pretty

Taglist: @thereaderstea , @sadboibts, @ditttiii

115 notes · View notes

treasurestation · 4 years ago

Text

Blue Flag, with doyoung and yedam.

Note: this does follow Ao No Flag, yet there are minor plot changes such as time setting! You don't have to read Ao No Flag unless you want to! The plot was to be described a bit, Maybe? Hopefully— through my writing!

Dialogue heavy!

For the first time since third grade, they share a classroom together. It's Doyoung that shone with genuine appreciation it: smile wide, enough to make Yedam feel something — something other than a sense of guilt, guilt for feeling insecure. Although he shouldn't be. They're completely different people, not at all the same— and yet.

Doyoung's hands grab his shoulders when he raises his voice, and shouts out his name; Yedam's body moves on it's own, jumping toward to Asahi, his face paling, and heart hammering.

Doyoung laughs, and it does something to Yedam's heart. Makes his gut churn, and fists tighten.

“What class are you in, man?” Doyoung asks, his smile is wide— and his eyes are curled, and his face is bright beneath the sun beating down on him, it shone yellow high in the sky. Doyoung looked happy, and Yedam wishes he wasn't— only for a moment.

“Class A,” He replies, heart calming down from the scare. Palm rubbing over his chest, over his uniform— heart beating under his palm, drumming against bone, hard. Doyoung's face shifts, into something like surprise, or— Yedam doesn't know, he really doesn't.

Doyoung's arm wraps around Yedam's shoulder, pulling him into his side. “Woah! We're in the same class? That's crazy! Haven't been since the third grade!” He says, voice heightened. Laced with appreciation, or maybe, gratefulness. He smiles.

Then it shifts.

Voices call out for Doyoung, and he goes. Just as easy as he came, and it makes Yedam stare after him; Doyoung walking into arms, into his friends—

“‘Sup to you too, Yedam,” A friend of Doyoung's says, staring down at him. A smile on his face. Yedam's shoulders bunch up, and he smiles, doesn't feel right on his face. “... Uh, thanks. You too.”

He's unaware of the eyes watching. Burning on Doyoung, then on him.

—

During lunch, Asahi and Haruto pry. Not that they usually do, it's just different when it's about Doyoung, Haruto asks— “Hey... Something's been bugging me,” A beat of silence, “how are you and Doyoung such good friends?”

Yedam stops eating, thinking before he speaks, “We're been best friends since primary school,” and maybe that's why his heart does something for Doyoung, “but I don't think we're that close.”

Yedam really doesn't know— maybe they were close before. But they grew out of it, their closeness. Or maybe, it's a closeness that became one-sided, on Doyoung's part, or maybe on Yedam's part,— or maybe they've never really been close— his thoughts don't stick together anymore after that, Haruto speaks up again, “Nah, you both seem to get along well. Even though you are a completely different ‘class’, right”

“‘Class?’” Yedam's brow furrows. Face shifting, eyes staring— what did he mean? Class?— Yedam just, he doesn't know. It makes his heart drop, a bit. “Yeah,” Haruto shrugs, finger pointing out the classroom window, down onto the field outside.

Doyoung is out there, in his uniform playing soccer. The sleeves rolled up, and beads of sweat formed on his skin, the sun beating down, and other boys chasing after him. His forearm wipes his skin, the people out there cheer him on— Haruto continues, “Because that Doyoung... Has unrivalled skills in the baseball club, and his dexterity is above most, as well. He has great manners and a sense of humor so the girls are always fawning over him–” And it gets Yedam thinking. Really thinking. Heart sinking as he does. “He's someone who makes the most of life.”

“And yet he doesn't have a girlfriend, does he?” Asahi says, slow, curious. But not really caring. Just, curious.

Haruto jokes, “Maybe he just loves to lead people on,”

That makes Yedam lose his appetite, shoving his sandwich into his lunchbox, his face scowls. And Asahi pales, leaning toward Yedam, Yedam's voice lowers, sinks. “Stop it, Haru... Doyoung isn't that kind of guy.”

Haruto leans toward him, finger touching his forehead, “Maybe. But he's on a completely different field than us,” A beat of silence, and Yedam's heart is sinking so low into his gut, “You are being used.” Yedam wishes Haruto never spoke. His heart sinks as well.

A boy shouts. And clutter is loud. Echoing everywhere in the classroom.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing!” A dark-haired boy has a finger pointed at a light-haired boy, voice deep. Irritated, and angered. The light-haired boy points his finger at the dark-haired one, “... He pushed me!” It comes out quick.

Someone:s voice echoes, “(name) hasn't even eaten half,”

Your lunch lays on the floor— scattered, and you're picking it up, face flushed— burning red, cheeks colored so deep, Yedam begins to think it hurts. Yedam lowers his brows, the side of his mouth raised. He doesn't really like you.

Your friend, her voice is low, has a softened edge lingering beneath, “Are you okay, (name)?” You don't answer, just continue picking up your food. Burning beneath her gaze, and everyone else's. “Apologize properly to (name).” She says, and the light-haired boy raises his voice, “It's her fault for always eating so slowly, and always diddy-dallying!”

And your friend's face hardens. She's always been scary, Yedam thinks. And her voice goes even lower, anger lulled low, humming beneath. “Huh? It's your fault for rampaging through here!”

A voice perks up, mocking, taunting. “Ah, it's the gorilla girl run,” And they snicker beneath palms, the boys move. Run toward their desks.

Asahi asks, quietly, “Was that (name)'s lunch?” And Haruto clicks his tongue, “Looks like it.”

Yedam stares at you, just watches. The burning of your skin, your blush infectious. “As always, (name) is stupid and slow...” Yedam says, and it makes Asahi stare at him like he's grown another head, and Haruto calls out Yedam's name.

“Yeah?” He turns around. Eyes curious, wondering— “I have another question, why don't you like (name)?”

Asahi speaks, easing his way in, “You're pretty cold to that girl, aren't you?”

“I don't mean to be...” It's true. That much is very true. And Haruto says something Yedam doesn't get that quickly, “Even though you like small animals,”

“Huh?” His hand rubs over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the hairs. “(name) kind of seems like a small animal, doesn't she? Kind of like a hamster.” Asahi brightens up at that, and looks your way. “Ah. Hamster-ish girls.”

“Hamster girls?" He questions. Looks your way too— your hands are clasped together, and your face is still red. “Hamster lady?” That makes Asahi stare Haruto down, Haruto says, “Nah, that's wrong, right, Asahi?”

Yedam has so many questions. But he doesn't ask. He just, he doesn't know. He doesn't—

—

He walks down a hall toward his classroom. Wondering what the problem was— his relationship with Doyoung was the problem. That he hadn't changed, but was of a different ‘class’.

Then he thinks of you. How long he's known you, yet hasn't really known you— he's always been in the same classroom as you. Your eyes had met often. You never really spoke to each other— Yedam halts, gazes absentmindedly out the window. His reflection staring back. You're slow. And always looking down— and it's exactly like—

“Whatcha’ looking at?” Doyoung's face is suddenly too close, and it makes Yedam jump back. Doyoung laughs easily, “You're such a wimp, Yedam!”

“You always appear so suddenly!”

“Ah, really? Sorry.” Yedam wonders why Doyoung's face softens when he rubs the back of his head. They walk into class together.

The voices again. They tell him he's amazing, and he's good, and they question why he's so good, and what can't he do?— and he stutters a bit— “W–well,”

Yedam just, he doesn't know. It's not like he doesn't like Doyoung, they just don't get along anymore— Yedam walks toward his desk, without saying anything. Misses the way Doyoung falters, the way he stares after him.

Your desk is beside Yedam's.

—

Yedam finds you.

At the library near school. Reaching high, on a stepping ladder. Fingers spread outward, touching. But missing the book your reaching for— Yedam turns. Frowning. Wishes this weren't happening, because he feels like he'd feel bad if he didn't help you, you look like you desperately need it—

“Are you okay?”

You stiffen. Face burning again, “Eh? Eh? I— Yed—” and Yedam moves toward you, “Move.”

You do, slowly. And you're burning so much, he feels like he can feel the flames touching his skin, a butterfly-touch, too soft— “Which one? I'll grab it for you.”

“Th– there's no need! You can't look!” And Yedam looks up toward the shelf where you were reaching— and he immediately wishes he hadn't tried to help you—

About romance, about love, about liking, about having crushes— he turns red. And your hands cover your face. Your blush is, infectious. Is all he thinks. And he's embarassed too.

He reaches up anyways. And he spreads his fingers out. Missing the book your reaching for too. Fingers grazing against it— he can't reach either— and when he does reach it, it's crammed too tightly between the other books. He gives up.

It's embarassing for the both of you — you both leave the library, and find yourselves at the intersection outside of the look. Waiting for the light to change color.

He can feel your gaze, sometimes it burns, and other times it's too light to even feel— you look like you want to say something.

You do. “Um... — S–so... Yedam!” And he looks at you. You're set ablaze, and you're staring at him. Bright. Radiate. The universe. Silence surrounds you, and the street noise is faded. “... (name)?”

You jump. Burning even more. “Ah! I— I'm sorry!” The light changes color. And Yedam is desperate to leave, to never try be around you again— he apologizes. “... No, I'm sorry about earlier, I went a little overboard.”

Your hands clasp together, close to your chest. “That's completely!—” And Yedam is staring at the light, wishing he could leave— your eyes shut tight, and you burn bright— Yedam begins to speak again, because the light is going to change soon, and he really wants to get to the other side of the street already, he's embarassed enough— “Well, I won't tell anyone so it's fine,” His hand gestures to the other side of the street, and you're burning up even more, “I've been out for a while, so I should probably head back now. Ah, well, I'll be–” then the light switches and his insides are screaming.

You don't mind though, and he thinks, of course you wouldn't— you fumble with your words, “Um... Yedam... I...— Well, I...”

“I have something I want to talk about with you!” Your eyes are closed tight when he looks to you, you burn beneath his stare— it must hurt— you've just shouted at him, and he thinks about how infectious your blush is— “Talk about? With me?” He questions. You open your eyes, and you nod a bit— “W-what...?”

