#they need more magazine shoots I’m obsessed!!!

[lilidawnonthemoon]

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (06)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 5.3k

Aliyah's Notes: after the calamity of ch5 i present u ch6.... enjoy it. or not. AND IM SORRY FOR THE ENDING 🔥😩😅😨

It's been days. Or weeks? You didn’t even know anymore. The calendar on your phone kept reminding you, but you stopped counting. Maybe if you ignored the world long enough, it’ll forget you existed. Maybe if you stayed in this apartment, you could disappear into these four walls like you were never here in the first place.

Numbers. You used to count them, obsess over them, keep track of every passing hour. But now, time feels... irrelevant. What’s the point of knowing how long you’ve been sinking when no one’s coming to pull you out?

The silence feels... safe. No one to judge you. No one to see the mess you’ve become. It’s funny, though—people always see what they want to see. The headlines called you a goddess, an untouchable force of beauty and success. But what would they say if they knew the truth? That the girl in their glossy magazines could barely stand to look at herself anymore.

You hated this. The lying, the pretending. Nina thought you were just going through a rough patch, but she didn’t know how deep the cracks went. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to be this anymore—broken, fragile, teetering on the edge again. You swore you’d never come back to this place. But it’s funny how easy it is to fall back into old habits, how fast the darkness creeps in when no one’s watching.

No one’s watching.

Maybe that’s for the best. Let them keep seeing the version of you they wanted to see—the confident supermodel, the girl who had it all. Let them believe the lie, because the truth? The truth was ugly. The truth was you’ve been staring at your phone for days, hoping—no, needing—for a message, for something from him.

But nothing.

He was in Missouri. Working, you guessed. You didn’t even know when he was coming back. He didn’t say. 

You hated him for that. But you hated yourself more for caring. For letting him in, even when you knew better. For thinking, for just one second, that maybe—just maybe—there was something real between you, beneath all the lies you told the world.

But none of it was real. Not the dating, not the smiles, not the person they thought you were. You were a fraud. A perfect, golden fraud wrapped up in designer clothes and empty promises. And the worst part was, you were too tired to fight it anymore. Maybe this was who you were now. A girl who hid in her apartment, waiting for the world to forget she existed.

Or maybe it already happened.

The sound of the door creaking open started you, pulling you out of the spiral you’ve been sinking into. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. No one else had the key to your apartment beside her.

“Are you kidding me, Y/N?” Nina’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife. “This is the third time this week. How long do you think you can keep doing this?”

You didn’t respond.

Nina stromed in, slamming the door behind her, and you heard her heels clacking on the floor as she made her way to the living room. “You’re not answering your phone. You’re not responding to emails. You missed three shoots! People are asking questions, Y/N. What do you think I’m supposed to tell them?”

You stayed silent, curling deeper into the couch. Maybe if you didn’t look at her, she’ll go away. Maybe she’ll finally get the hint that you didn’t want to be saved.

But Nina wasn’t the type to back off. “No,” she snapped. “You don’t get to ignore me, not today. You need to get up. You need to fix this, Y/N. You think you can just hide away forever? Is that the plan? Because let me tell you, honey, the world won’t wait for you to get your shit together.”

She stood in front of you now, hands on her hips, glaring down at you like a disappointed mother. Her usually immaculate hair was slightly disheveled, and you could tell by the tension in her jaw that she’s been worrying. 

“Talk to me, honey,” she said, her voice lower now. “This isn’t you. You don’t just disappear like this. What happened? Is it Rafe? Is it work? Are you back to…” her voice trailed off, but the question hanged in the air, heavy and unspoken. 

You couldn’t look at her. The shame curled in your chest, making in hard to breathe. She didn’t know. She didn’t know how badly you’ve relapsed, how badly everything felt like it was slipping out of control again. And you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not to her. Not to anyone.

“When’s the last time you even showered? Eaten something decent? Your career’s on the line. Everything we’ve worked for is on the line. You can’t just… give up like this.”

Her words hit like slaps, each one stinging, but you still didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Nina huffed, pacing now, her frustration spilling over. “I don’t know what happened between you and Rafe, and honestly, I don’t care. But whatever it is, you don’t get to throw your life away because of it. You’re stronger than this, Y/N. I know you are. So why the hell are you letting this break you?”

You flinched at the word “break.” Because that’s what it feels like. Like you’re already broken, shattered into a million pieces, and you didn’t even know how to start putting yourself back together.

Nina crouched down in front of you, her voice softening, her eyes searching yours. “Talk to me, honey. Please. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”

For a moment, you almost did. You almost told her everything—the text, the relapse, the endless void you’ve been sinking into. But the words caught in your throat, choking you. What’s the point in talking when nothing will change?

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Nina’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not fine. You’re far from it. You think I haven’t seen you like this before? You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

She stood, her frustration bubbling back to the surface. “You need to snap out of it. Because in five days, you’re getting engaged to Rafe Cameron, whether you like it or not. And a week after that, you’re walking down the aisle. You can’t afford to fall apart now.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a lead blanket. The engagement. The wedding. The lies. It all felt so suffocating, so inevitable.

Nina crossed her arms, her voice firm. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get up, you’re going to shower, and you’re going to pull yourself together. Because tomorrow, you’ve got a charity event with Rafe, and you’re going to smile for the cameras and make everyone believe that you’re still that perfect, golden girl they love.”

You wanted to scream at her, tell her you couldn't do it, that you didn't even know how to pretend anymore. But instead, you nodded numbly, sinking deeper into the fog that had settled over your mind.

Nina sighed, her voice softening again as she headed toward the door. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. And I swear, Y/N, if you're still in this state when I get here, I will personally drag you to that charity event."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving you alone with the weight of everything she'd just said.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Just laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how you were supposed to pretend like everything was fine when every part of you was falling apart. You could still hear Nina’s voice in your head, telling you to pull yourself together, to be the golden girl everyone expected you to be. 

You dragged yourself out of bed, your body heavy. Your legs felt weak, and your mind feltl worse. Everything was numb, but somehow you still felt the pain. You stumbled into the bathroom, turning the water on without thinking. The cold spray hit your skin like tiny needes, and you stood there for a while, trying to let the string wake you up. But it didn’t work—you were still in that fog.

When you finally stepped out of the shower, you didn’t even bother looking in the mirror. It didn’t matter. You grabbed the first thing you saw—a plain black sweater, loose and oversized, and a pair of jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore. You didn’t even try with your hair, just pulled it back into a bun. No makeup. What was the point? It wasn’t like anyone cared what you looked like today.

When you got to the office, the tension hit you the moment you walked through the door. Your stomach twisted as you made your way down the hallway, each step heavier than the last. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your chest tightening with every breath. You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t. But as you pushed open the door to the conference room and saw him sitting there—Rafe, looking like he hadn’t been bothered by a single thing—you felt the anger bubbling up, hot and sharp.

It started as a familiar ache that had been building ever since the night he walked out of your apartment without a word. Two weeks. Fourteen days of silence. Fourteen nights spent waiting for a text that never came, hoping for even the smallest explanation, something to make sense of the hollow space he’d left behind.

Day 1. Monday, 2:42 AM

You: “Hey. Are you home? LMK, just to be safe.”

Day 2. Tuesday, 8:18 AM

You: “I’m still so confused about what happened last night, but let’s talk when you have a minute.”

Day 3. Wednesday, 5.32 PM

You: “Look, if you’re mad at me, just say it! I thought we were good, what the hell?”

Day 4. Friday, 11:04 PM

You: “It’s been days and I still don’t understand why you left like this.”

Day 5. Sunday, 3:27 PM

You: “Fuck you. I don't know why I keep texting. I know you’re seeing my texts, even though I’m on delivered. Just tell me if you’re done with this.”

Day 5. Sunday, 10:41 PM

You: “Why am I acting like I’m the one who fucked up? I didn’t do anything wrong. You left me like I was nothing, and your only explanation was a shitty rom-com excuse. I thought we were friends, Rafe.”

Day 5: Sunday, 11:36 PM

You: “I hope you rot in your shit ass apartment, but trust that I will show up to one of your stupid games with a sign that says “Small Dick Ghoster” in big, glittery letters. And I hope Chiara will hug you so hard that she’ll end up strangling you to death. Fuck you, again!”

And there he was, sitting there like none of it had happened, like you were still just strangers playing a game. His posture relaxed, that effortless confidence radiating from him, his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him, completely indifferent.

It infuriated you—the ease with which he moved on, the way he could look so composed, so completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t abandoned you in that moment when you were raw and vulnerable. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.

Every part of you screamed to confront him, to demand an explanation for the silence, the absence, the complete disregard. You could feel the hurt clawing up from your chest, tangling with the anger that burned hotter with each passing second. He was so close, but somehow, he felt miles away.

So instead, you steeled yourself, locking down the hurt, burying it beneath the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. You wouldn’t let him see the effect he had on you, wouldn’t give him the power to know just how much his absence had shattered you. No—he would get nothing from you. Not a word, not a glance, not a single sign of the turmoil raging inside you.

You walked past him without a word, each step heavy with the weight of the anger you swallowed down. Let him sit there, pretending like nothing was wrong. Let him think he could ignore you, dismiss you, erase you from his life without consequence. Because you would make sure he felt every bit of the coldness he had left you with, every ounce of the hurt he’d carved into you.

Ignoring him was the only power you had left, the only way to keep the anger from spilling over, from breaking you down entirely. And if he thought he could continue on as if the past two weeks hadn’t happened, then he was going to learn just how wrong he was.

Nicolas cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. “Hi, you two—we’ve got a lot to go over, and the timeline is tight. The engagement is in five days, and the wedding is scheduled for a week after that. So we need to finalize the details today—food, decorations, dresses, the guest list…”

You couldn’t focus. The words blurred together a dull hum in the background as you stared down at the table. Rafe said something, his voice casual, but you tuned it out. You didn’t want to hear him.

Sabrina spoke next, her tone brighter, more enthusiastic. “The audience is really enjoying you together, by the way. Ever since your date, and especially after the pictures from Kelce’s party where you two were cuddled up? People are in love with the idea of you and Rafe together. So, good job, guys.”

Your stomach churned at her words. Cuddled up. Like you were some happy couple.

“And tomorrow,” she continued. “You’ll need to make another public appearance together. It’s a charity event for cancer awareness. A perfect opportunity for more good press. The public is expecting you two to show up as the perfect couple—affectionate, in love, all of that.”

In love.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. This was the part where you were supposed to smile and nod, agree to hold his hand and play the role of the devoted future fiancée. But all you felt was the tension building, the weight of the lie pressing down on you until it was suffocating.

Rafe shifted in his seat, and you could feel his eyes on you, but you still didn’t look at him. Rafe felt an uneasy twist in his stomach. You looked… different. Disheveled, almost. Your sweater hung losely over your shoulders, practically swallowing your frame, and he could see dark shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there before. You seemed smaller somehow, your usual energy muted, replaced by something tense and fragile.