“D... Doyoung... He...” Yedam stares. Waits for you. You inhale, before exhaling, the tension in your body leaving, but not entirely. “What kind of person is he?” Your hands come to your face, touching your cheeks— The universe, radiate, bright. “Doyoung?” He echoes, wondering why him, why why why— “Y-you and Doyoung are good friends so...” You reason softly, shyly, words almost tender— Yedam scratches his head, “but that's not really the case...” Because it isn't, they aren't good friends, they aren't close— “The discussion... It's about Doyoung? What kind of person is he?” It dawns on him. Softly, brightly— the library, the books, everything else.

“(name), could it be...” it's not far-fetched, why wouldn't you? his hand drops, and the world is still, “you like Doyoung?”

“E... Eh... Eh?!” You set ablaze. “Wh-why? Why? Wh–” You're burning, and Yedam just knows. You're so easy to read. “Well... no reason?” He says, and thinks, (name) and Doyoung, they won't get on well. It doesn't look like they have anything in common... But thinks about Doyoung, and remembers how well he gets along with everyone— This is about Doyoung. About you. About romance— crushes, love. “If it's that kind of conversation then I'm useless!” The light switches again, and he's moving to the train station, “When it comes to love advice I've got nothing!” Yedam says, chest tightening. “And I'm not that good of friends with Doyoung anymore...” You follow after him. Steps slower, softer, “That's... But you guys chat so easily!” Your hands are clasped tightly in fists, and Yedam— he keeps talking anyways. “We don't chat that much!” He argues back. Thinks different classes, we're on completely different fields— “Now, We're completely... – It's just that I've known Doyoung since primary school.” Different classes, different fields, different— “Our friend groups are different. He's in the baseball club, and I'm in the ‘go home’ club,” different classes, different fields, different— “Since we entered high school, we've been in completely different classes too. So–” Different classes, different fields, completely different— “We've been with him since primary school?” You question, making him stop. “Eh. Well–” He begins, before you cut him off.

“What was he like in primary school?” your eyes brighten, the universe— it does something to him, his chest tightens, a pressure growing in in his chest— sweat forms on his skin. Doyoung? What was he like? — “Doyoung hasn't changed at all. Same as now, he was everyone's favorite.” Is? Was? He doesn't know—

He thinks, about primary school, about Doyoung— “Whenever he started something new... It would become a fad for the entire class,” Classes, fields— Doyoung is in a class, in a different field— he thinks of primary school, thinks of Doyoung, and then thinks of battle pencils. “Ah, battle pencils.”

It's nostalgic thinking about it, reminds him of being a kid. When he was free and at ease to be one— you repeat after him, eyes brightened, searching, curious— “Pencils?” It makes him smile.

“You roll the pencil then battle with the side you rolled.” Yedam gestures, mimics a pencil rolling— it's weird, seeing him do it without a pencil, but it's enough, enough for you— “Back then, they were super popular! Doyoung started that one too.”

Thinking back, it's the most friends he's had— for a moment, it makes him happy, to have had more friends, to have been enough— he turns to you, and you stare at him. Pink embedded in your cheeks, like that's where it's supposed to bloom, and he thinks, what the hell am I talking about.

He doesn't realize the train is pulling in, and he's still. Standing there, with you— Yedam panics, “The train is already here,” He turns red. Face heating up. Setting ablaze. “W-well, if that's the case,” You let out a small noise, confused, curious— “Eh?” and Yedam says, “Bye.” Before he's running off.

You watch after him, and on the inside, Yedam is feeling so, embarassed.

—

“Are these okay?” You're holding your hands together, staring down at the battle pencils you set on his desk. Yedam stares, “How did you get these?” And you mumble, stutter over your words. “T– they're my brother's, but will they be okay?” And Yedam doesn't understand why you're asking him. Doesn't know— “Why?” He asks, he knows he's mentioned it— of course he does— what will they be okay for? Why?— Why ask him?— “What's that, Yedam?”

Doyoung is there. Reaching, and touching the pencils on his desk. Holding one in between his fingers, says, these are nostalgic, and you turn. Just a bit, and stare. You set ablaze, and Yedam swears he feels your cells burning.

“Where's this from, Yedam? Is it yours?” He's staring at you— Yedam is staring at you, and you do look like a hamster— one that's in trouble, and one that's shocked, it can't move— “Nah...” Yedam tells him, and burns too when he realizes how much you like Doyoung— burning so bright, and so hot— bright, radiate, the universe— “Huh? so it's (name)'s, then?” And you burn even more when Doyoung shifts his attention to you, you shake your head, body vibrating, trembling almost. “Huh? It's not?” Doyoung questions, uneased— “Apparently, they're her brother’s,” Yedam says, his face dropping. You lied, and he's not finding it amusing, it's getting annoying— “Ah,” Doyoung replies.

Your brows furrow, and you make a face at Yedam— fists coming up, and you turn to Doyoung, your mouth opens, and Yedam is thinking, you're about to talk— “Doyoung!” You say the same time Doyoung speaks, “By the way, Yedam!” His voice louder, clearer— Yedam burns a little, “Do you still have them?” Doyoung asks, and Yedam is confused a bit— because what? “The ones you were making!”

Doyoung holds up a battle pencil. Smiles, bright— “Custom battle pencils!” He says, and his smile is so bright, Yedam's chest begins to get heavy, “I used to really love those!”

“Custom?” Quiet, softly, you echo to Doyoung— and he's quick to look at you, leaning in, “Yeah! Yedam was super good!”

Yedam begins to burn, everything— from the back of his neck to the whole of his face— “That's a nice story but! Aren't these ones better, they look hard to make.” And Doyoung is getting the chair from your desk, and saying, “Let's do it, let's do it!”

Doyoung looks to you, “come on, (name) too!”

You burn, setting every cell in your aflame. “Eh?” And your face is red, so very red, “But...” Yedam is staring, “The rules...” Doyoung is sitting, staring so brightly at you, “You don't know them? That's fine, I'll teach you!”

You stare back, burning— bright, radiate, the universe— Doyoung smiles, eyes closing, curling, “Yeah?” And Yedam is thinking, good grief...

You three okay with the battle pencils, and without even knowing, Yedam ends up helping you with Doyoung, and that's fine.

After, when class begins. When he's sitting, staring ahead, thinking— you place a folded piece of paper on his desk and he looks to you, and unfolds it. The paper scratches against his skin when he opens it, his heart beats in his chest— and he just, doesn't know. Thank you for earlier.

Yedam looks at you, and your face is burning— you're already staring at him, and the book you have in your hands move a bit, away from your mouth, uncovering it. You smile, bright, radiate, the universe— your eyes are closed, and your face is pink, blooming— he burns too.

Doyoung watches, pencil pressing against his bottom lip.

—

At lunch, a day later, Doyoung's friends, the voices call for him— and he goes. You watch after him. Holding your pencil case full of battle pencils, just watching Doyoung— Yedam watches you.

He stands, “Ah! Yedam...” You say, so softly. Burning. “Today, do you...” He knows, yet he doesn't— “Nah,” he says, you flinch, eyes widening. “With just two people, it's...” You deflate, even more when Yedam says that. “... You're right.” A moment of silence, awkward, and too long— Yedam scratches his cheek. “You want to do it with Doyoung, anyway, right?” And you flinch again, burning, setting ablaze. “Then invite him, not me.”

Yedam stares at you, thinking, it's not like you'll do it— you look up at him, determined, “Ok!” And Yedam turns white, paling— you're going? You stand, and then you sit back down. “What should I say...” You're thinking aloud. And you look to him, “If it was you, what would you say?” And Yedam— he doesn't know, why are you asking him— “Eh?! Me?” Why am I apart of this— Yedam thinks aloud, “What would I... Would... Normally, I'd say yo.” There's a cold sweat forming. And his voice gets louder, “I have absolutely no idea!” He's annoyed, with himself, with—

“O... O- of course... I'm sorry...” A breath, soft. It's timid, and enough— Yedam stills. His annoyance halting completely, “You don't need to apologize...”

He stares at you, watching, lingering— your hair is different, tied into braids— puffy, and messy, and so, you— you touch the ends, and Yedam thinks, P.E. is today?

“Do we have P.E. today?” His head is tilting, staring at you— you straighten up, “Eh? I don't... Think so.” And you wonder too. He speaks again, gesturing to his hair, “It's just, tat you've tied your hair all up, and I thought you only tie your hair up when we have P.E...” He doesn't know how he knows— maybe because he's always shared classes with you— maybe because he—

You burn. Like always. “W- well. There's no special reason for it today.” And Yedam hums. And you touch the ends again, wondering. “I wonder... What hairstyles do boys like.” You brightened, burn a bit more. “Doyoung's prefered style... And stuff.”

“I don't really know Doyoung's preferences, but I don't think preferences mean anything really.”

You make a noise, and Yedam continues. “Honestly, when it comes to hair and stuff, guys don't notice small changes.” And he thinks, and yet he doesn't— “Obviously, if you go and cut it all off. You'd make an impression.” His hand gestures again, shorter this time. And you stare. A boy comes in, “Yedam,” and he turns, “Huh, Asahi?”

Asahi asks, “Can I borrow your dictionary?” and he sees you, “Are you in the middle of something?” Not anymore— Yedam says, “Nah...” Looks to you, before stepping away, “It's fine.”

He takes a glance back. Lingering, let's himself look— he's not thinking, when is he ever though?

—

He knows it'd happen, he should have known— but when he walks into class, he's surprised— “... (name)?” It's short, really short— touching your cheeks, it— it suits you. “That...” But he isn't thinking, not at all. “...Head...” And you smile, hand coming up, touching the ends of your hair, you smile again, just like before, when you handed him that note— thank you for earlier— and you ask, “How... Is it?” And Yedam is frozen.