Rafe’s gaze dropped to your hands, noticing how your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting and tugging at your sleeves. Your leg was bouncing under the table, tapping out an anxious rhythm that only he seemed to notice. Every small movement, every nervous habit—you looked like you were holding yourself back, like there was something simmering beneath the surface, ready to break free.

You still hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t given him a single glance, and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. You’d been messaging him, and he’d been… well, avoiding it, convincing himself it was for the best. But seeing you now, seeing the wear and tear he’d left behind, he couldn’t shake the guilt.

Rafe’s chest tightened. He’d expected you to be angry, maybe annoyed. But this? You looked worn down, frayed at the edges, like you've been carrying a weight no one else could see.

You didn’t remember most of the details they were talking about. Your mind drifted in and out of focus as they went on about the guest list, the food, the decorations. All you heard were words—dresses, flowers, venues. None of it felt real. It was as if you were watching someone else’s life unfold in front of you, just sitting there, an outsider in your own story.

“The wedding will be televised, of course,” Sabrina says, flipping through her notes, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of it all. “And with a full press presence. We want every detail to reflect both of your public personas. Elegant, grand, but also with an intimate, personal feel—something that tells a story about who you both are.”

Who we were. I almost laughed at the irony. I didn't even know who I was right now, much less who we were.

“We were thinking of something grand but elegant. A modern luxury wedding. White roses, lots of gold accents. Maybe something at the estate in the Hamptons?”

You glanced at the board, at all the glossy, pristine images of weddings that could belong to anyone. None of them felt like you.

“Do you have any preferences?” Sabrina asked, smiling like this is the most exciting conversation in the world. “Colors, themes, anything that’s important to you?”

"Actually," you finally broke your silence, your voice coming out quietly, but the words landing heavily in the room. "I’d like the ceremony to reflect... my background." You could feel Rafe's eyes on you again, but for once, you didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.

Sabrina blinked, taken aback, but she quickly nodded, jotting down notes as if she were open to whatever you had in mind. "Of course, that could be beautiful. Were you thinking about specific details?"

You hesitated for a moment, uncertain if they’d take you seriously, but you pressed on. "Yes. The colors… the decorations. I want there to be vibrant colors—not just whites and pastels, but deep greens, maroons, and gold. The way we’d have them back home. And for the flowers… jasmine and roses. That’s what we use for weddings where I’m from. I want it to feel like... like part of my heritage."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected you to care about any of this. But he just nodded, his pen moving across his notepad. "We can definitely arrange that. A traditional, multicultural theme would add a unique touch to the event, I think. It’ll definitely resonate with the press and the viewers."

You didn’t care if it resonated. It wasn’t for them—it was for you, a sliver of authenticity in this whole farce.

Then Sabrina’s voice broke into your thoughts. "And of course, the dress. Have you given any thought to what you want? Or would you like us to arrange for a stylist to go over options with you?"

Your heart twisted at the mention of the dress. The one thing you’d always imagined as a girl—the dress you’d wear at your own wedding. Only, you’d never thought it would be for this.

"I’d like to include some of my culture there too," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe... a fusion. Something elegant and modern but with hints of traditional South Asian bridal elements. Like embroidery or... beadwork. Maybe even henna if it wouldn’t look out of place."

Sabrina seemed to light up at the idea. "That would be stunning. We can definitely work with that! I know several designers who specialize in fusing traditional and contemporary styles."

She was still talking, but the air around you felt thicker, as though the room was closing in. You could sense Rafe’s gaze without even looking at him, the weight of his silence pressing into you.

You zoned out again, your mind wandering back to the last wedding you attended. The colors, the music, the way the bride’s lehenga shimmered under the sun as she walked down the aisle. You’d always thought your wedding would be like that—full of life and celebration, surrounded by people who loved you.

Instead, you were planning a wedding for the cameras, for people who didn’t know you.

The sudden, sharp knock on the door cut through the stillness like a jolt of cold water. Your head shot up from the pillow, heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, the world felt like it was still. The quiet of your apartment, the thick fog still clouding your thoughts. You didn’t want to get up. You didn’t want to face the world outside of this bed, this cocoon of emptiness you’d wrapped yourself in for days.

Another knock, this one louder, more demanding.

“Y/N!” Nina’s voice came through the door, sharp and impatient. “You better not still be in bed, because I swear—”

The door swung open before you could even make a sound, Nina storming in, wearing the same determined, unbothered expression she always had when she was on a mission. You tried to bury your face back into the pillow, but she wasn’t having it. Her hand reached down, grabbing the covers and yanking them off with force. You shivered as the cold air hit your skin, the warmth of the blankets yanked away along with any shred of comfort you’d been clinging to.

“Get up.” Nina wasn’t asking. She was commanding. “You’ve got a charity event today, and Rafe is already at the venue. We don’t have time for your pity party.”

You squinted at her, still half-wrapped in your sheets like a burrito, and mumbled from underneath the pillow, “Can’t you just… I don’t know… handle it for me? Go in my place. You’d look great in a gown.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I’d look amazing, but you and I both know I don’t have that kind of charisma.”

“True,” you admitted, peeking out from under the pillow. 

Nina raised her hands in mock surrender. “Exactly. Now, up. I’m not playing with you today.”

Before you could even protest, she yanked the covers off you with a dramatic flourish, leaving you to shiver in nothing but your oversized T-shirt. It was a miracle you didn’t roll off the bed in the process.

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s go.” Nina didn’t wait for you to even get a grip on reality before heading straight for your closet, rummaging through your clothes like she was on a mission. “You’re going to look so good today that Rafe might just start thinking you actually like him.”

You shot her a glare that could’ve frozen water, but she just smirked, tossing a black dress onto the bed like she was some fashion fairy sent to save you from yourself.

“I’m not going,” you said flatly.

“Oh, yes, you are.” Nina threw a matching pair of heels onto the bed with the same casual flick of the wrist she used to dismiss your protests. “Because you will look stunning, and you will show up.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. “What is it with you people? Why does everyone keep trying to drag me out of bed? It’s like I’m the world’s most reluctant celebrity.”

“Because you are.” Nina grinned, holding up your dress like she was presenting the Holy Grail. “But, hey, guess what? You’re really good at it. So stop sulking and get your glam on. You’re the star of the show today.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “Oh, joy.”

Nina didn’t even flinch. “I’m not asking for a performance. Just put on the damn dress and show up. You can pretend to be miserable, and I’ll pretend I’m not a miracle worker for getting you out of here.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then dragged yourself out of bed with a grunt. “Fine.”

“Oh, by the way, Aisha’s going to be there. She practically begged me to make sure you show.”

Your eyes snapped open. Aisha Patel. Your best friend and, quite honestly, the only person in your life who could drag you out of bed with a single text. She’s been your best friend since you’d arrived in the States. She’d been away for five months—longer than ever before—working on some high-profile project in Switzerland. You hadn’t seen her in ages.

“You’re kidding,” you mumbled, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. “Aisha’s coming?”

Nina smiled smugly. “Yep. She’s flown back for the event. Can you imagine the drama if you don’t show up? She’ll never let you live it down.”

You sighed, a smile tugging at your lips. “God, I missed her.”

“Me too,” Nina said, her voice softening for just a second. “But you still have to get up. Like now.”

You looked at the dress Nina had already picked out, a sleek white gown that somehow made you feel both glamorous and like you were about to attend a royal gala. “Fine. I’m up. I’m dressed.”

Nina, who was already rummaging through your closet like a pro, grinned. “You look absolutely beautiful, honey,” she noticed your weight loss but decided to not speak on it, in fear it’ll make you relapse… if only she knew. “Chiara’s also going to be there...”

You froze, the mention of Chiara Romano sending a cold shiver down your spine. You’d told Nina everything about the Chiara encounter—her subtle digs, the way she made you feel like you were just another passing phase in Rafe’s life. She’d made things uncomfortable enough at Kelce’s party, and now you had to face her again?

“What? Fucking why?”

“Her father’s the one running the whole damn event,” she explained. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her or her family because they’re pretty famous, especially in the entertainment and events world. So, get ready for a day full of small talk, fake smiles, and people who will pry into your private life.”

You sighed. “How perfect is that?”

You stood in front of the mirror, trying to shake off the heavy weight of everything swirling in your head. You glanced at the clock. You were running out of time.

You reached for your hair tie, pulling it through your tangled locks. Your hair had grown longer than you remembered, and you decided to tie it up in a messy, yet elegant bun—one that would allow a few soft, curly strands to escape and frame your face. It was casual but chic—classic you. You let a few strands fall loosely, giving the bun a less formal, more effortless vibe. After a moment of satisfaction, you moved on to the makeup.

A soft, dewy glow covered your skin, nothing too dramatic. You didn’t want to feel caked in layers today, just enough to enhance your features. You applied a touch of blush to your cheeks, just a hint, to keep the look fresh. A thin line of mascara lengthened your lashes, and your signature lip combo was the finishing touch. Simple. Comfortable.

As you turned to check yourself one last time, you heard Nina's voice from the other room.

“Y/N! We need to go now. Rafe's texting me and he’s getting antsy. He’s apparently already at the event!”

You sighed, feeling the familiar rush of anxiety settle into your stomach. The mirror reflected a version of you that was ready for the world, but the world, especially tonight, wasn’t ready for this version of you. But as the pressure of the event built up, you couldn’t deny the uncertainty gnawing at you.

When you made your way into the living room, Nina was pacing, her phone glued to her ear. She shot you a quick, approving glance. “Looking good. Let’s go.”

As you grabbed your clutch, ready to face whatever tonight had in store, the doorbell rang. Your heart skipped a beat. Was it Aisha? Maybe she’d arrived early, wanting to meet up before the event?

But when you opened the door, your breath caught.

Standing in the doorway wasn’t Aisha.

It was Rafe.

He was in a suit—sharp, looking like he belonged in a magazine ad for high-end fashion—but his eyes, dark and intense, held something more than just a desire to impress. He had the look of a man who knew he had messed up.

His words hit you before you could even process them. “You look stunning. I wanted to make sure you’re okay... before all this.” The sincerity in his voice made your heart thump a little faster, and you hated yourself for it.

The words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stood there, blinking at him. You hadn’t expected him to show up—especially not with that kind of intensity in his eyes.

You exhaled slowly, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest, your posture defensive. The audacity of this guy.

“Really?” You scoffed, trying to mask the vulnerability creeping up your spine with sharp sarcasm. “Now you care?”

Rafe seemed to falter at that, but he quickly recovered, taking a small step closer, but not enough to make you feel cornered. “I’ve always cared, Y/N. You know that.” His voice was quieter this time, and the sincerity in his eyes almost made your resolve crack.

“Do I?” you shot back, stepping out of the doorway and giving him a once-over, your gaze icy. “Because you sure had a funny way of showing it.”

Rafe winced, a flash of guilt flickering in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I messed up, okay? I should’ve reached out. I didn’t know what to say, but I should’ve just... shown up.”

You rolled your eyes, the anger simmering beneath your skin rising again. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, not from the sight of him, but from the frustration that had been building over the past two weeks. “You didn’t know what to say? You think showing up fixes two weeks of silence? Just like that?”