Until Doyoung tells him good morning, his attention shifting to you— “Woah, what happened?!” It sets you ablaze, and Doyoung's tone is, nice, nicer than Yedam's. Doyoung sounds, impressed. “Amazing! You went and cut it all in one go!” And you don't burn, but Doyoung's eyes sparkle— they brighten, like how yours do when you see him— Yedam begins, says Doyoung's name because it might hurt you— “It looks good. It suits you.”

You burn this time. There's hesitation in your voice, a shake— so soft, slow— “I... I-i, it's not weir–” Your shoulders almost touch your chin, they're so bunched up— Doyoung cuts you off, “Looks good. It's great!” And he looks at Yedam, stares right at him, “Right, Yedam?” Smiles, so bright it hurts. Makes Yedam's chest feel heavy— Yedam looks at look, you're red and burning and bright and radiate and the universe—

A voice takes Doyoung away. And It's just you and Yedam, and Yedam moves. Scratches his head, and tries to sit down— setting his schoolbag down, not turning toward you, you whisper a thank you Yedam!, and he wonders— “What for?” And you repeat after him, slower— like— like him...

“My hair. You told me, I should cut it short. Thanks to you, he complimented me!” He hates it, he hates this— there's a heaviness on his shoulders, like responsibility—yet, why would you go so far? why? why—yet... “Thanks to me...? When did I say you should cut it short?” It's terrifying— feeling this much responsibility— it's your hair— you make a noise, confused, you're still smiling, bright, radiate, the universe— “Eh...? Yesterday, you said—”

And he doesn't mean it— maybe he does, maybe in the moment he means it, he doesn't know— when does he know?— He shouts. At you, at himself at everyone— because he wasn't thinking, when does he ever think?— “I didn't say... Anything like that!”

The world stills. And Everything is quiet except for his heart racing rapidly in his chest— he wasn't thinking— and he's running, only after seeing everyone, after seeing Doyoung staring at him— you chase after him. Asking him what's wrong, that you're sorry, that you didn't mean to hurt his feelings— he turns abruptly once you're outside, near a stone wall, lower enough to sit, shouting again, because that heaviness, it won't leave— “I didn't say like “you should cut it short” did I?” He heaves, “I take no responsibility!” and you echo the last word. You panic, arms coming to your head, “It... It's really that strange? It's weird?!”

“No! That's not it at all! It suits you!” His hands come to his head, he feels— he doesn't know— he wonders why him, why you would go so far, for someone like, someone like Doyoung. And you, you're so— “So far...? He complimented me, didn't he?” You're so you, you're so slow, and always looking down, and— you ask Yedam it so easily.

“He complimented you...”" Yedam repeats, echoes it so indifferently. “He complimented you, but.” He's no longer holding his head, his hands coming together. “(name), what do you want to do with your love for Doyoung,” you make a noise, and he continues, “You want to confess? Do you want to go out?” And you're burning, making noises, “Um...” And he shouldn't mean it, but he does. “You've got no chance!” And the world is still again. He apologizes, “Sorry, I... I knew Doyoung's preference... I mean, the person Doyoung likes is... Slim, tall, and older than him. Has a mature girl vibe. She's sporty and straight to the point. As well as very colorful, and says things clearly.” A heartbeat later, “And also... Has long straight, brown hair.” His chest is tightening, you're you— bright, radiate, the universe— he continues speaking, “You're saying that his characteristics are just your type, right? He might be the perfect fit for you, but maybe you're not the perfect fit for him.” You hand touches your mouth, your heart hurts— “In Doyoung's case...” Yedam stops.

“I see... So the complete opposite of me, isn't it?” And you ask him, “Is Doyoung dating that person right now?” And Yedam looks to you, “No, It's his unrequited love.”

You smile, glancing at the ground. Yedam stares. “Well then. I really am thankful. You thought I had no chance, didn't you?” your hands move, fingers spreading. “But... You told me that straight from the beginning, so...” You smile, eyes closed. Your fists tighten, “I'll do my best!”

“Eh?!” Yedam feels, surprised, and— “If Doyoung isn't dating anyone right now, I still have a change, right? Even though you said I'm not his type, even if just a little he mag start to like me... Just a little.” And your voice is beginning to trembling, beginning to shake— “Even just a little.” Your eyes are glossy, and you're smiling— your face does something weird, and you're crying, and Yedam panics. “Are you okay?!” And your voice is trembling, “I'm fine! It's nothing! It will stop soon!” And your face is still weird, eyes wet and face squished together, red and blotchy— “But your face is...” Yedam is— he doesn't know. And a slow realization grows, he asks, “are you crying... Because of that?” Because maybe he'll like you, even just a little? Because, maybe he won't?

“I'm not crying!” You say, and your face twists, relaxes. Then you say, “Because I decided to change. I'll give up. I can't do it. I thought before doing this, I had no chance. But if I didn't do it, I would regret it... I won't like myself if I stay like this.” Yedam feels relieved, even though he had no reason to. Thinks, you won't have any regrets if you understand yourself and know your place. More than that, this— you won't have any reason to dislike yourself.

You're crying. And Yedam is awkward, heart beating heavy in his chest. “So... Are you going to stop crying?” Your hands cover your face, you burn, set ablaze— he's unaware of the cells beginning to burn in him— “don't look!” you say.

He remembers something, “You know, if you don't want to cry... Opening your mouth a little helps,” He opens his mouth a bit, staring intently at you, and your uncovering your face, “like this,” he says. His mouth open, “when you open your mouth, you can't focus on other things,” his mouth closes, and he stares, at the glossiness of your eyes, the sheen of glass, the tears threatening to fall, and the pink blooming in your cheeks— “so you won't cry.” Yedam opens his mouth, head tilting back. And you copy, slowly. Staring at one another until your tears at gone, and you both laugh— at free, and at ease.

“Yedam... I'm starting to like this hairstyle.”

—

Doyoung finds Yedam, Doyoung calls out Yedam's name, and he walks near, closer— “What was up earlier? You don't normally raise your voice like that,” Yedam stands, and so do you, “Ah.” Doyoung says. And he leans toward Yedam, quietly asking, “Did I get in the way here?” and Yedam asks, “Of what?”

“Huh? What was wrong earlier?” And Yedam stiffens, flinches, “Nothing really...” And you and Yedam both say, “It was my fault,” at the same time, it's enduring. You both argue, back and forth— “Huh? You're wrong, I said it's my fault,” Yedam begins, and you mumble, “Eh? That's not right, it's my fault!” “I told you, you're wrong, it's my fault!” “Why? I selfishly–” “Wrong.” “Why, I–” — Doyoung laughs, smiles. His hands raise, and they touch your heads, ruffling hair.

Life is a series of choices. In your first year of high school, you three, — maybe everyone, was living in ambivalence, choosing careers, taking exams, the future is spread out before you. It was going to be hectic, at this stage... The three of you landed in the same class. Best friends... Lovers... At this time, Yedam doesn't know how it ends.

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s-n-a-k-e-p-i-t · 4 years ago

Text

simple questions / draco x hermione

A/N: coming @ you with some more dramione things that just live in my head rent free until they get moved to tumblr rent free

Warnings: mention of alcohol

Premise: After getting his task from Voldemort, Draco is coming to terms with the fact that once he kills Dumbledore, his life will no longer be his own. Overwhelmed with feelings he decides to do one last thing for himself.

Word count: 2k ish

- - - - - -

It was ridiculous, really, for him to be be so concerned with trivial things, the Christmas ball no doubt. But, he supposed it was a part of his acceptance. Acceptance that after this year his life would never be the same. That from that point forward he would either live forever in fear or be forever feared by others, and if he was being perfectly honest with himself, neither of those lifestyles appealed to him much at all.

He had never really wanted people to fear him, it was just easier that way. Love was complicated, but fear, oh fear was very simple and it had served him for the time being. But the fear he was used to had always been instigated by a couple of harsh words he didn’t really mean or maybe a scowl, and the new fear he would come to be controlled by would follow murder...

He’d have to take life from another human being... when he’d never even squished a bug.

And so he sat, alone in the Slytherin common room while everyone else was at dinner, thinking about all the things he could do while his life was still his, before he’d have to murder dear ol’ Dumbledore, and his path would change forever.

He scoffed. Tad dramatic.

He knew he’d still have his friends after carrying out his task. After all, most of their parents were Death Eaters. One life taken by him was nothing compared to what their parents had all done. They'd be hesitant at first, but eventually would come around, especially once they took their Marks.

A face flashed behind his eyelids and he pinched the bridge of his nose. A sinking feeling filled his stomach and he took a deep breath. That face would surely never come around, not that she thought much of him to begin with. No, he’d definitely never come back from this one with her. These last few months were all he had left with her, better make the most of it.

She had always intrigued him and he had found it hard to ignore her. She was smart, sharp, and she challenged him in ways no one else really had the guts for. They were similar in many ways and he had come to find that he actually really enjoyed being around her. And though she had what his father had always referred to as, “dirty blood” he had found himself caring less and less about it over the past six years of knowing her. He’d even stopped using that awful word their second year after seeing how upset it had made her. He had always wondered that if things were different, if they would’ve stood a chance. And now, with this given assignment, he was sure they never would.

His stare bored into the fire as the gears in his mind continued to turn. The reflection of the flames danced on his face and he pressed his knuckles against his lips. He took a deep breath in and a deep breath out and made a decision. “Now or never,” he breathed. And with that he stood up rather quickly, and slipped into the corridor to make his way to the Great Hall.

- - - - - - -

Hermione had just said goodnight to Harry and Ron, who were turning in early in preparation for tomorrow’s quidditch match. Tired, but not quite ready for bed, she had decided to hang back at dinner. Ginny and Neville were carrying on a friendly, but heated debate, but even they eventually wore each other out and retired for the evening. Hermione stood to leave with them, but as they exited the Great Hall, she stopped and turned to the courtyard. It was a clear night and she enjoyed catching constellations when she got a chance.

Draco rounded the corner, managing to keep his pace calm and his appearance normal despite the fact his nerves were eating him alive. As he made his way towards the Great Hall, assuming she’d still be at the table talking with her glued-at-the-hip companions, a slight movement caught his eye. There she was, looking up at the night sky and completely oblivious to him approaching. He swallowed hard, his nerves threatening to suffocate him.

“Granger,” he whispered. No response. She was completely mesmerized. He inched closer, as quiet as possible as to not scare her.

“Granger!”

She yelped, clearly startled and he instantly felt a twinge of guilt for freaking her out that badly. When she regained her composure, she raised a skeptical eyebrow to him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” She asked, her voice almost tired of having to ask that question.

He licked his lips. His adrenaline had gotten him to her, but he still hadn’t quite planned out what exactly he was going to say. He opened and closed his mouth. He suddenly felt extremely foolish for thinking she would actually say yes to him.

“Right,” she sighed, “Well, when you think of whatever insult you want to throw my way, you know where to find me.”

She took a step, in an attempt to walk around him, but he moved to his right, blocking her path. He looked down into her eyes, feeling her breath hit his face. They were closer than they’d ever been and she was not having it.

“Malfoy, seriously,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Granger, please, just-” he stammered.

She took a step back and he immediately felt the absence of her presence. She crossed her arms across her chest, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I know I haven’t been the nicest guy in the world-”

Hermione laughed. Out loud. In fact, it echoed off the stone surrounding them. The sound completely engulfed him. He closed his eyes and waited for her to be done. He deserved it and he knew it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but are you trying to apologize to me? Has Hell frozen over? Are you ill?”

His hands balled to fists. “If you’d let me finish, you’d know what I was trying to say,” he clipped back.

The amusement in her eyes returned, “Right of course, carry on.” She was mocking him.

“Granger. I know this sounds ridiculous, believe me, I'm surprised too..” he took a step towards her. “..but, the truth is, you have always interested me.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. That was not what she had been expecting to hear.

“You challenge me in skill, you actually stand up to me when I’m, well, myself and well you’re, um,” he struggled to find the words, ”actually not too hard on the eyes either.”

Neither was he. She banished the thought almost immediately.

“Gee, thanks, Malfoy. Can I go to bed now?”

He rolled his eyes. “Granger, please just listen to me.”

“Let me think about it,” she said, tapping her chin three times before replying with a short, “No.” And then she went to step around him again and he went to block her again, grabbing her wrist. Her eyes met his, they held the gaze, neither one of them daring to back down. When he blinked, she use the excuse to sweep her eyes over his face, noticing how his jawbone stood out more than usual and his eyes seemed to ache for the comfort of sleep. He slowly let go of his hold on her. Maybe he was falling ill.

“Granger. Look everything is going to hell, I’m just hoping for a glimpse of heaven, before you-you,” his voice faltered, “Before you hate me forever.”

She laughed under her breathe and muttered, “Little late for that.” And then louder, “Now if you’ll excuse me, as much as I’d like to pretend you haven’t chugged a flask of fire whiskey and there’s actually a point to this conversation, I’m going to bed.”

She saw the hurt flash in his eyes and decided to use that to her advantage. This time when she stepped around him, he didn’t block her. He was grasping at straws. Admitting feelings? Not something his father had prepared him for. Asking a long time enemy to a ball? Not covered in Bellatrix’s teachings.

“Look, Gra- Hermione please just hear me out,” he tried one more time.

She heard her first name and turned swiftly around. Curiosity danced in her eyes as she took in the sight of him. Vulnerable, pleading, honest...? She almost didn’t recognize the boy in front of her, almost. Luckily, over the past few years, she had seen this version of him a handful of times. Times when his mask slipped and she saw who the real Draco Malfoy was. Not the hard outer shell reinforced by Lucius time and time again, but someone who overcame a great deal of expectations and was tired of playing the part. She would never admit it out loud, but had he been like that all the time, she believed they could’ve been, at the very least, friendly. Her curiosity had the best of her. “What?”

He closed his eyes, another deep breath. She watched him carefully, her walls coming down, but still guarded. His eyes betrayed his normally calm demeanor. She stood, anxious in anticipation.

“Will you go to the Christmas ball with me?” He hadn’t meant to say the words so fast, but his nerves had gotten the best of him. He felt his cheeks immediately heat up, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

The words hung in the air between them. She certainly hadn’t expected him to say that. Hermione didn’t even realize her mouth had fallen open, shock written all over her face. She shook her head, as if to gather her thoughts and then took a step towards him.

The silence was painful for Draco. His eyes remained glued to her every move as she scanned the courtyard.

“Please?” He added with a shrug, his voice small, sounding very not like himself at all.

Her face changed suddenly, and she spoke. “Look Malfoy, I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, but I refuse to be the punchline.”

His face twisted into confusion, hurt littering his features, “No, that’s not what-”

“Ha ha! So funny! Go ahead run back to report to your little friends and collect your winnings.” She fought hard to keep her voice steady, but her emotions were threatening to break out. She was embarrassed not just from what he had asked her, but for what admiring him just moments before. She threw her walls back up.

“Granger, please, I just, let me prove it to you, just listen-”

“No, you listen. If this is seriously your idea of entertainment, count me out. I’ve heard enough from you and I will not continue to put up with this garbage. I refuse to play along with this stupid little act. Now if you don’t mind, I really will be going now.”

She stalked away and he let her go, watching her disappear into the darkness of the castle.

When he was finally alone, he let out a big sigh. Perhaps he deserved this, no scratch that, he knew he did. He felt incredibly stupid thinking she would ever even entertain the idea of agreeing to go with him. He hadn’t even stopped to think about how she would take it. And now she had seen him like this. He’d really dug quite the hole for himself.

The bells rang out on the hour and he headed back in. As he made his way towards the edge of the courtyard, he noticed a rose bush. The flowers seemed to have a soft glow under the moon and starlight. He cut a few off of the bush with his wand and stuffed them in his robes before retiring into the castle for the night.

- - - - - - -

She laid in bed that night, tossing and turning. Sleep would not come easily. Had that really happened? Had Draco Malfoy asked her to an event? As his date? She thought of his face, giving way to his real personality. Who he was without his gang of friends, without his father, without his tyrannical leader. She had always thought he had a nice face. And though she could go without the douche personality, she did enjoy his mind as well, how he too seemed to know all the answers and how, without fail, he always managed to be the one to finish her sentences in classes. She remembered glances they’d shared, off character things he had said, and a smile she’d managed to catch a few times over the past few years.

She thought about it all night.

- - - -

The light peaked through her window, slowly stirring her from her deep, dreamless sleep. No one else in the room had woken up yet and so she decided to head out early and get a jump start on some reading. She threw on her uniform and quietly made her way down into the common room.

As she sat on the couch, a new object at one of the tables caught her attention. Timidly, she tiptoed over to the table to find a single rose laying on the warm wooden surface. A small piece of parchment was attached. She picked it up, inspecting it closely, blinking several times to ensure she was in fact, not dreaming.

Just let me prove it to you.

-DM

She put the rose into her bag, careful not to scrunch it up and sighed before exiting the common room in pursuit of the library.

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blubberquark · 4 years ago

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Belated Protector Postmortem

I made the game Protector for the 46th Ludum Dare game jam. I did not make a tumblr post about it during the jam. Don’t think Protector is my best jam game, but what can you expect from a jam game? Hardly a glowing endorsement, I know. Download it from itch.io at this link, or don’t.

With some distance, I think it’s interesting to tell you why I don‘t think Protector is that good... or maybe “good” is not the right word. Some friends and other Ludum Dare entrants had encouraged me (privately) to keep working on it after the jam and fix the bugs. In my opinion, Protector is fine the way it is (for a jam game anyway), but any more work on it will be a waste of time. There will be no post-compo releases of Protector.

If you are just getting started making games, Protector could be a good example of when to stop working on a prototype. But first, let’s do the usual “game jam postmortem“ song and dance.

Game Description

In this moody puzzle-ish platformer, you control an invincible character tasked with guiding a small (and very vincible) dog through the level. You cannot control the dog.

Instead you can pick up and throw a bone, but you can’t carry the bone. When you press the bone throwing button a second time, the dog will chase after the bone.

One the dog is running, you cannot stop it. You also cannot call the dog to return to you. You have to clear the path for the dog before you let it loose.

What Went Right

Scope: I scoped Protector aggressively minimal. I remember feeling a bit under the weather on the first day of the jam, so I decided to take it easy and submit something small. I was okay with submitting a small game in the jam category. I just had this idea I wanted to try out.

There is only one level, and it’s not all that big. I submitted on the morning of the third day, with everything I wanted in the game, without losing any sleep, and with some time to spare.

Theme: The idea was my own take on that last level in Bastion, when the kid carries the battering ram, but as an escort mission. The main character was supposed to be some kind of brute or barbarian loosely inspired by the barbarian class in Diablo II. Obviously you keep a dog alive, because that’s the theme of the jam.

Character Designs: I think nailed it with the brute and dog sprites. The brute is big and faceless, and the dog is small and cute. The proportions of the brute convey that he is strong and slow, and his shield (but no sword) should clue you in about his purpose.

Simple Dog Behaviour: The dog runs and bounces around pretty quickly. Once the dog is running, all bets are off, because you are too slow to catch up. You have to set everything up so the dog won’t kill himself, because he’s not a cat with nine lives. He is a dumb dog.

Any kind of AI or pathfinding would have made the dog less predictable, and the main objective of the game is to keep it alive (that was the theme of the jam), so simple, fast, predictable movement was key. The player has to be able to predict the dog’s path before it starts running.

Level Design: The level is not that big. There is a variety of obstacles and set pieces, and these are all easy for the player character to navigate, but potentially lethal to the dog. In addition to multiple platforming challenges, there are two unique “set pieces” that break up the monotony.

There are five different ways for the dog to die, and the level is constructed to make the player experience each of them once. Some are obvious, like the lightning cloud and the tower that shoots arrows, but the level is designed so that every player dies at least once. After mastering an obstacle once, it should pose no challenge on repeat playthroughs.

What Went Wrong

Controls: The controls are very simple, based on only the four arrow keys, X and C. These can be mapped to the left stick and first two buttons of a gamepad. In walk mode, the two buttons jump and call the dog, and the “up” direction is used to raise the shield.