He took a step forward, his face tightening, as though he was bracing himself for a confrontation. "I wasn’t sure what to do," he said, his voice lowering. "I thought... maybe you needed space. I thought if I gave you time, it would be better." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his expression. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

You stared at him for a long moment, the audacity of his words settling like a lump in your throat. “Space?” you asked, your voice low, incredulous. “You thought ghosting me for two weeks would give me space?” 

Rafe’s face twisted in guilt, but it didn’t matter. You weren’t going to let him off the hook.

“Did you at least see my texts?” you demanded, anger rising in your throat.

"Y/N, you’re needed at the car right now!" Nina called, stopping Rafe in his tracks of answering. Before you could walk away, Rafe reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, pulling you back gently.

"Wait," he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin.

You stared up at Rafe, your breath caught in your throat, uncertainty swirling in your chest. The air between you two felt charged, a thousand unspoken questions hanging in the balance. Your pulse was racing, but before you could voice any of them, Nina practically shoved you both into the elevator. Her hand pressed the button for the ground floor as she threw your heels at you, the sharp click of the stilettos punctuating the tension.

You caught them on instinct. The elevator descended, and your mind was still spiraling, trying to piece together what the hell was happening. What the fuck—this distance between you and Rafe? 

But just as the elevator doors opened, the sound of a familiar car door slamming outside caught your attention. A quiet thud, followed by the sound of heels clicking against pavement. Your instincts were on alert, an uneasy feeling crawling under your skin.

And when you turned to look, you saw someone stepping out of the car.

Someone who shouldn’t be here.

“I was wondering when we’d get the chance to catch up.”

chapter seven

[liver-f4ilure]

The Charleston Church Shooting: Dylann Roof

*NOTE! This is a repost! And it will look familiar CAUSE IVE POSTED IT ON ANOTHER ACCOUNT!! Is it the best? No.*

—

Early life/ Prior convictions

Dylann was born April 3rd 1994 to mother Amelia and father Franklin with 2 sisters Amber and Morgan. During early childhood his parents would divorce and his father would later remarry. His stepmother accused his father of abuse. He would beg his step mother to let him live with her but she wasn’t able to. Dylann would be described to have obsessive compulsive tendencies with germs. In middle school he would stop caring about school and started smoking weed and drinking vodka. In nine years he would have attended seven schools. In 2010 he would drop out of Highschool and continue playing video games and smoking weed and drinking.

(The Roofs home)

In 2015 he was caught with an invalid prescription for suboxone at a mall to which he was banned from for a year. Later that year he was caught loitering in the mall to which they searched his car finding a forearm grip for a AR-15 semiautomatic rifle and six unloaded magazines capable of holding 40 rounds each but was let off it was legal in the state. Roofs Suboxone charge was mishandled and a system error took it as a misdemeanour instead of a felony. Which would have possibly prohibited him from purchasing the firearm.

(The flag of Rhodesia)

Later Dylann would look into the Trayvon Martin case and from an unknown article concluded Zimmerman was in the right. He then fell down a rabbit hole of black on white crime and misinformation. He then found 4chan and would find even more misinformation and hard right ideologies Dylann states he hasn’t been the same since that day. Which leads to his manifesto titled ‘The last Rhodesian’ Rhodesia being the African state founded in 1965 ran by primary Europeans and a white supremacy ideology before being abolished in 1979. The term now sticks with white supremac!sts like Dylann had became, as he also used the flag on his jacket. In preparation before the attack he looked up black churches and found the Emanuel Methodist Episcopal Church and would scout the area and ask around about mass times.

The shooting

(The Emanuel Methodist Episcopal Church)

June 15th 2015 somewhere around 8:00pm Dylann entered the church, once he did he was greeted by Rev.Pinckney and given a bible to study with. Roof was sat next to Pinckney as the study continued. As the study closed and the ending pray started Roof stood up and pulled out his Glock 41 .45 calibre handgun and began shooting. Killing Pinckney first. Then 26 year old Tywanza Sanders stood up to plead with Dylann before he said ‘I have to do it. You rape our women and you’re taking over our country and you have to go’ he then shot and k!lled Sharonda Singleton, Dr. Daniel L. Simmons, Ethel Lee Lance, Cynthia Hurd, Myra Tompson and Tywanza Sanders. Dylann would reload 5 times that day. Polly Shepherd was spared when he asked her if he shot her yet to which she replied no he then told her ‘good cause we need someone to survive because I’m gonna shoot myself and you’ll be the only survivor. He then turned the gun on himself realizing he was out of ammo. He then left the church to the surprise there wasn’t anyone outside. The next day the police confirmed the gunman was 21 year old Dylann Roof with witnesses reporting they saw him drive towards Shelby, a town close to Charleston. At 10:44am Roof was arrested at a traffic stop in Shelby where it was then confirmed he worked alone.

(The victims)

The Trial

Five days after the shooting the grand jury announced that Roof was being indicted for 33 federal charges.

12 counts hate crime against black people

12 counts obstructing the exercise of religion

9 counts murder using a firearm.

On June 6th Roof reportedly did not want to be trialed by jury and instead let the judge decide if he was guilty and if the death penalty was reasonable. August 23rd Roofs lawyers called the motion of death penalty unconstitutional and asked to reject the motion. On September 1st an on camera hearing was held in case of outbursts. December 7th 2016 the trial started. During a survivor statement Roofs mom collapsed as she had a heart attack. After 3 days of the trial FBI played a video on which he admitted to laughing and drinking while describing to friends how he’d shoot the church. To which his friend didn’t report to police and said he was drunk and took his keys and Glock that was on him. After 2 hours the jury found him guilty on all 33 charges. Roof wanting to plead guilty but told not to by lawyers.

(Roof at his video hearing)

January 10th 2017 Roof was sentenced to the death penalty,death by lethal injection.

[watsittoyah]

Along Came A Spider…2099

Warnings-Sexual content, sex dreams, time travel, oral sex, rough sex, fang play, size kink, breeding kink and slight blood play. Some obsessive behavior..

(My Spanish isn’t great, so I did use google translate to help…)

Chapter 3- Tinted Windows…

Your eyes opened and you were stretching. When you look around your room you instantly feel a panic.

Was last night a dream?

It couldn’t have been right?

You throw the sheets off of the bed and your legs felt a bit wobbly. As you run to the door you stop as a very well built Miguel O’Hara stood there with breakfast for you.

“Buen día, mi amor. How did you sleep?” He asks as he looks down at you with a smile. It wasn’t a dream, he actually is here. “I slept like a baby. How about you?” He places your breakfast down and he cups your face between his hands.

“I slept great, at least until you started snoring.” You look at him mortified. “I don’t snore!” You move away from him but he pulls you back. “I’m only teasing you. You don’t snore. But speaking of things while you were sleep, your roommate wants to talk to you.”

Your eyes shoot right to the door. “Shit, shit, shit. I need my pants. Where are my pants?” You grab a pair of sweatpants and you roll those on, tossing your ripped shorts into the trash. “I’ll be right back.” You tell Miguel as you leave the room and close the door behind you.

In the living room your see your roommate, reading a magazine. “Good morning.” You say as you stand there. “Morning.” She says as she flips the page.

Ooh she’s in a mood.

“Erica I can explain-“ She raises a hand. “You know I woke up this morning and I smelled breakfast. I was thinking, T is out of her depression funk, good for her. But then I remembered that we didn’t go grocery shopping just yet. So I left my bedroom and I see a big back in our kitchen. And that big back didn’t belong to you-”

“I can expl-”

“Let me finish. This man spoke to me, he was polite. He made me a plate, he made Milo some food. And he cleaned up after himself. Shit I’m thinking about letting him move in with us. Now is that the man who had you in a mood for the past two weeks?” You just nod and she looks up at you.

“You better had forgave him, or so help me, T I will body slam you across this apartment. Because that’s a good man you got. Hell does he have a brother?” You feel a small smile on your face and shrug.

“I don’t know we were a bit too busy last night for me to ask.” Her eyes get big. “Was it good?” She whispers. “My legs are still wobbly but girl, it was more than good.”

“You lucky bitch.” You both laugh and she gets up and pulls you into a hug. “Go, we can have that walk later. I need to go visit my mom. And make sure you two keep that in your bed room. I don’t want to come home and I see ass and tiddies where Milo eats his snacks.” You suck your teeth at your roommate but smile.

“See you later E.” She waves over her shoulder and leaves the apartment. As you walk back into your room your see Miguel getting dressed. “Where are you going?” You ask in a panic.

“I have some important business to attend to, amor. Trust me if it wasn’t important I wouldn’t be leaving your side right now.” He kisses your lips several times before walking to your door. “Oh, okay. Well will you be back later?”

“No, I’m going to be busy for the next few days, but I will text and call you every chance I get.” You give a sad smile and Miguel pulls you into a hug. “Don’t give me that look. It’s already hard enough I have to leave a beautiful woman like you alone for a while. If it were up to me I’d kidnap you.” You laugh at that but in his eyes he looked serious.

“Go, you have business and I have a breakfast that my loving hus…” You stop your words right there.

Were you about to say loving husband?

“You enjoy your day, Miguel.” You smile at him and he stands there for a moment. “You too, Tommie.”

“Here let me walk you out.” As you two walk to the front door, Miguel turns to you and he lifts your chin up so you’re staring up at him. “When I’m all done, I want to take you to dinner. Would that be okay with you?”

“Yes, I’m sure it would….are you sure you can’t stay? It’s my day off and I’m going to be all alone in this apartment for a few hours.” Just then you hear a small meow and you both look to see Milo stretching out by the window. “Don’t tempt me. You hold down the fort, Milo. And I’ll call you, amor.” Miguel pins you against the wall and he kisses you passionately, leaving you feeling light headed. “Until we see each other again.” Miguel gives you one more peck and he leaves out the door. You close it behind him and you press your back against the door, sliding down it like some love sick puppy.

“Milo don’t look at me like that.” You say as Milo watches you from across the room…

•••

It’s been a few days and you haven’t heard from Miguel. “What’s wrong baby cakes?” Your grandmother asks as you help her in her garden. “Hmm? Nothing. The strawberries look good.”

“Those are cherry tomatoes. Now I know something is wrong. Look at me.” You try to avoid her eyes but you know you can’t. “What’s wrong?” You sigh and sit down in the dirt.

“There’s this guy, and well we haven’t been talking long but…it feels like I’ve known him for a long time. Anyways he said that he would keep in contact with me and I haven’t heard from him…in the past few days.”

Your grandmother gives you a side hug. “You like this boy?”

“I do, he…just seems so familiar to me. Am I being clingy?” You ask as she helps you up off of the ground. You clean off your butt and she shakes her head. “Baby cakes, that’s the thing about you young ones. Don’t even say you’re old you’re only thirty-three, that’s young. There is no such thing as clingy when it comes to someone you care about. Call him if you want to. Leave him a message and let him know he’s on your mind. Don’t neglect your feeling. Be honest. That is what your grandfather and I do. That’s what your father and mother use to do. Be honest.”