In throw mode, with the left/right axis controls the throwing angle, and the up/down angle controls the velocity. This control scheme feels too cumbersome. The X key is used for calling the dog and throwing the bone, based on context. This also feels cumbersome, but it makes it less likely for players to accidentally throw or call the dog when they want to jump. I still had to resort to putting the controls on the screen at all times.

For gamepad controls it would have made more sense to use the direction of the left stick for the throwing angle and velocity. For keyboard+mouse controls I could have implemented a mouse-based throwing system like in Gunpoint or a parabola indicator that shows where the bone will land. I could also have gone the other way with a Worms style throwing system in which the throwing velocity is proportional to the time the button was held. As is, the throwing uses the same buttons as platforming, but it doesn’t feel good.

Bone Physics: The bone physics was kind of bouncy and floaty. I implemented my own physics because the bone was the only object in the whole game that needs halfway realistic bouncy collisions. The player and the dog use platformer physics, so there was no need for a physics engine like Box2D, libODE, or pymunk. The bone is modelled like a simple spinning ball. I could have made the bone less bouncy to give the player more control, maybe even cheated by making it less bouncy only in the x-direction. I could also have gone in the other direction and modelled the bone as a rectangle or two balls connected by a line.

Dog Platforming: The dog sometimes gets stuck in a wall or on a ledge. This is bad. I could fix this by making the dog fall down or turn around when this happens, but that would make the problem worse. I’d rather have the dog (or the bone) stuck in a weird position until the player gets it out than having it sit inside a pit in an unwinnable position with believable physics.

The way bone physics and platforming work is very janky, but that is because the obvious fix would have unacceptable gameplay consequences.

Main Gameplay Loop: It goes like this: throw bone - move into position - let dog loose - wait for dog - retrieve bone - throw bone - move into position, and so on. There is no way to call the dog back because that would make certain puzzles too easy, no way to set multiple way points for the dog, no way to ask the dog to fetch the bone back to you, and no way to carry the bone - otherwise you could just walk over and drop the bone there.

The gameplay loop as it stands just doesn’t allow that many puzzles, and changes to the gameplay would make the current puzzles too easy. Adding more content is more or less incompatible with the current gameplay, and changes to the gameplay loop would break the existing balance.

Allowing the player to carry the bone, to use different tools than the shield, to call the dog back would destroy the game design.

What I Learned

Escort missions suck. I already knew that hidden complex systems are not fun, but even indirect interaction based on simple systems is hard to get right. Beyond that, I did not try anything new and outlandish. I just had the idea about the big protector and the little dog.

The most surprising thing was how poorly Protector was rated in the “Mood” category given the relatively high theme score. Having no sound really did me no favours, and neither did the GameBoy screen resolution or the 5-colour palette.

But importantly, despite all the gameplay shortcomings, this still works as a short game. If the game is short enough, it can be carried by novelty, and players will forgive janky controls, even if the controls are part of the game’s main difficulty. I relied on this insight in other jam games, but it does not translate to long-form games.

This is a bit meta, but it is important to understand when a game design does not work. To some degree I think game jams even encourage a kind of toxic positivity towards young people learning to program. By all means, you should encourage people who want to try their hand at game design, and you should not go out of your way to disparage teenagers learning to code or programmers who make programmer art because the graphic design in their enterprise software day job is done in a different department. All too often, instead of “keep it up“, we tell people who are getting started to keep working on their jam games. If a game has load of bugs, on some level it would be nice to have them fixed, and these bugs are an obvious starting point for a post-jam version of the game - but when I see buggy games with experimental gameplay ideas, I don’t always encourage the devs to keep tweaking the mechanics until it works. Some experiments have negative results, and that’s okay.

Some jam entries are great games, successful experiments if you will, but they can’t easily be made into longer games. That’s also okay.

Can We Fix This?

“But hypothetically” you ask me, “how would you turn Protector into a longer game if I hired you to be a game designer?”

Okay. Hypothetically. In this hypothetical world, you pay by the hour, no unpaid overtime, and no bonus based on how well the game sells ;-)

We need a story that glues all the levels together, and the dog platforming would be at most a third of the game. Maybe in some levels you and the dog fight side by side, maybe you explore some of the levels with the dog on a leash, maybe you tie the leash to a post at the level entrance and come back when you have cleared everything.

I can’t stress enough how important it is to have through-line that connects different types of gameplay, different set pieces and minigames.

In order to make the platforming and puzzle solving more interesting, you would have a different load-out in different levels. Some platforms are dog-only, and you would throw the bone (or a tennis ball) up there because you can’t reach it yourself. You would need a way to recall the bone (or tennis ball) or a way to recall the dog, maybe a dog whistle. Maybe you just have a limited supply of dog treats per level. Earlier levels just have the bone, and shield, later ones introduce mobility items for the player character, tennis balls, a collar, a leash, dog treats, a dog whistle, and so on.

It would be a fun idea (or a gimmick) to have most of the upgrades be for the dog, but that’s not very fun to actually play.

Another possible problem is if the dog handling becomes an afterthought, or a drag in the player, going back to fetch the dog after the level has been cleared. Escort missions are not held in high regard among players, so this could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

With all these mobility items and larger levels, we would need an improved dog AI. We also could not have the dog fall into a pit of spikes, instead it should refuse to jump into unsafe distances, and somehow communicate to the player. We would also need a way to get the dog back down if it got up the wrong platform, and a way for the player to reset progress to the last check point or re-fill dog treats without creating an exploitable loophole where the player can just walk back and forth to the vending machine and win a level with infinite dog treats.

Oh no, the dog AI sounds complicated now. Complicated hidden systems are not fun, and training AI-powered animals is not that difficult code-wise, but it is difficult to pull off in a way that is fun and legible to the player. I still remember Black&White. Those animals were a gimmick. Somehow we need a way for the dog to communicate things to the player. Can the dog talk? Is there a bark code? Can the dog smell things?

One thing we absolutely must not do is vary the dog AI between levels. Players will have a really hard time as is, because the smarter the dog gets, the easier it becomes to accidentally mis-predict what it will do.

Think about all the parts of this rather comprehensive proposal: Complex AI, some kind of story, different controls, unlockable items, and level/puzzle design that integrates all of the above, all written from scratch or re-written for the bigger game. I’d rather spend the time on something else.

#game development #gamedev #aseprite #ludum dare #ldjam #postmortem #game jam #on the shortness of games

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runnerfiveready · 4 years ago

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Okay so uh...

let's do this.

I know I've kinda posted quite a bit already, but I really want to do a formal introduction to myself and my Five here, and what imma be up to. I kinda joined to post about my feelings about this good stuff, my fan art, memes, fangirling, all that good stuff. I finished 5k training and I'm just about to start Season 2 so I'm pretty new, but this fandom is literally my everything and ugh I love it so much already. Everyone is so welcoming in this fandom and I have literally seen no hate in here at all, which makes this space feel even more safe and secure. I made this account to join in with y'all in sharing and "bonding" ( I guess??) over memes, fan art, fanfics, quotes, favourite episodes and so much other good stuff. I really love looking through everyone's different posts, and seeing how cool and unique everyone's Five is! I hope y'all come with me while I make my way through this good shit,, and even if not, I'm gonna post on here anyway and continue to follow everyone else's stuff, cause its all amazing! Anyway,, enough ranting from me!

Here's a description of my Five! (shamelessly self inserting here, but also like a few changed aspects)

On the physical side of things, she's a 5"3, messy haired gal with freckles all over her nose. She's got scars and bruises from MULTIPLE occasions, some from mission runs, others from accidents she'd rather not admit to. Five's small (ish) but strong, with pretty decent sized muscles >:)

She's a clumsy, chaotic dumbass who has has a tendency to make jokes at the wrong moments (dark jokes are her specialty). She's very messy, always loses stuff and forgets things, and is constantly getting bugged by Janine to clean up her dorm area whilst Sam gets the blame for "being a bad influence" on her. She can be fierce but is extremely loyal, and would literally d i e for her friends.

She's sweet on Sam, but would never admit it, despite everyone's growing frustrations as they can all DEFINTLEY. TELL.

Loves the rain, storms, all of it. Often at night time she'll run around Abel, eventually climbing onto the roof of the biggest building and just tipping her head to the sky. She'll sit there for hours on her own. It helps her deal with stuff, and she likes the feeling of being so high.

Five is really helpful and is always known around Abel to be around if anyone needs anything, whether it's help with a chore, a problem, advice, anything! Overtime, it does tend to affect her longterm, although she doesn't like admitting it. Five never puts her mental health first and is constantly having to be reminded to take care of herself, despite her trying her hardest to push it aside to make sure she can help others first. She can get pretty sarcastic, but is a lot of fun and is always up for anything! She usually copes with her trauma or problems using humour, despite the growing concern about it from her friends.

-WILL COMMIT CRIME WHENEVER NECESSARY-

Before the apocalypse, Five had a thing where she never really let people touch her, even just hugging. She didn't know why she did it, but it made her feel really wrong, which caused a lot of issues and isolation from everyone else, especially with family. But after moving to Abel and getting close and comfy with her new family, she finally found that she was really okay being around people again. Play fighting, piggybacks, general touching, hugging, you name it! For the most part, she was good with it again. In fact, the more compressing the hug, the better. (This only goes for her closer friends. She's still not completely used to physical contact, and will often cringe away from people if they try anything) Five doesn't like to admit it, but she sleeps with a "cuddle companion" every night, which she will literally squeeze very tightly to simulate safety in her own bubble 😅 (wow I'm really outing myself rn huh)

THIS BABY CAN FIT SO. MUCH. TRAUMA.

So yeah! Jokes aside, that's my Five so far. As soon as I post this, I'm probably going to realise I forgot something and I'll quickly edit it in later...

But uh, I really appreciate this fandom, and I'm super excited to see where this goes. I'm loving how no one makes fun of anyone for self inserting, their ships or opinions on the app and the missions, because I've always felt so weird about doing it in things I love, but this game is literally MADE around the player, which gives for really good and unique content (sorry I'm mentioning this a lot) I live for everyone's different art styles, memes, and just general support of each other. I really look forward to posting more on here and sharing my things, even though it's probably old news to a lot of you!