You nod at her advice and as you go to speak you hear the back door and your grandfather comes out with a tray of drinks.

“Boy it is hot out here. How would you ladies like to take a break and have some ice cold lemonade?” You accept the glasses and hand one to your grandmother.

“Charles, you didn’t make this too sweet did you? You know your sugar levels can’t handle that.”

“Barbra, just drink the lemonade and stop worrying about my sugar levels.” As your grandparents bicker, you smile at the two. They were the best parents that anyone could have asked for.

When your parents had passed when you were thirteen, you had moved in with them. Their relationship was the blueprint for you. And maybe one day you could have what they had.

“The garden looks wonderful, Barbra. Now can I take my granddaughter to the junk yard so we can build something?” Your grandmother kisses his cheek and pats his face. “Come back to me, Charles. And bring our baby back safe.” He smiles and nods. “I will. Now come on brains. I know where we can find a mini jet engine.”

You place your empty glass down and kiss your grandmother on her cheek. “I’ll keep him safe.” You and your grandfather gets to the front of the house and you get into his pick up truck.

“What do you want to built today, brains?” Your grandfather asks as he starts driving down the street. “I’m thinking maybe a gene splicer? Or another alarm clock.” You say as you look at your phone and see a message from Miguel.

Thinking about you, amor.

You smile and text back.

I’m thinking about you too…I miss you.

You press send before you regret it and hear your grandfather cough. “You okay?” You ask concerned. “I’m alright, I’m just gonna stop by the store and grab some cough drops.”

He turns down the road and stops by a mini bodega. “I got it.” You tell him as you get out of the truck.

You walk inside and go directly to where the cough drops were. As you look for the sugar free brand you feel someone watching you. You glance around and see no one except the cashier. But he was watching the tv.

You go back to looking and you find a brand with at least 3 grams of sugar in it. “Better than nothing I guess.” You mumble as you walk to the register. You grab a bottle of water on your way up and place them both on the counter.

The cashier looks over at you and straightens. “Hello there.” He says in a friendly tone. “Hello..” You balance on the balls of your feet as he rings you out and you catch him staring.

“I hope you found everything you needed today, and if so could I take you out for a coff…” You wonder why he stops talking and when you look at him he was staring past you in horror.

You look back only to see no one was there. “Okay, well you have a good day.” You give him exact change and you go back out to the truck.

“How much do I owe you?” Your grandfather asks. You shrug. “The cashier gave it to me cause I was cute. So it’s free.” You joke. “You’re as stubborn as your father, I swear. The man wouldn’t let me pay him back for anything.” You smile and as you two pull out of the parking lot you see a large man leaving the bodega.

That looks like, nah. It couldn’t be…could it?

••••

Your hands were filthy but it was worth it for all the parts you two had salvaged. “Make sure you don’t go building something illegal. I’d hate to have to put my granddaughter in jail for the reward money.” Your grandfather says as he helps you with your parts and puts them in the back.

“I was going to say it was you and get the reward money.” You both laugh and he pats your curly hair. “You know you remind me of CJ everyday. Down to the curly hair…” Your grandfather grows silent and he takes his handkerchief out and wipes his eyes.

“I miss dad too. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I’ll look in the mirror and see his eyes.” You two stand in silence and from the corner of your eye you see movement. You try to strain your eyes but your grandfather clears his throat.

“I know you are your fathers daughter, but promise me you won’t go into that line of work.” Here we go again. “Grandpa I know you don’t want me working as a tech engineer but I know I have what it takes. Alchemax would pro-”

“Don’t you ever say that company’s name in my presence, brains. Not after what they did to this family. After what they did my your parents.” You suck in your bottom lip and nod. “Yes sir.”

As the two of you got in the car you sit in silence. “Can we stop for some ice cream? I’ll pay.” You tell him. “We can stop and I’ll be paying. I won’t have my granddaughter spoiling me. I’m suppose to spoil you. And maybe some great-grand children if you decide to have some.”

“Here we go. Grandpa I will have babies one day but not today or tomorrow.”

“I know, I just want you to have someone. Like I have your grandmother. I want you happy. Even if it’s with a gold fish.” Your grandfather drives and you look out the window. In the rear view mirror you see a black sleek sports car following the truck. The windows to the car were tinted black so you couldn’t see who it was behind the wheel.

You have light conversation with your grandfather and keep an eye on the car. So far it’s been following you for the past ten minutes.

“…I’ll be sure to stay over for dinner tonight.” You answer as he takes a left turn and sure enough the car takes a left turn as well.

Who is following us?

When your grandfather finally gets to the ice cream parlor, the car just drives past and you feel yourself finally relax.

Maybe it was just a coincidence?

You and your grandfather head inside of the ice cream parlor and were greeted by Mary-Anne. The owner of the parlor. “Hey guys, what can I get for you two today?”

“I’ll take the cherry cone with butter crunch cream.” You give your grandfather a look. “Mary-Anne he’ll have the vanilla sugar free cone.”

He huffs. “Back in my day a man could eat a honey bun and have a bottle of coke and no one would bat an eye.”

“Well I want my grandfather to see me in my wedding dress so no complaints. Alright I’ll have the toffee special, but in a waffle bowl.” Mary-Anne gets your orders ready and your grandfather pats his pockets.

“Drat, I left it-I’ll go get it. Don’t you dare pay.” He goes to leave but you stop him. “I’ll grab your wallet. It’s in your special spot right?” You go to open the door but the handle was moved away from you and you’re staring into a pair of pretty hazel eyes.

Before he could speak you push him back out. “Miguel, what are you doing?” You ask him in a hushed tone. “What do you mean? I was just in the neighborhood.” You blink serval times because clearly this man thinks you’re stupid.

“Miguel, don’t you lie to me, why have you been following me?” He goes to lie but you raise your brow at him. “Don’t you lie! That was you leaving the bodega. That was you in the junk yard. And that was you in the car following us. Before you say no, there are hundred of ice cream parlors in Nueva York. But this one, is special because I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl. That? That is too much of a coincidence. Now tell me the truth.” You tap your foot and cross your arms waiting for his answer. He sighs.

“I was only following you because I had happened to spot you while I was out. I was going to text you but I thought that was a bit creepy. I’m sorry mi corazón. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Miguel pulls you in as he moves your arms so he can embrace you.

You wish you could stay mad at him but you can’t help but melt from his touch. Your body missed him. “I missed you.” You tell him as you look up at him. “And I missed you too.” Miguel leans down to kiss you but you two jump apart when you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

“Grandpa! I was just-”

“About to introduce me to your friend?” He asks as he eyes Miguel. Miguel goes to shake his hand. “Hello sir. My name is Miguel O’Hara, it’s so nice to meet you.” He shakes his hand back and you can tell he’s sizing him up.

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Grandpa!” You scold him. “Tell me what are your intentions with my granddaughter?” If you could have the ground open up and swallow you, you would.

“I want nothing more than to keep her safe, sir.” Your grandfather looks over at you. “Is this man someone who you like?” You feel put on the spot but you nod and feel your face warm up. “Yes.”

He huffs. “I already knew it. When I came out here the boys paws were all over your behind I thought I was going to get some grandkids tonight.”

Miguel tries to hide his laugh and you cover your face. “Grandpa I’m paying for your ice cream. I’ll even let you get the one you really want just go back inside please.” He purses his lips but goes back inside.

“I like him. He’s funny.” Miguel says as he stands there watching your grandfather. “He’s a real riot. So are you still handling your business?”

“Nope, I am officially done for the rest of the day.”

“Good, then I’m inviting you over for dinner at my grandparents.” Miguel looks a bit surprised. “So soon? Are you sure?” You lean in close. “Miguel we literally had sex and I know you have fangs.” You whisper to him.

“Right…right. Do you think your grandparents will like me? Should I bring something? Maybe I should go get a haircut.”

“Don’t you dare cut those locks of yours. You’ll be fine and you can bring my grandmother flowers. She has a garden so she’d love that. Now let me go back inside before this grumpy old man starts to tell me about condoms and other forms of birth control. And Miguel?”

“Sí amor?” You pat his cheek. “You’ll be fine. I’ll send your address. Dinner is at seven o clock sharp. Don’t be late.” You kiss his lips and walk back inside of the parlor. Your grandfather narrowing his eyes at Miguel.

“Grandpa stop that. He’s a nice guy. How much do I owe you, Mary-Anne?”

“He better be nice. He’s as big as a bear and he stares a little too hard at you. I don’t like it.”

“Mr. Valentine you should be open minded. My son, Maverick. He brought home a handsome boy the other day and I have to say he makes him happy. Tommie does your man friend make you happy?”

“Yes he does. And he is coming over for dinner tonight. Grandpa don’t even try to argue, or I’ll tell grandma about the ice cream.” He shuts his mouth as you pay and you two leave out of parlor.

You shoot Miguel a text and you cross your fingers hoping tonight goes perfect.

••••

Good thing you had a few cute clothes in your old bedroom.

You were freshly showered and you were trying to get your curls to listen. But they wanted to defy gravity and stick up. “Where is my butterfly clip?” You say as you search your dresser. You find the clip and secure it in your hair.

You then give yourself a nice look over. You were wearing a pretty flower dress that came down to your calf’s. A pair of yellow wedges and you had on a thin chain with your initials on it.

“Is this too much?” You ask as you turn and look at your plump butt in the mirror. “No, this is cute. And sexy at the same time.” You comment as you grab your phone and check the time.

Miguel had sent a text that he was outside and you ran out of your old room to go meet him. “No running.” Your grandmother calls out from the kitchen. “Sorry!” You call over your shoulder. Just before you open the door you take a calm breath and put a smile on your face.

When you open it you see Miguel standing there with two bouquets of flowers. “These Spider Lillie’s are for you, amor. And these baby breathe flowers are for your grandmother.” You smell the flowers and they smelled amazing. “Thank you, please come in. I’ll introduce you.” You lead him into the kitchen and there you look for a vase.

“Grandma, this is Miguel. Miguel this is my grandma.” Your grandmother wipes her hands dry on a dish towel and she opens her arms to him.

“Come here and let me look at you.” She touches his face and she then smiles at the both of you. “My you are handsome. Now I see why my granddaughter is taken by you.”

“Grandma, please.” You whine. Miguel smiles at her and she pats his chest. “Miguel I hope you like chicken stew with vegetables from my garden.”

“That sounds delicious, Señora. May I help you set the table?” She nods in approval and you show her the flowers Miguel had gotten you.

“Oh these will look so lovely in my garden, Miguel. Thank you.” She sniffs them and he looks over at you and mouths that he likes her. You mouth back what’s not to like?

After the table is set and the food is out, the four of you sit down and get ready to eat. You help serve Miguel and he pours you a drink. Your grandparents watches you two and feel a smile on your face as Miguel’s hand finds yours under the table.

“So Miguel, what do you do for work?” Your grandmother asks as she passes a roll to your grandfather. “I am a scientist. I work in the field that involves evolution to mammals as well as insects.”

“Ah, you're a brain just like Tommie here. I’m happy, the bloodline has hope yet.” You see your grandmother shoot a glare at your grandfather and then she smiles at Miguel.

“I apologize for my husband, his sugar is just low. Anyways, how did you and Tommie meet?” You go to speak but Miguel talks.

“It’s actually quite embarrassing. I had moved into the building about four months ago and I had first saw your granddaughter when I was bringing boxes to my apartment. I have to say I was smitten the very moment I seen her. But I was too shy to approach her first so I just stood back and waited for the perfect opportunity. So it was in the parking lot, she had dropped her water bottle and it was really flying down the walk way so I picked it up and from that very moment, we’ve been talking ever since.” Miguel says as he rubs your knuckles with his thumb.

“Oh my goodness look at you two. So cute, you know it’s as if you two have been together for years. Doesn’t it seem like that, Charles?”

“Mhm, yeah.” Your grandfather says as he eats another forkful. You eat your food and feel that dinner was going to be perfect for sure.

After a plate and a half, some dessert and coffee, it was time to go home.

“Are you two sure you had enough?” Your grandmother asks as she sees you two out. “Grandma, if we have anymore food, we will have to be rolled back to the apartment.” You says as you give her a hug and a kiss.

“Dinner was amazing, Miss Barbra. Next time I come over I’ll have to share my abuela’s cookies recipe with you.” He gives her a hug as well and she rubs his back. “You two don’t be a stranger, and Tommie make sure you call me when you two get home.”

“I will!” Miguel leads you to his car and he opens the door for you. After he makes sure you’re inside safely he closes it and walks around. You open the door and he slides in. “I like your grandparents. They’re sweet.”

“They are. And even though my grandpa was acting grumpy he likes you. Did you see his face light up when you mentioned that you liked football. I think he’s going to take you away from me.”

“Nah, he’s not my type. I like pretty women named Tommie Valentine.” Miguel starts up his car and he drives out of the driveway. As he drives you sit there in silence for a while.

“What’s on your mind?” He asks as he holds your hand. You sigh. “I was just thinking how much I don’t know about you. Like was what you said about meeting me true?”

“Of course. I seen you wearing this pretty pink dress and you were talking to Erica about watching a robotics documentary. Your hair was out and you looked happy. I wanted to talk to you but well you know.” You look at his profile and study it.

“I’m still sad you didn’t come up to me sooner. I would’ve liked to have known I had a secret admirer.”

“Well, mi princesa. The whole thing about a secret admirer is that it is a secret. And besides I’m sure I would’ve startled you with my demeanor.” He says as he glances at you.

“I guess, you are a bit intimidating. But I still don’t know much about you. Like do you have a brother? Are your parents still around? Where do you work? Why do you have fangs?” He laughs out loud and kisses your knuckles.

“Alguien tiene muchas preguntas. So many questions. Well I have a half brother named Gabriel. It’s a bit of a touchy subject with my parents but they are still around. I work at Columbia Tech. And about the fangs that’s going to have to wait until later, only because it’s a lot to explain.”

You pout at the last answer. “Okay, I guess but when you finally tell me I’m going to have notes ready.” He chuckles at your answer and shakes his head. “I know you will. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Have you saved any people?” That question causes him to freeze and he looks at you as he stops at the stop sign. “What did you say?”

“Have you saved any people? I know being a scientist can bring on new discoveries to help further modern medicine. If that’s a touchy subject for you I can-”

He interrupts you by kissing you. Which’s causes the wind to be sucked out of your lungs. When he moves back his eyes were gentle and you can tell he wants to say something but instead he continues driving.

You sit back in your seat and you soon hear rain hit his windshield. “I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight. This rain is going to be so good. Maybe I’ll sleep with my window open.” You say as you look out the window.

“Is that so?” Miguel asks as he lets go of your hand and squeezes your upper thigh under your dress. He gets to the inside parking lot and you watch as his hand squeezes again. “Yes. Should I not sleep with my window open?”

You watch a smirk crawl across his lips. “I’m not saying no, but if you’re not careful you might let the boogeyman in that way.” Miguel backs into a parking spot and that move right there made a moan escape your lips. “Did you say something, amor?”

“No! Nope! I didn’t. But I’m a big girl, Mr. O’Hara. I don’t believe in the boogeyman.” You say as you move your hips a little so he can go further up your dress. “Oh that’s a shame. Because if you did believe in him, I’d have to come over and check to make sure he doesn’t come into your room tonight.” Miguel says as he moves his hand and runs this thumb across your bottom lip.

“Well I know the boogeyman won’t be coming into my room. But I know who I want to come.” You say as you hold his hand still and suck his middle and ring finger. Miguel’s eyes instantly turn ruby red and he presses a button to make his seat lean back.

“My my, you are a big girl. Well why don’t you show me what else big girls can do, espléndida.” You lick his fingers and bring his hand under your dress and under your panties.

He slides his wet fingers inside of you and you grip his wrist as you moan. “Miguel…” You moan out, knowing no one can hear you over the rain.

“Your pretty little pussy is sucking in my fingers so well. I wonder how many more fingers you can take.” He whispers against your ear as he uses his palm to rub your clit. You feel him insert another finger and you lean your head back, letting your throat be exposed to him. He licks and sucks your neck as he does a come here motion inside of you.

“Oh god…” You groan out as you move your hips. “You feel that? Your greedy little pussy keeps squeezing around my fingers. But I have something else it can squeeze.” He takes your hand and places it over his crotch and you moan because you want to taste him.

You move him back and you unzip his pants. “Can I?” You ask as you look at him and moan. “It’s all yours, amor. Do whatever you want to me.” He leans back and you lean over the seat as you pull his dick out and suck him. He continues to rub your pussy as you suck the head. You choke a little which turns you on because he throbs in your mouth.

“This mouth, this fucking mouth is heaven. Fuck.” Miguel moans as he grips the back of your neck. He slowly fucks your mouth as he rubs you and your eyes roll back as you moan and gag. “Fuck, don’t stop. Just keep sucking. You don’t need air right? No you don’t. You don’t need air. Seré tu aire.” You feel tears running down your face but you feel yourself getting extremely wet.

You wanted this man to fuck your throat, till he came. He bucked up faster hitting the back of your throat and your legs started to clench as you were close to coming on his seat. His head falls back as he groans that he’s coming. You tighten your throat and in just that simple movement Miguel’s whole body went still and he let out a whimpering groan as he came down your throat. You swallow deeply and you shiver as you come soon after.

The both of you were breathing heavy when you had leaned back. Miguel was staring at you, his eyes were roaming your body. You were staring at him. Already taking off your panties and climbing over the seat, straddling him.

You guide him inside of you and you both let out a moan as he stretches you out. As the base meets your pelvis you still and Miguel placed his hands on your ass and he grips you tight.

“Rock your hips for me. I’m going to show you how I like to be ridden.” You start to move your hips but Miguel guides you and he bites his lip drawing blood from his fangs.

You lean over and flick your tongue against his blooded lip and he captures your lips with his. He kisses you and slaps your ass causing you to rock your hips harder. “Just like that. Princesa, fuck me. Fuck me just like that. You’re to good. Eres tan buena conmigo. Just like that. Keep that up and I’ll get you pregnant.”

You tighten around him and you fuck him harder as you rock your hips. “You like that? The thought of me fucking coming inside of you? Oh Princesa, I’ll fuck the come inside of you. Come here.” He grabs a hold of you and you feel him scrape his fangs against your shoulder as he fucks up deeper inside of you. You let out a strangled moan and you bite into his shoulder instead.

He groans out your name and moans out he’s coming. Your body shakes with climax and you both come hard, causing a mess on his driver seat. You rest your hand on his window and he rests his head against your chest.

You look down at him and he looks up at you. “Aren’t you glad I have tinted windows?” He says causing the two of you to laugh. He gently pats your butt as you slide off of him. You wince and you fix your dress.

“Sorry about your seats.” You say feeling embarrassed. “Don’t be sorry, I was going to get my car detailed anyway. And Tommie?”

“Hmm?” You ask feeling very lust drunk. “Anything you want to ask, just ask me. I would never hide anything from you.” He then leans over and gives a peck to your lips. “Mmm, thank you, Miguel.”

“No need for a thanks. I just want to be honest with you…Oh! Make sure you tell your grandmother you’re home.”

You pick up your phone and text her then put the phone back in your bag. “Do you want to come inside and spend the night?” You ask hoping he’ll say yes. “Y…I can’t. I have something to do. But I can walk you inside.” You frown at that.

Because for some reason you feel as if Miguel is hiding more than why he has fangs.

The more you get to know him the less you actually know who Miguel O’Hara really is…

Previous , Next

[the-passenger-if]

We get to see Roach tease the MC about their romance insterests; how would Roach tease the ROs about being interested in or having a crush Newman? Roach's sense of humor is great and them embarrassing everyone around them is top tier friendship trolling.

Happy May!

And happy October to you, anon n_n”

I imagine Roach would tease Fiama while they're stuck in the cabin, maybe while Newman is cleaning themselves in the bathroom:

“Good for you,” Roach says, and Fiama looks at them.

“Are you talking to me?” She holds Bruno closer to her.

Roach chuckles. “No need to use the kid as a shield. You’re obviously taken.” They throw a pointed look at the bathroom, before looking at her again, “In more ways than one.” When Fiama's only answer is staring back at them, Roach stands up and stretches themself. “Hey, it's fine. To be honest, you duped me; I thought you would get up and leave, yet here you are.”

“And I should care about what you think because…?”

Roach grins. “Oh no, you shouldn’t.” They look like they want to add something else, but their amused expression turns softer little by little. “You’ll take care of them, won’t you?”

“I’m planning to,” Fiama replies, her chin high, and Roach realizes she doesn’t appreciate the sudden probing. It’s fine; they wouldn’t either.

“Good. Good for you,” they repeat. “Good for them.” And they mean it.

●○●○●○●○●

They would tease Jonny in the cabin too because Roach has no chill:

“How does it feel to be the latest obsession of a monstrosity from space?”

Jonny doesn’t look at them, but his eyes jump to the tiny bathroom before shooting elsewhere.

Roach sighs. Thinks about resting their head against his shoulder for half a second before just going for it. Jonny doesn’t shake them off, but he tenses up—more than he usually does, for a longer time than he usually does. “Jonny-boy…” It’s a plea but they don’t care.

“You two are laughing at me.” Not an accusation, just facts being stated, which is worse somehow.

Roach rests their forehead against his shoulder. “We so aren’t.” They nudge Jonny until their friend sighs. When they look up, he is watching them with a blank expression. “Maybe you’re just that enchanting?” Jonny clicks his tongue, and Roach hugs him. “They are into you, dumbass. They really are.” He says nothing; he just stares wide-eyed, so ready to believe them, and also so afraid. “Don’t chicken out now.”

“I… no, I won’t.” Jonny swallows down and makes to stand up so Roach lets go of him.