As I said before, I'm just starting out season 2, so I know I have a lot more to go to catch up to a lot of y'all, but from some spoilers I couldn't help but read I'm very pumped to keep going!

Before I end this massive introduction (whoops), I'd like to give a quick mention to some of the accounts that I've really enjoyed looking through and have inspired me with their art over here whilst I've first started, even thought they don't know me :) @abeltownshipslittlebitch @kaoticfive @runfive @incorrectzombiesrun @midwestern-runner-five @hippyexd @sams-fourth-runner-five @iamrunner5 @nokkiart

I hope people find this account and read through and think "huh, I'm in the same boat as this slightly concerning gal, and yet somehow this makes me feel a little less weird about being so attached to this fandom" (shush I know it's specific,, may or may not be from experience) or even "huh. FUNNY MEME"

Tehe.

So yeah! I hope to see some of you in the future!

Stay safe out there ;)

#zombies run #runner 5 #Five #sam yao #abel township #introduction #Hello yes hi there I'm new #fandom #zr fandom #Zombies run fandom #Account intro

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writingonjorvik · 4 years ago

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Can We Discuss the Crafting System?

First of all, I want to give a big shoutout to @sorceressferaly on this system. We talked about in back in February for our interview how she wanted to make this system happen and I am so happy that she got this opportunity and how it turned out. I promise this won’t all be gushing, but I am so happy to got to have this project.

Second, it’s release week for the Jorvik Divined deck. Go follow @jorvegiancollective everywhere. The deck reveal is today. Go check it out!

Ok, let’s another disclaimer out of the way. After about my first 5-ish hours of playing the update, my game bugged out and I haven’t really been able to collect more materials for two-ish days now. This seems to be happening a number of folks. I have at least been chatting with Leila on feedback and bugs already, and I’m sure the team is otherwise aware, so I imagine it will be fixed by next Wednesday once they pinpoint the issue. But this means my experience with the crafting system is only from about a day or so of playing and relying on my stash of materials to get me through until the nodes’ spawn rates are fixed.

That out of the way, let’s dive into the positive. I love the simplicity of this system. It’s easy to get into and I think the tutorialization of the system was handled really well. I personally think the level requirement is a little high (even if level 10 isn’t too hard to get to), I think it would have been better to have this first onboarding crafting system open at level 5 if you’re a Star Rider after you do Farah’s quest so new crafting recipes and methods can be unlocked as level rewards at better intervals, but overall I think it’s fine. I also think that there should be material nodes in Moorland. I imagine it’s to limit free players from clogging up their inventories with supplies, but there are already nodes in Fort Pinta, so that’ll happen anyway. I think the same should be true for higher level areas, as a reward for unlocking more places, having more nodes (where it fits) so higher level players can gather supplies more effectively.

I had three nitpicks about interface though. One, is that I think a grid crafting list more like the shops would be better for recipes, particularly for the “items” crafting where the list is pretty long (and easy to expand on). The font can be kind small and having pictures would help with folks with reading impairments. Two, there needs to be a crafting in bulk option, particularly for the “items” crafting. I know Leila mentioned looking at AC:NH for inspiration on crafting for this, and the biggest complaint on that system is no crafting in bulk. Particularly as I’m unlocking higher level recipes and the number of cloths I need is going up (RIP my flax supply), I see this being a huge quality of life ask, particularly when you have to use separate benches for different recipes. I don’t have an issue with having separate crafting benches (this actually sets up the system for other “disciplines” of crafting really well) but it should streamline the process between those benches as much as possible. Which leads to three, the cutscene should only play the initial time you craft an item and it shouldn’t kick you out of the work bench. These really go into the streamlining note of have to wait and then reopen the menu each time you want to craft something instead of simplifying the process for the player.

That said, I do think this is a really strong system. I played for about 5 hours straight until I got hit with the spawn bugs and didn’t get bored until the latter end of it (which was mostly just from “I’ve been trying to grind flax for the past 3 hours”). It was a pretty chill relaxing time and I see this as a great addition to training loops and stream activities. I have concerns on the longevity of it, particularly when we start looking at people and their frustrations with Soul Riding three months out, so I hope this system gets continued support with new recipes, particularly over these next couple of months to avoid burnout like with Soul Riding. It really needs continuous support to make sure it remains a staple in the gameplay loop until there’s a wide enough catalog and that having new recipes tied with map unlocks would be a big deal.

It also has me waiting for my current ticket to clear with SSO so I can submit my Pi upgrade idea and the Hidden Star wishing well idea because this system makes those seem a little more possible. There’s a catalog now of my posts if you want to read those.

But I think the thing I’m most excited about is how this system could expand and how it could provide really good level rewards in unlocking other crafting “disciplines” when unlocking new areas or levels. Think of unlocking tailoring from Daxton in Silverglade to get classic riding equipment or blacksmithing from Conrad to learn metalworking or cooking from Olivia in New Hill. All of these could have their own recipes and ingredients that would probably need an inventory overhaul to avoid item clog, but it would add so much to do in every part of the map. Not to mention a huge variety of options for recipes and dailies.

And I don’t think it just needs to be directly crafting that this system can support. One of the big changes this system did was adding items you can collect and keep even when you log off. We’ve seen that before with the original Kalter quests and with archeology, which says to me that those systems could be seeing updates. But also, it could mean expansions to dailies. I’ve suggested before expanding the Rescue Ranch with tonics and medicines. Now you can go out and actually make those. What about going and repairing trail markers for the Rangers or bringing them supplies for the animals they’re nursing to return to the wild? My entire Pi idea is viable now without needing to pick up dailies directly.

The point is, this system is bigger than just crafting directly because of how it changes item collection. Now collections can be open-ended. It reminds me of Leila’s suggestions in our interview on how she would redo fishing, by setting up points where you can just fish and collect all kinds of things to turn in for certain rewards on certain days. With this kind of system in the game, dailies as a whole can be a lot more living world and a lot less “click the icon for money.” And I know there are bugs right now and it’s so early stage, but this is an amazing tool that I think will be the foundation of a much more immersive design philosophy with SSO.

And don’t get me starting on how this finally makes trading player viable, but we’ll get the SSO economist a break before we add that in.

#sso #star stable #starstable #star stable online #starstableonline #woj analysis

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themousefromfantasyland · 3 years ago

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Hey, I wonder how you write/come up with characters? I just kind of make some foundation for character, then it slowly adds up and then the characters kind of start to live their own lives in my mind.

My process is way, way different. Basically I start with a vague idea for a storyline or a theme that I want to explore in my story, or just a nice mental picture or a cool aesthetic, and then the characters are born out of these necessities, and as the plot gets more complex, their characterization moves on. And by the end of the story, I have a full, fleshed out beings.

I will give one example. I still haven't write this story, but the idea stuck with me during the most boring parts of my online classes.

I started with a basic premise: a comedy about a couple of thieves on the ran from the police in a Victor-ish Era. They are literally a couple and they fool the police in true Bugs Bunny style, crazy gadgets, colorful disguises. They are mischievous and troublemakers, but not evil.

And then I wanted them to be gay, and now I had these two gay men in love running from the police using larger-than-life gadgets and using cartoon logic.

With time, I started to think about how tricky would be their relationship. Maybe one is the leader, and the other one is just the follower. The follower became younger, more gullible, and innocent. He's as much as a troublemaker as the other, but this one just wants to have fun. He's in it for the thrill.

The leader, is the opposite, meaner, crazier and a little unhinged, almost gremlin like. He's a misanthrope jerk, but there's a soft side in him for his partner. He's actually crazy in love with his partner, his husband, and now they are married, illegally of course. And our leader is so over the top and sarcastic that you can't help but liking him a little.

But maybe his sarcastic side is just a shell, I thought for a moment, something that hides his true insecurities. He believes himself to be a crazy genius, a misunderstood mastermind. But deep down he's super insecure, so his actions are more for shocking the overall public and feeding his small ego than for anything else. He wants to be immortalized as an outlaw, to have his reputation immortalized in popular culture.

And then the question hit: How did they met each other? My response was: orphans.

They have known each other since they were children. The leader escaped from the run down orphanage when he was still a child, and the follower, younger and smaller, soon followed behind. The oldest, the toughest, decided to protect the little one, and with time, this became something else...

They became pickpockets to survive in the cold streets, but they discovered that they had talent in tricking and deceiving people. As by magic or sheer dumb luck, their schemes worked better than they expected. They got older, their tricks got more elaborate.

I just added a short-tempered British inspector to be the victim of their antics, and now I'm starting to have an actual plot.

Said that, I don't think of my characters as mine creations. I like to think of them more as living beings in a different universe, with different rules and different logistics. The reason they change so much during my thought process, is just because I start to know them better with time.

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vixxenfox · 5 years ago

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Things I’ve noticed after watching the pilot over and over again

And things I just find amusing

- is it just a coincidence that when Charlie says “I wonder if it could be me” the center angel’s face lights up?

- not important but the “F*ck you heaven!!!” Sign is hilarious

- I hate Valentino with a burning passion, look at him texting Angel

- people drop from the sky to get to hell, more importantly without clothes which means each flippin person has to get specially made clothes for their weird demon bodies like sir pentious needs clothes to fit his snake body and stuff... idk just interesting

- the place beside the “we couldn’t come up with a catchy slogan but we sell hardcore drugs” building is called “begg slut”

- imagine dying, going to hell, and realize that you’re an egg

- egg #23 is the best

-one of the eggs like does a weird walk thing with their hand on sir pentious’ tail

-Cherri Bomb’s clothing is so asymmetrical and I love it like she is literally wearing a high-heel boot on one leg and like a tiny shoe on the other

- really just poor Tom he’s great

- Vaggie says “it’s all highlighted” but none of what we are shown is highlighted

- Also read the parts of the list we can see, it’s adorable

- “I don’t touch the gays” I find Katie great

- Jeffrey Dahmer obviously (Also the sticky note saying “who approved this show?)