When both of them are on their feet, Roach gives his skinny ass a friendly slap. The unimpressed look Jonny throws them has them holding up their hands. “For good luck. Go get them, stud.”

●○●○●○●○●

Lastly, they would tease Horizon before shit hit the fan in CH7. They would invite themselves into the Domini’s cabin one evening receiving a vexed look for their trouble:

“So,” Roach begins, paying no mind to Horizon. “Domini, you are a smart cookie. Do you like crosswords?” When they blink in confusion, Roach holds up the magazine they brought along. “Been squeezing my brain for over ten minutes and I can’t find the right word.” They lie the magazine on the table, clear their throat. “Group of whales. And it’s a three letter word.”

Horizon thinks about it for a moment before saying, “A pod.”

Roach grins as they jot down the answer. “Hah, I knew asking you was a good idea. Alright, another one, a container for holding and pouring liquids that usually has a lip or spout and a handle.”

This time the reply is immediate. “Pitcher.” Horizon approaches the table as Roach counts the squares and lets out an impressed whistle. “You’re a walking thesaurus, Domini.”

“Well, I—”

“Third one: someone who is in love slash sexually aroused by their own deity.” They look up at Horizon forming a perfect o with their mouth. The shocked look on the Domini’s face almost makes Roach crack up then and there. “Well well well, this crossword is spicy.”

After that, Horizon isn’t in the mood for games anymore; they are quick to usher Roach out and close the door behind them. Roach is giggling to themself when Horizon reappears.

“And the word is theophile,” the Domini hurls at them.

Roach opens their mouth, reply at the ready, but Horizon shuts the door in their face. Of course, that doesn’t deter them in the slightest. “And you would know everything about that, wouldn’t you?”

[skyler10fic]

In My Room

Daisy and Carol have been cast in the same movie, but with very different levels of fame. As their friendship blooms into mutual pining, they get a bit obsessed and lovesick along the way, but admitting their feelings would carry consequences for them both. This is a teaser for a longer WIP multichapter! Get excited :)

For the end of @ficwip All Ships Ship Week. Prompts: Inspired by a song (Julia Wolf's In My Room), “I’m sorry.” and the free day! I wanted to challenge myself at some point to write in an actual ship/boat as a pun, so that’s my free day choice, along with mutual pining.

Read on Ao3

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

Between shooting scenes for her new movie, Daisy went back to her trailer on the studio lot. In a moment of cringe she hadn’t experienced since bombing her Crazier Rich Asians: the TV Series audition, Daisy typed her own name into an incognito browser tab. She would never admit it to her gorgeous, sexy, crush-turned-coworker-turned-friend Carol, but she was curious to see what Carol would find if she looked her up. There was no way the elite, up-and-coming Oscar darling Carol Danvers had the same level of background knowledge of Daisy Johnson that everyone in the world had about Carol herself. Daisy had a steady career in Hollywood, including as a beloved character from a long-running show; Carol had global stardom. They were getting to a point where the information imbalance was weird, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Carol would try to remedy it. Or maybe Daisy was just obsessing and overthinking again.

The search results were nothing Daisy hadn’t seen, of course, but looking at it now, she tried to imagine what would interest Carol and what would be a turn-off. As she pondered this, she looked up and saw the jacket Carol had left on the sofa in her trailer. It was an accident, of course, but Daisy imagined what it would be like for it to belong there, for Carol to leave things here in her trailer, or even at Daisy’s house on purpose, knowing she’d be back. 

A knock sounded at the trailer door. It was Carol, not an assistant, with her magazine-cover demure smile: “I’m sorry to bother you in our off time, but I think I left my jacket here?” 

“Yeah! Hi! Come on in,” Daisy greeted. She subtly shut her laptop so Carol wouldn’t see her googling herself. Explaining the search was to see what Carol would hypothetically find would be even worse than just coming off like a self-obsessed publicity-slurping narcissist. Luckily, they had no reason to reopen Daisy’s laptop as they chatted, burning away their free time until the next shoot.

—-------- 

Carol couldn’t tell Daisy the real reason she had left the jacket in her trailer. It hadn’t been forgetfulness or hurry, but an excuse to see her again. She dreamt almost nightly now of what it would be like to wake up with Daisy’s clothes on the floor, Daisy in her bed, perhaps a permanent drawer in her bedroom. Even once, she dreamt she was a bride in an empty chapel, hoping it would be Daisy opening the door to walk up the aisle next.

Things took a particularly dark turn one night as she dreamt she died and was watching her own funeral, but the crucial thing her dream self needed to know was if Daisy was there and what she would say. 

Carol woke before dawn, slipped on a long cardigan, and went for a walk in the woods that lined her expansive backyard. She had everything she could have wanted: a career every actress dreams about, a gorgeous house, and finally friends in the industry. But as selfish and juvenile as it felt, she needed one more thing: just a call from Daisy. A call that said everything between them was real, and not only in Carol’s dreams. 

—-----------------

Due to previous scheduling commitments, Carol spent a week in New York on a TV show set, making a cameo that would have audiences cheering, but all she could think about was being away from the film and from Daisy in LA. Luckily, when she was home, the weekend began with a cast reunion of sorts as the film studio arranged a dinner cruise for the main actors and crew. The only condition was that they had to give one-on-one interviews for the behind-the-scenes coverage of the film’s production for promo. 

Daisy emerged from her interview inside the boat’s cabin to see Carol standing on the deck at the front of the boat alone, gazing out at the glow of the city skyline and the silence of the night. 

“Is it weird to say that I missed you this week?” Daisy asked. 

“I hope not,” Carol confessed. “I missed you too.”  

Daisy smiled in satisfaction and turned to face the ocean. She moved to the pointed front and spread her wings out in a poor imitation of the Titanic. “I’m flying, Jack!” 

Carol laughed and took her position holding Daisy’s waist, despite no risk of her falling overboard. When Daisy lowered her arms and turned around, it took a moment for Carol to realize how close they were, that she was staring in awe into Daisy’s dark eyes, that if she just closed the gap between them…

Carol realized this wasn’t a dream and backed away with a jolt. The tension of the serious moment melted back into silliness, and the other actresses joined them with fresh drinks to chat and party the night away. She didn’t miss the way Daisy looked at her at the end of the night, though. There had to be something there between them.

The long-established industry titans told her she had to choose: being closeted with a promised room full of Oscars or being proudly out as Daisy’s partner but with a forgettable career… if those were truly the options on the table, suffice it to say she envied how easy Daisy made it look to leave the closet behind. 

—-------------- 

Daisy had wondered how she could miss a coworker, or even a friend, who had only been gone a week. But she did. Every day. And it got worse. After the dinner cruise, it was all of the time they weren’t together. 

It was too soon now, but one day, Daisy would be brave enough to tell Carol the truth. And maybe it would end up with a tearful rejection and disaster, not to mention a tense working relationship for their movie that could spill out to affect Daisy’s reputation, branding her difficult to work with at a critical step in her career. Or maybe it would end up with Carol’s things in her bedroom from nights of pleasure turned into days of happily ever after romance. 

Could an ending like that be possible in the cutthroat town where so many dreams came to die? Did they have what it took to brave the public eye? And more importantly, could fairy tales come true in Hollywood even with no cameras rolling or script to follow, when it’s your real life? 

[kookygranger]

Hi!

I'm so late!

But I'd love to know about HF!E

for the wip game!

Thank you, Betty! ✨

HF!E stands for High Fidelity!Eddie. It isn't a HF au it just takes place in a record store and I didn't have a name for it. It was an idea for a one-shot inspired by this playlist featuring gothic/spooky songs before goth was a genre.

It made me think about Eddie who just moved to Chicago with Corroded Coffin and is slowly being accepted by the scene. Reader works at a record store and is playing this mixtape over the speakers and Eddie very much falls in love.

I started writing it and then didn't really like it but here's a lil' snippet:

“What the fuck are you listening to anyway?”

“I made a pre-Halloween mix. Music that lead to goth before goth was a thing.” You frown as you try to unstick a bright red sticker from the price gun you’d been tapping on the pile of vinyl.

Eddie smiles to himself as he continues to pretend he’s browsing and not tuning into your conversation.

“Are you going to The Allied tonight? There’s some new band from Indiana or something playing, apparently they do a sick cover of Master of Puppets.”

Eddie pauses in his faux perusing for a second as he awaits your reply.

“I wasn’t really planning on it, no.”

The guy huffs, “No? What was your plan, going home to sulk to The Velvet Underground?”

“I don’t sulk–“

“You do when you listen to The Velvet Underground.”

“What do you want me to do? Pogo to Heroin? Anyway, I was gonna work on an article actually.”

“Why don’t you write about this band tonight? Tim says they’re pretty good. He saw them a couple of weeks ago at the Metro.”

“Tim said that about that god awful noise band that played at De Salle’s. It was the worst four hours of my life. I thought my ears were actually going to bleed.”

“Whatever, you say that like you’re not currently playing the most depressing German synth music that nobody in their right mind would listen to.” He points out the new song playing from the speakers behind you.

“First of all, this is David Bowie’s Low. And if you knew as much about music as you claim to, you’d know that this was his seminal work in his Berlin era and an ambient soundscape masterpiece. Secondly–“

“I like it.”

Both of your heads shoot up at Eddie’s interruption. He blushes and clears his throat as you catch his eye and the corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry, I just–it’s a good mixtape. I like the theme.” He frowns and shakes his head at himself, he doesn’t know what came over him. Who is this guy that’s bothering you, anyway? You have amazing taste and he’s pretty sure you’re the most angelic thing he’s ever seen. You gesture in his direction and look back at the guy that’s teasing you.

“The customer is always right, Simon.”

Eddie moves quickly to the B section and finds the album you were talking about before heading over to you.

“Did you find everything you need?” You smile at him sweetly as you hop off the counter and take the record from him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before. Customer service isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

The guy, Simon, snorted. Eddie couldn’t take his eyes off the way your face lit up quietly when you realised what album he picked.

“What are your strongest skills?” That was such a weird question Munson, what the hell?

You looked up at him a little taken aback, before a small smile crept up on your face.

“Talking about music…or” you shake your head in contemplation, “writing about it actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe it’s not so much a skill, more like an obsession.”

“She’s actually kind of good.” Simon butts in with a shrug and you roll your eyes.

“Such a high compliment cuz.”

You were cousins. He still had a shot.

“You write for magazines?” Eddie asks.

“Zines mostly,” you point to a stack of xeroxed pamphlets on the counter, “but I’ve published a few reviews with Spin and The Face.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, “That’s pretty cool.”

You breathe out a laugh and take the cash he hands you, collecting his change. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you're Eddie, right?” He turns to Simon, almost forgetting he was there. “Your band’s playing at The Allied tonight? I met your drummer Gareth at a show last week.”

“Uh yeah that’s me. We’re called Corroded Coffin.”

“Cool name.” You smirk and hand him his record wrapped in paper. Eddie tucks it under his arm, his dimples showing as he smiles back at you.

“Thanks.”

“You’re from Indiana then?” You call back to Simon’s earlier statement, as Eddie doesn’t make a move to immediately leave.

He rubs the back of his neck as he nods, “Yeah. Just moved here a couple of months ago with my band.”

“Welcome to Chicago, Eddie.” You smile and introduce yourself, “Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you…vinyl wise I mean.”

“Thanks,” he scratches the stubble on his jaw before stepping away from the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight at the show?” He tries to keep his voice casual, but there’s a hint of hope in there.

You bite your lip and shrug, “Yeah, maybe you will.”

Eddie nods and takes his queue to leave, the bell jingling again as he steps back out into the cold.

“Yeah, maybe you will.” Simon mocks you in a breathy imitation and you roll your eyes. “So now that you know the singer is cute are you coming?”

“Obviously! You better get me on the door list, or I swear to god I’m telling Aunt Carol about the stash in your underwear drawer.”

Okay, there were a lot more High Fidelity references than I remembered. Fun fact: I have read the book and watched the film and HBO reboot so many times I could quote word-for-word. I also dressed up as Zoe Kravitz's Rob for an office Halloween party once, complete with the Wings Over America live album that she talks about in that scene with the misogynistic cheater. Only one girl got it because she was a fan of Zoe Kravitz lol.

[disappointingyet]

200 Cigarettes 

Director Risa Bramon Garcia Stars Martha Plimpton, Paul Rudd, Courtney Love, Kate Hudson, Christina Ricci USA 1999 Language English 1hr 41mins Colour

1999 pays somewhat chaotic homage to 1981

I love movies that take place over one night (and usually a bit of the morning after). I’m a little obsessed with the cultural buzz of New York City in the early 1980s. I agree with the increasingly popular idea that 1999 was a great year for movies. And as someone writing about cinema for magazines and newspapers at the time, I had a professional interest in pushing the notion that a new set of film stars was emerging.

200 Cigarettes is a comedy from 1999 set in Manhattan on New Year’s Eve 1981, with a cast that includes Christina Ricci, the Affleck brothers, Dave Chapelle and Janeane Garofalo, among a bunch of others. It follows that I was excited when I first heard about it, remained stubbornly enthusiastic when it got a critical mauling* and rushed to rent it when it ended up going straight to video in the UK. Sure, it had its flaws but I was left with fond memories…

2024: 200 Cigarettes, objectively, is not a good film. It’s also nowhere near as bad as its Metacritic score of 35 suggests. The casting, the idea, the vibe are good. The problem is that when your plot really is ‘some people are on their way to a party, nothing very dramatic happens’, then the writing and the timing need to be exceptional, the jokes memorable.

(I’m not going to bother with character names because there are so many and they don’t stick while you are watching.)

It’s NYE, with the social pressure that brings to be seen to be having fun and, if at all possible, to end the night with someone. Martha Plimpton is hosting a party (a high-risk move) and freaking out because no one has turned up yet. Meanwhile, we, the audience, know that there are pairs and trios on their way, but nobody wants to be so uncool as to arrive early.

The duo we seem to spend most time with are Paul Rudd and Courtney Love. He’s miserable at the best of times and has just been dumped by his artist girlfriend (Garofalo, who only turns up for a couple of scenes). Love is the long-suffering best mate whose thing is that she sleeps with too many guys. 

Meanwhile, Plimpton’s ex is a Scottish artist (Brian McCardie), who out with his current squeeze (Nicole Ari Parker) and her bestie (Angela Featherstone). Klutzy Kate Hudson has just lost her virginity to repeat accidental heartbreaker Jay Mohr and they are on an awkward first date. A pair of teens from Ronkonkoma, Long Island (Ricci and Gaby Hoffmann) meet two young punks (Casey Affleck** and Guillermo Diaz).

The most significant solo characters are Dave Chapelle as a the driver of a disco cab that’s very heavily indebted to the mambo taxi in Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown, and Ben Affleck as a bartender everyone thinks is hot until he utters more than a sentence.

The worst – by some distance – storyline is the Hudson/Mohr one, which largely hopes we’ll laugh because she keeps falling over or into things. It’s not funny, and Mohr is really charmless. Rudd and Love are well cast and seem a good fit together, but their scenes drag and take forever to get to where it’s obvious they are always going. Parker and Featherstone have the advantage of genuinely looking like early ’80 downtowners – they could slip undetected into, say, Smithereens. 

The Martha Plimpton bits are pretty decent. I like Ricci and Hoffmann too – maybe worth noting that Ricci is not playing the part you’d expect of her at the time (ie, moody post-punk girl) but rather loud out-of-towner, but in an endearing way. 

Presumably, mostly shooting in pairs meant that most of the cast only worked on the film for a few nights each. The cheap ’n’ cheerfulness is maybe summed up by a cameo from a musician who would have indeed been a big deal if they had showed up at a party downtown in ’81. This person’s appearance earns them good sport points but their look here is firmly their 1999 one, with not the vagueness attempt to backdate them. 

Not enough of 200 Cigarettes works enough of the time for me to be able to recommend it in all good conscience. But in the few days that have passed since I watched, it’s sneakily rebuilding its affectionate place in my memory. Some films are just like that.

*It made $6.9m off a $6m*** budget at the box office in the US – which means it would have lost money in cinemas (but almost certainly turned a profit during its home video release) but is far from embarrassing. **In the unlikely circumstances that anyone is paying attention to what I've been writing about relatively recently, that means this shares three of the stars of the previous year's Desert Blue. ***Cheap by Hollywood standards but a high-mid one by indie standards for the time. 

[theharrowing]

I have reread Boy Blue almost three times now. You are such a talented writer!! I hope this message dont bother you but I have two sorta fun questions:

1. When I watch Rainy Days, for some reason I feel like it's super Boy Blue-coded (?) Like idk, the ambiance, the moodiness, the yearning. What era / mv BTS you associate with Boy Blue characters (if any)? Or you can also answer for Collateral, whichever you want!

2. When you write a story, do you begin with like knowing how it's gonna end first or do you build a rough outline of events and then decide the ending? All the endings (if you can call it that) in Boy Blue and Collateral have been so unpredictable (literally I could NOT guess how it was going to end) so I'm just interested. Btw I'm not a writer so I'm sorry if this is a weird question!

P.s: i'm glad I didnt trust Yoongi in Boy Blue hehehe

Thank you so much for writing again and sorry for the long message!

ANON HELLOOO!!! 😍

THREE TIMES that’s wild wow thank you so much!!! (the chapters are pretty quick hehe but still wow!!!) this doesn’t bother me one bit, i’m very excited to respond to these! this is going to be a VERY LONG response hehe enjoy.

this response will contain spoilers, for anyone who hasn’t read these fics!

1. i get such big Boy Blue vibes from Rainy Days Tae!!! both in the way he is burying himself in the art (idk i get this obsessive vibe tbh) and also with how 😐 stoic and serious he seems through a lot of it. i see Boy Blue Taehyung trying so hard to distract himself but all he can see is someone’s face/likeness and he needs to paint it and carve it and build it somehow. and yes, definitely the ambiance and yearning!!! i will definitely be making it his personality in White Lies haha.

originally, i wasn’t really associating their personalities with any era, but Boy Blue Taehyung maybe had hints of Stigma performances (especially with blue hair, of course.) Yoongi and his boys i just imagined in like a Velvet Goldmine crossover almost, and Jungkook was if My Time were a little more punk (and a little more whiny haha.) (Namjoon and Seokjin didn’t really have development lol sorry boys!)

for Collateral, Yoongi was originally from That That, and the others came from any number of eras (Butter maybe, Proof at times.) but because these roles don’t really fit the guys normally, it’s all kind of all over the place and i don’t really imagine them from specific eras (i have been more or less keeping Yoongi current throughout Collateral and using more recent descriptions and images every time, with the exception of some mood boards.) sometimes my mind goes to Weverse magazine shoots, especially 2020 and 2022.

2. i almost never plot things out when i start, which was the case for Boy Blue and Collateral lol. i did sort of plan the ending of Boy Blue by the time Yoongi was introduced but i was still playing around with various ideas. (glad you didn’t trust him tho bc i made him obsessive and weird like immediately and it felt like nobody really caught that??? there were hints of his involvement throughout, tho, because i always loosely wanted that to be a plot twist. In the basement, when Yoongi says, “This wasn’t supposed to happen” what he means is “This isn’t how we planned it.” and even in earlier chapters when they are first captured, his behavior is erratic because he is upset with Taehyung, especially for having a gun.)

i finally wrote an outline for how i wanted to end Boy Blue somewhere around chapter 40. i was like “ok, we need to end this fic, it’s been going on for a long time now.” i think around 42 is when i had the ending completely figured out. most of Boy Blue was the product of me just logging out of class and creating chaos.

Collateral got an outline in chapter 12, and boy howdy, has it changed a lot. i don’t think think i had the actual ending set in stone until chapter 15. i think that was the point when i decided that in order for this story to get the ending i wanted, i needed to plan a sequel, and i slid Balming Tiger into the story.

THESE ARE PROBABLY WAY MORE WORDS THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR but i get really excited to talk about my fics, so thank you for giving me something fun and thoughtful to wake up to! feel free to ask more questions if you would like to! i am an open book!!! 💙💙💙 and thank you so much for reading!!!

[sugarcherriess]

Addicted To Please You — Park Sunghoon

Part 2 - Addicted To Love You

[Obsessed!Sunghoon x Older Afab!Reader]

Warnings: Smut, Sunghoon is obsessed with you, talking about other people masturbating to reader, overstimulation, reader is a model friend of the guys, all of my works are make believe so dont pay too much attention to them being unfactual or unrealistic- just imagine it.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

In all the time you’ve known the boys, you never had thought that you’d be stuck in their dorm playing rock paper scissors to figure out whose room you’d be sleeping in tonight.

how did it even come to this? they had invited you to a movie night to celebrate yours, their dear friend’s birthday. You had worked with them on a magazine shoot right as they debuted, and had quickly gained their adoration. well, one of them more than the rest.

to say Sunghoon was infatuated with you would be an understatement. the boy was thoroughly invested in you, who you are, what you like, who you like. the boys often made fun of his little attraction towards you—

“you’ve got a lot of nerve calling it a little attraction when you’re constantly five seconds away from sniffing her hair,” Jake had teased one night.

but you also had some clue regarding what goes on in that pretty head of his. every time you came around he kept his eye on your every move, keeping his ears open for you at all times. hell, sometimes he knew what you wanted or what you were going to say before you even said it. like that time he put a cushion behind your back before you even had a chance to contort your face in discomfort.

why was that chair so damn uncomfortable?

a very enthusiastic “yes!” brought you back to planet earth, informing you that Sunghoon had in fact won the game they had been playing before you got distracted.

Right. It's late and storming outside so i have to stay with him tonight.

he grabs your hand and pulls you in the direction of his room. Jay’s gentle warning rings through the living room as you make your leave;

“when you enter his room and see yourself staring back, don’t freak out”

the boys had always teased Sunghoon in front of you for being too attached to collecting photos of you. but you never paid it any mind. you had many fans, why would your best friend being one be weird?

alas, when Sunghoon opens his door and drags you in, you’re left feeling like a human question mark.

the rooms walls seem to be covered inch by inch with your posters—

“is that a poster of my Valentine’s lingerie shoot?” you question him dumbly.