- When Charlie scans the crowd another tv head just says ‘words’

-The person Vaggie punches isn’t in the crowd

- I love Razzle and Dazzle TvT

- Those two owl demons in Inside Every Demon is a Rainbow are most definitely references to Timber

- CHARLIE YOU JUST KILLED A PUPPY

- I love that there is a boo section

- Tom watches Angel Dust’s stuff confirmed

- I love the sonic spring noise when Angel launches an egg into the air

- Sir Pentious probably has a son that might be in hell so look out for another snake

- Do you see how happy Cherri Bomb is near Angel Dust, best friends! :D

- Aawww Angel pushes Cherri out of the way

- Angel didn’t just sprout a third set of arms, he also pulled an entire gun out of his body sooo... what’s with that

- I think you would just stop existing if you died in hell Angel

- That creepy fan has a body pillow of Angel

- Charlie takes off her pink... jacket(?) in one scene and the next she has it on again (you see her wearing pink in the closeup)

- Lilith is an absent mother

- There goes everyone’s fanon about how Lucifer acts (why couldn’t we get a nice stupid one T~T)

- I think they changed Alastor’s knock but I’m too lazy to check

- They fixed Alastor’s disappearing monocle

- I like that the mic has an eye sometimes it’s cool (how many “sentient-ish” things does Alastor’s have, first the shadow and now this)

- Alastor can teleport at least short distances and he appears as the shadow for a second

- They really make Alastor a very animated character and I love it

- (we knew this already but) Alastor clearly puts himself on a different level than the other sinners, he thinks of himself as justified and better (he doesn’t say “us sinners” he says “loathsome sinners” w/o him in the picture)

- Valentino, Rosie, Lilith (obviously), the girl from the porn studio, and the tv head dude (Vox, thanks @lavipsi) are all some of hell’s “strongest demons”

- TV head (Vox) is in the middle and top so he must be very powerful and behind him there’s also a green and red demon that reminds me of the wolf/fox demon from the bar scene

- Husk is very blocked out by Vaggie’s face but he’s clearly in the picture with Alastor (it looks like a fight but I don’t want to assume) like we know they know each other and stuff but it’s just weird that Husk is in the art when Vaggie says he’s “a dangerous Blahblah” and has entire speech of how dangerous he is

- I love the symbols that float up when Charlie isn’t looking and then the squeak as he turns to a more “innocent-like” Alastor when Charlie looks back

- Alastor rolls his eyes at Charlie when she says “No trickster, voodoo strings attached.”

- Talked about this before but the way his smile gets wider when Charlie says “for as long as you like”

- Why does Charlie have at least 2 posters about alcohol up if she didn’t want it in her hotel?

- I love how Niffty comes in and her bug-like noise when she appears

- You can see their reflection in Niffty’s eye during the closeup and Charlie is too adorable in it, Angel and Vaggie look ready to kick her out XD

- Everybody’s reactions to Niffty rambling on is beautiful, just watch them go from defensive to confused

- Alastor just following Niffty’s every movement as she zooms around

- Please tell me I’m not the only one who didn’t immediately see Husk as a cat? I honestly thought he was a dog for a while because he looks sort of like a Husky and his name is Husk, which got me thinking about the contradictions with Alastor not liking dogs... then I realized Husk was a cat.

- “are you sh!tt!ng me” “no I don’t think so” and “you think I’m just some clown” “..maybe” are some of my favorite lines

- Was I just supposed to know that on the bottom of Alastor’s boots (shoes? Hooves?) there were deer prints?

- So did Alastor really just teleport two sinners and basically copy part of the bar Husk was at and it’s just going to be there forever? Like you can see where the bar’s like territory ends because it’s walls are green while the hotel’s is red

- No like seriously Alastor you can copy a part of a bar but you can’t make the walls match the rest of the hotel’s walls?

- Husk seems slightly taller than Alastor

- Also Husk also has yellow teeth and if we go by Alastor’s teeth are yellow because he’s a cannibal, Husk might have been a cannibal when he was alive

- Husk clearly knows Alastor, he’s not afraid of him (to an extent, he was still a little shaken by the... Sir Pentious thing). Husk obviously voices his complaints without restraint and isn’t afraid of Alastor hurting him (I guess), and even when he was shaken up he was still the second person to follow Alastor back to the hotel.

- The entire relationship between Husk and Alastor is very intriguing to me! Husk doesn’t fear Alastor, Alastor called him a friend (obviously another jab at Husk but still), and they were in the same picture when Vaggie talked about Alastor being dangerous. I’m guessing they were probably friends once, maybe the picture is them both fighting another demon or fighting each other in like a fall-out.

- Vaggie is very exaggerated when she’s complaining about the bar and it’s beautiful

- Husk in the background as a still image just chugging booze is beautiful

-Angel’s angry face as Vaggie complains about the bar just before he leaves to lunge at her is beautiful and my favorite face

- 27:46 Alastor flipping FLUTTERS HIS EYES AT VAGGIE and you can hear a small sound effect of it and I just thought that was beautiful

- At the same moment Charlie is just rubbing her cheeks and it’s cute

- Right before Alastor starts singing, he throws some red... fire in the air and Charlie follows it with her eyes and she just so awed by it

- The fireplace in the background has an eye and a top hat above it and it just reminds me of Sir Pentious

- Alastor’s song has so many Friends on the Other Side vibes and I love it

- There are so many Christian symbols (and Satanic symbols) in the background of this song and I just don’t want to spend that time looking at each one :l

- Alastor’s shadow is also here further nailing the Friend on the Other Side vibe (not to mention the other shadows and voodoo doll things)

- Poor Niffty, she should never get hurt

- When Sir Pentious is talking and it shows the chibi characters, Charlie, Angel, and Niffty are looking at Alastor and when it zooms in for a split second Angel’s face is the most innocent bab ever

- There’s a building in the background with (again) one eye and a top hat, there’s also a cat building right next to it

- You can see heaven as a planet with a halo...

- There’s also a sun(?) or moon(?) or planet(?) with a pentagram on it

- I know that Egg Boi #OUCH is just a joke, but what if after 666, Sir Pentious just started giving them stupid names like that?

- Again, religious symbols float around Alastor that I’m not going to look into because I’ve taken so much time T_T

- Niffty is actually unfazed by Alastor summoning tentacles and destroying Sir Pentious’ ship. Really she has a normal smile and face and she immediately follows Alastor when he walks back to the hotel

- Angel is still flirting with Husk

- Charlie reassuring Vaggie is adorable

- Are we not going to talk about the carousel and gigantic steam boat that’s just protruding from the hotel

- I also love how the windows at the top of skull designs <3

- There’s an eye on the top of the building and the sign of Happy/Hazbin Hotel could also look like a top hate (why are there so many one-eyed top hats like Sir Pentious’...?)

- Stay tuned TM

- Not from me but, Alastor changes the name to Hazbin Hotel and Hazbin means something that was great before but is terrible now or something that is meaningless

- So Alastor liking terrible jokes is now canon? The dad joke thing wasn’t just a stream thing, it’s actually canon?

- Alastor actually has a red ‘X’ on his forehead, you can see it right after he destroys Sir Pentious’ ship

- The art in the credits shows Cherri Bomb having a tattoo

- I would like to talk a little about the design that’s in the background during the credits. So in the middle is an apple that’s being held by two sharp hands, there are three snakes coming out of it with only one snake fully out but still seems to have originated from the apple. The snake that’s completely out is on the top and has some designs around it that emphasize it, making it look more like a king (the devil, duh). The other two snakes are going down (probably referencing Adam and Eve maybe? Even though they also seem evil I just think of Adam and Eve.) Under them is another snake head. There are two sets of eyes around the top snake, one set has a line going down the middle of each eye like a scar while the bottom set has eyelashes. Even though the bottom set looks more “girly”, it reminds me of Lucifer because of the dots under them. If you want to grasp at straws the complete bottom snake’s tongue sort of looks like the bottom part of the symbol of Lucifer. The three snakes that clearly originate from the apple in the middle can also look like “Three snakes and one charm” if you squint. The symbol above the top snake looks like the infinity symbol combined with the cross, but it’s not the leviathan cross, so maybe just eternal... crucifixion?

- The smoke coming from the pit that Alastor made has souls in it

- I think #23 is depressed because he really wants to be shot... and he was just sitting there next to a bunch of dead hims

- Vivziepop said on a stream something about Lucifer being “generally goofy, but it depends on his voice” or something like that, please correct me if I’m completely wrong. This makes me things that Lucifer is going to have multiple voice actors.

-The Loading Crew “Everything We Know About Hazbin Hotel” brings up a point that it seems like the only things that can kill demons and sinners are the Exterminators’ weapons which are sometimes left behind that demons scavenge, Vaggie also appears to have one. I recommend watching his video, it’s very quick but also brings up points I haven’t addressed.

And yeah, that’s all for now! ^_^ comment if you have something else to add or think I should change something

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siriuslyshewrote · 5 years ago

Text

1914 - Part One / ?

A/N - So I thought I’d make a little character list before I start writing because there are large families involved, and it may get confusing!

It’s still written in second person (you) but the reader has a name, and a backstory. The reader is French - and has a French name. This will make a bit more sense with the plot hopefully!

Warnings - Swearing, John being a dick at the end of the chapter, mentions of death.

————————————————————

Inés Derouin (you) - (b. 1896) - Ness

Leonard Derouin - (b. 1898) - Leo

Clement Derouin - (b. 1906) - Monty

Gisèle Derouin - (b. 1910) -

Edgard Derouin - (b. 1912) Eddie

————————————————————

storyline based off this prompt

You sat in the dim light of the kitchen, a cigarette dangling from your lips, a crease pulling your forehead together. Your hands shook a little as they gripped the letter in front of you. The worry you’d been hiding for months started to build up, like a monster taunting you.

You glanced towards the jar on the windowsill - an idea your mother had created. When she or your father were paid, and they’d paid all the bills, they’d put the left over cash in there. It was for little things - like new shoes or toys for the younger siblings, or books for you. You had tried your best to keep that going now your mother was no longer here, and your Papa was sick, but your wage couldn’t even stretch over the bills. The jar was most pitifully empty. Not one penny lay in the bottom , and you ran a hand through your tangled hair, pulling out the remaining pins that were still tangled in from your shift late last night.

The door, the front one, banged open all of a sudden, and you jumped, a small shriek elicited from your mouth, until you saw the gaggle of people who crowded down the hall - your younger siblings, and two others. You couldn’t stop a smile coming on your face as you saw John, his little brother Finn hanging off his back, holding a paper plane you’d made him a few days ago. Gisèle, as per usual, was looking up at your best friend with adoration in her eyes. Sometimes, you wondered if you looked like that when you stared at him.

You pushed the letter under a few books. You would figure it out later.

“Nessy!” Your youngest sibling - Eddie, was gripping on tightly to Leo’s shirt, almost like a Koala, as Leo stuffed something into his pocket, a bit of material, or clothing. You paid no mind to it. Leo kept secrets - it was just what he was like.

“Hey, baby!” You almost crooned, took over from your brother, holding Eddie, wiping off some food of some kind from his chubby cheeks.

Your siblings cleared off remarkably fast - Gisèle sneaking off with one of your nurses aprons, most probably to play dress up, Monty to read a comic John had most probably bought him, and Leo mumbling something about going to see your dad.

“Thanks for looking after them today, Johnny.” You grinned at your friend, kissing his cheek in a way of greeting. His face was warm, despite the chilly spring weather outside. You felt you face warm too, at your action, though not in the same way as his, you were sure.

“Was mostly Pol, to be fair.” He replied, smiling, flopping into one of your worn kitchen chairs, expertly avoiding the wobbly one.

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s you they love, more than any of us. Mr God like Shelby.” You joked, laughing. Truly, you loved that your siblings adored the Shelby’s. you knew that if anything should ever happen to you, they would step in and help, and that meant a lot. Especially considering the cloud of death that seemed to follow your family.

“You still coming tomorrow, then?” He questioned, pulling the newspaper on the table towards him, scanning the front page, as he kicked off his shoes. The scene was almost like a little family,you three in the tiny kitchen , and you smiled a little, before pushing the thought out of your brain.

“‘Course, nine isn’t it?” You questioned, pulling plates out of the cupboards.

Tomorrow was , of course , John’s eighteenth birthday, and whilst he didn’t seem that bothered about it exactly, he , and the rest of his family, never turned down an opportunity to spend exorbitant amounts of money on alcohol, and get completely piss drunk. You couldn’t deny that you were looking forward to it, quite a lot.

He nodded yes, in confirmation, but you could see his mind was focused on the paper in front of him.

“Got my present yet, then?” He grinned, cheekily, looking up at you.

“Present? Why would I get you a present?” You deadpanned, before smiling teasingly.

He put on his best wounded face - all wide eyes and pouty lips- before you both sniggered.

You had gotten him a present, obviously, had every year since you were both nine, when you moved to England from France. It was one of the only times you got to show your appreciation for him - he wasn’t particularly a boy who liked to be thanked. Not really. Not by you. As he’d told you a thousand time’s by now, you were kin to him. Practically a sister. He didn’t care about looking out for you.

You tried to pretend that those statements didn’t make your heart ache, just a little. Practically a sister.

He went quiet again, his grin disappearing a little, returning to the front page - something to do with France and Germany that you didn’t quite understand. Did anyone , at this point?

“There’s going to be a war, isn’t there?” You said quietly, as to not let anyone hear - aside from Eddie, who didn’t understand anyway, dishing up food onto the plates.

He paused for a moment.

“Probably.”

“But we’ll be fine right? It doesn’t have anything to do with us?”

Why you expected him to know the answers, you didn’t know. But it was your default. When worried, ask John. Well, it was with most things. The letter practically burning a hole in your table was quite a different matter.

Another pause.

“Nah. We’ll be fine.” Except, he didn’t sound so sure. And neither were you.

——————————————————————————

Several hours later, you smoothed down your skirt - wearing your best ‘I’m very responsible and I promise to give you the rent soon’ kind of dress - after you knocked smartly on your landlords door.

It wasn’t that different to yours - all peeling white paint and chipped paint - though this flat was the ground floor, and yours was several flights of stairs up.

The door swung open not many moments later, quickly. You supposed Geoff Wilson - your landlord - didn’t have much to do anymore. According to your neighbour, Gloria, who was lovely, even though she was a right gossip, Geoff had divorced his wife a few months back, and seemed to have a permanent chip on his shoulder after that. He wasn’t too much older than you - perhaps around twenty three - and you had to admit you felt sorry for him. He had last his father last year, and since then, had taken over as landlord. You supposed he was slightly less of a prat than his dad, who would threaten eviction if the rent was two seconds late.

“Hi, Mr Wilson.” You tried to smile warmly, but your cheeks felt stiff. The letter - one about the rent - was cluctched in your slightly shaking hands.

“Ah, Miss ...”

You were never quite sure if he didn’t know your name, or simply couldn’t pronounce it.

“Inés. Inés Derouin.” You supplied. “Flat 23?”

“Ah yes. The late rent ones-“

“I’m so dreadfully sorry about that.” You hated kissing peoples arses. “But I was just wondering if I could have a few more days? By Friday, I can have the rent-“

“That would mean I would have to wait over a week-“

“I know, and I’m sorry, it’s just with my Papa-“

“Miss Derouin, I’m sorry about your family situation, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need my money.” He didn’t sound all that sorry.

“Look, is there anything I can do? I just need a few more days.” Your voice was desperate and you hated it.

He sighed, paused for a few moments, then an almost smile came into his face.

“There is something, actually.”

Oh god, you hoped he didn’t think you were offering those type of favours-

“Come to a dinner party with me.”

“A dinner party?” It was such a strange request.

“Yes. As I’m sure you’ve heard from the incessant gossiping around this building, I’ve divorced from my wife, and she will be attending, with her new... boyfriend, and I really wish to not make a fool of myself by going alone.” His voice was almost bored.

“Okay. When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up around 8:30 ish?”

Your face dropped.

“Is there not anything else?” You asked weakly. John’s smiling face flickered in your brain - you couldn’t miss his birthday.

You knew there wasn’t.

His eyebrow raised. “If you cant come-“

If you can’t come, you’ll get evicted.

“It’s fine. I’ll sort it out.” You smiled, but it fell from your face almost immediately as you turned round after a soft goodbye.

You exhaled, running your hand through your hair. And you couldn’t even go see him tomorrow - you were working. Guilt poooled in your stomach. You’d just fake some type of bug. He’d understand.

Of course he would. But it didn’t make you feel any less miserable about it.

——————————————————————————

The night wasn’t as bad as you had thought it would be, you mused, as you and Geoff neared the apartment building, his jacket draped over your shoulders. He wasn’t as much of an arse as you had previously thought - and you had almost had fun , dancing , and drinking cocktails (which, you had thought with a pang, weren’t nearly as good as Ines at the Garrison), and being flared at by his ex-wife all night. If looks could kill, Geoff had joked, you’d be a pile of ash by now.

But you still couldn’t get rid of the guilt that festered in you all evening, one that kept making your hands tremble, and eyes well with tears that you blinked away. How could you have done anything differently, though? You couldn’t prioritise John over your family, as much as it pained you.

Geoff lit a cigarette next to you, inhaling on the smoke.

“Thankyou for tonight, Ness.” He called you by your nickname - one you had told him to call you, but it didn’t sound right coming from his lips.

“No problem. I enjoyed it.” You smiled at each other, small smiles , that indicated that this wouldn’t happen again , but it was good while it lasted.

It was only when you were almost at the entrance of the building, when you saw him. Standing, leaning against the wall, cigar smoke exuding from his lips, his hair tousled slight. Lipstick on his collar. That made your smile drop even more than when you first saw him - you had been well and truly caught out in your lie. You swallowed slightly, slowing to a stop.

Geoff froze for a second, then uttered a mumbled goodbye, walking fast into the building. Of course, he was just as afraid of the Blinder’s as anyone else in Small Heath. He’d scurried off so quick, he’d left his jacket, still wrapped around your shoulders.

“John-“ You began quietly, walking closer towards him, eyes wide.

“How’s your cough, Ness?” He said coldly - referring to the call you had made to him several hours ago, telling him you were too sick to come to his party.

“John, just let me explain-“ You said quietly - teaching for his hand, which he snatched away.

“Explain what? You know, I was worried about you. I missed half of my fucking party, coming to see if you were alright, for your dad to answer the door, and tell me you’d gone out-“

“It isn’t what it looks like-“

“Really? Cause to me it looks like you just valued some prick of a man over me. Thought we were supposed to be mates.”

That voice, that damn voice. Emotionless, which hit you the most. You’d never heard him like this.

“You know we are.”

“Are we? Because you know what, Inés, I’ve never put anything before you. Whenever you have needed me, I’ve been here. When your dad was sick, when your mum was fucking dying-“

“Stop. That isn’t fair.” Tears began to well in your eyes, and you willed them away. It didn’t work.

He looked like he was going to stop. Just for a moment.

“What’s your excuse then?” His face was pulled into a pained, sarcastic grin.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your grand story of why you weren’t there?”

“I’m ... I’m behind in rent. I needed an extension-“

His face screwed up, and you swore he got paler.

“So, what’re you saying? You’re a whore now?” He snorted, but his tone was disgusted, and more tears dropped down your face.

“No!”

“Do you want me to pay for this conversation, or do you only charge for different things?” He spat.

“You know what, John Shelby? I was sorry, I really was.” You snapped, jaw tensed. “But you can take your fucking anger somewhere else. I don’t want it.”

And with that, you slammed the door behind you, and stormed up the stairs, sniffling.

#peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby #cillian murphy #michael gray #peaky blinders #finn shelby #peaky blinders imagine #john shelby #john shelby x reader #john shelby imagine #john shelby imagines #john shelby series #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader

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