“yup!” he unashamedly confirms. now that you think about it, he seems pretty eager to let you in on his crush on you.

“little crush” my ass

“Hoon, that campaign didn’t release any posters”

“i know, i loved this photo so much that i got the poster made myself,” he smiles. “do you like them?”

you take a closer look of the poster to see if you do in fact like it or not. your own face looks back at you, dressed in what you consider the most revealing lingerie set you have ever worn in your life. it was a lace two piece, cupping your body in a mouth watering way. you were sitting on a table in the photo, weight on your elbows, staring seductively into the camera. your legs were open suggestively. it was a Valentine’s shoot after all.

no wonder Sunghoon had felt the need to print it out and attach it to his wall.

taking your silence as discomfort, he hesitantly asks if you find it weird— having yourself on his bedroom walls.

“not really,” you truthfully speak up. “i’m a model, of course people who like me are gonna have my posters up. don’t worry about it hoon.” you smile at him as a way to ease his worries.

they’re not eased in the slightest.

“d’you think other boys have photos of you they like?”

not seeing his darkened expression, you answer him innocently, “yes of course. they probably have even more photos of me,”

suddenly, instead of your own face, you come face to face with Sunghoon’s broad chest as he moves between you and the wall you’re facing.

“yeah? you’d think they’d have more?”

“yeah maybe.”

he steps towards you and you take equal steps back, kind of intimidated by his sharp eyes. the tension in the room rises as he traps you between himself and the foot of his bed.

“do you like it?” he asks, pushing you to sit on the bed.

“like what?” when did your throat get so dry? why does he look so hot?

“do you like the thought of other men having your photos on their walls?”

“Sunghoon-“

“do you like the idea of them touching themselves to you baby?”

he tentatively slides onto his knees in front of you, between your legs. his soft hands find their home on top of your knees.

“i- god Hoon i don’t know. i’ve never thought of it,” you answer honestly.

he slides his hands under your thighs and grips them tightly.

“tsk tsk, you’ve never thought of anyone cuming to you? never thought of them wishing it was them cuming inside your tight cunt instead of their hands?”

he tries to open your legs but you stiffen them up, not sure if you should give in that easily.

what turn has this night taken?

“do you think the same?” you ask, trying to shift the control. your sudden question startles him.

“what?”

“do you think of me when you play with yourself, Hoon?”

“i-“ he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, weighing his chances. “yeah. i do”

“do you think of cuming inside me?”

eyes rolling to the back of his head, he lets out a desperate “yes” before begging you to let him shove his face in your cunt.

“please open your legs,” he whines as he grips your thighs again and pries them apart. “let me have a taste. please, i’ll make you feel so good. let me please you?”

at the first sign of your agreement, he quickly pushes up your dress and dives straight in to kiss and lick at your clothed heat. you joke that he’s going to break his nose like this and he responds by licking up your panties, pushing them between your wet slit with the movement.

his deft fingers hook into the sides of your underwear and pull it off quickly, pocketing the garment. you pay no mind to his antics, too busy lost in his clever tongue pushing at your throbbing clit and his curious finger inserting itself inside your gushing hole. before it even goes in completely, he pushes in a second one.

“fuck hoon, it feels so—fuck. feels so good,”

he responds by sucking harder on your clit, letting you know he’s enjoying this even more than you. he had been dreaming of this moment for so long. he still can't believe that you’re actually here, sitting on his bed, letting him devour you.

he removes his fingers from your entrance, replacing them with his mouth. his dripping fingers make their way up to your clit as his mouth makes its descent to your puffy lips. he pushes his heavy fingers on your clit as he adorns your lips with light pecks and kitten licks before using his free hand to pull them apart and licking your hole. his mouth sucks you hard in its endeavour to suck out whatever your cunt allows him.

the sloppy sounds make your head spin. one of your hands moves to grip the hair on the back of his head and you push his face into yourself even more. Sunghoon takes his time exploring your cunt from the inside and outside. licking, sucking and touching wherever he can.

he moves away to breathe, pushing his fingers inside you in the meanwhile so as to not let your orgasm slip away. he busies himself biting your thighs and leaving his mark on them. his fangs leave indents on your flesh as he sucks the skin in, breaking off the blood circulation and leaving pretty hickies that you’ll find there for the next few weeks. he keeps biting so hard you’d think he’s putting teeth-to-skin with the intent of drawing blood. you wouldn’t be surprised if he did puncture the flesh and sucked some blood out, hell bent on getting to taste all of you.

once you feel that he’s had enough air to fill in his lungs, you push his face back in between your thighs. you’re so close to an earth shattering orgasm, if he moves an inch away you’ll actually start growling. to ensure his mouth working you to your orgasm, you squeeze his head between your thighs, at which he groans out loud. his noise blesses vibrations to your cunt and he licks your clit harder and faster to bring you closer to your release.

he suctions his lips around your clit and lightly moans, hoping it would please you.

“suck harder, hoon,” you whine out, pushing yourself onto his face even more.

he obliges like his life depends on it, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking as hard as he could. his imploring eyes looking up at you as his fingers curve deliciously against your walls is what makes you fall face first into an eye-crossing orgasm.

you cum with a shout of his name and drop back on his bed. out of breath and out of strength. he keeps licking up your wetness to not let it go to waste. once you whine out due to the overstimulation, he unwillingly pulls away. not before leaving one more kiss on your cunt.

he rests his head on the inside of your thigh to catch his breath, not ceasing his kissing and biting on the soft and squishy muscle.

the comforting silence is broken by his condescending, “i hope you know we aren’t done for the night,” and you question whether you should be thankful or scared of his complete obsession to please you.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

A/N: Sunghoon deserves good pussy. you can quote me on that

[justzawe]

Zawe Ashton is one of the most enchanting and talented British actresses to have graced our studio. Zawe is currently earning raves for her work in Mr. Malcolm’s List playing Julia Thistlewaite, a young woman jilted by London’s most eligible bachelor (alongside a stellar cast, which includes Freida Pinto, Ashley Park, and Theo James). We had a blast shooting in Brooklyn where she was about to attend the NYC premiere. One of our favorite designer and muses Batsheva picked a few frocks that worked well for Zawe’s swiftly changing shape. For now consider a wonderful escape into Mr. Malcolm’s world if you haven’t already…and check out Zawe’s favorite green clean beauty and lates bare essentials.

The Bare Magazine: Can you share a bit about the New York City screening of “Mr. Malcolm’s List”?

Zawe Ashton: It was an amazing thing to open this film in New York, one my favorite cities in the world—made more special by my time spent on Broadway in 2019 before all the theaters shut down because of the pandemic. The response to the movie has been so warm and so supportive, we’re so grateful as a team. We’re an independent film that took 27 days to make up against some huge franchise releases this summer, so it means so much to see the positive responses. Being here in the city, safely, after shooting this film in deepest lock down in Dublin, is such a wonderful full circle. To be part of the new wave of theatrical releases, encouraging people back to the cinema feels tremendous.

Bare: Did you enjoy your visit to our Brooklyn studio as much as we enjoyed having you?

ZA: I adore Brooklyn, I love being by the water in the city. As if you have the Statue of Liberty at the end of your street! In another multiverse, I’m an achingly cool photographer living and working in Brooklyn, with a light filled studio just like this!

Bare: What do you hope viewers take away from this film?

ZA: I think this is a very kind film. We need that right now. There are serious threats we face in our world. As an artist, I can try and polish my corner as best as possible and put work out there that feels like it helps in some way. This film is pure escapist rom-com-regency-romance joy! It’s pretty much the first feature film in this genre with an inclusive cast in leading roles of all types—romantic lead, protagonist, antagonist.etc. It’s a needle mover in that way and there’s a real powerful legacy to that, as well as it being so light and wholeheartedly entertaining. I had so many formative experiences watching films of this genre, mostly because I had grown up wanting to see my imaginings of books of this era brought to life, and when they were , no one in them looked like me. So, if we can change that formative experience for the next generation, as a team of actors, we will have fulfilled a purpose beyond just movie making. I also have a real intentionality in my work to amplify the visions of fledgling female filmmakers, and Emma Holly Jones has delivered her first feature with Mr. Malcolm’s List along with an all female producing and writing team. So, there’s lots of reasons to support this film!

Bare: You mentioned in our studio that you are trying to use clean everything, especially lippies...are there any all-natural beauty products you’re especially into lately?

ZA: You’ve just introduced me to Pacifica, which I’m already obsessed with! Their coconut cream deodorant is amazing, it’s not sexy to talk about deodorant necessarily but so many of them are toxic and can cause chemical build up in that very vulnerable area near the breast. I’m loving their vegan lip oils—actually really pigmented and so moisturizing at the same time. Grown Alchemist is also a new favorite. Their hand cream is so rich and comforting, which is still needed with the hand sanitizing! All their bath and body range is delicious. It feels nice to start the day as cleanly as possible and forgive yourself if you potentially go downhill from there

Bare: You have great personal style. Has it been challenging getting dressed/styled for red carpet events now that your body is changing?

ZA: That’s very kind. I will say that it was a rude awakening to find that red carpet maternity dressing is pretty much nonexistent. I felt very lucky to have Sabina Bilenko, a couture house who’s ethos I really believe in, support me for the special night. I’d love to contribute to an initiative that can plug the gap in that market in a sustainable way.

Bare: And finally, please list your top 5 Bare essentials.

ZA: Pacifica Glow Stick Lip Oil in Crimson Crush; Fenty Beauty Cheeks Out Freestyle Cream Blush in Petal Poppin; Milk Makeup Kush Fiber Brow Gel; Kevyn Aucoin Stripped Nude Skin Tint, and Charlotte Tilbury Pillow Talk Mascara.

[sonder-paradise]

Hi! Could you write for Mitsuya with a model s/o pls? Cause i cant get out of my mind the scenario of him making dresses for his s/o. Feel free to delete! ❤

a match made in heaven for sure <3

mitsuya’s obsessed with making you outfits and accessories and anything you want

you’re his muse and his favorite person to design for

he’s practically memorized your measurements at this point

but that still doesn’t stop him from making the excuse to retake them every chance he gets 👀

he attends all your shows. primarily because you’re usually wearing his designs and he honestly feels so in love when he sees you walk down the runway

collects the magazines you’re featured in and may or may not have a separate drawer in his workspace just to keep them in

before shows he tidies your outfit, squeezes your hand in his and smiles oh so warmly

he praises your efforts and absolutely knows that you’re going to look and do amazing

of course there are certain moments when he’s felt a tad jealous behind the scenes

even if he’s not in charge of the outfits, he’ll attend your photoshoots

and mitsuya isn’t the most excited when you have to pair up with another model set in a particularly provocative position

but afterwards he gets to privately “hang out” with you in your dressing room :D

i’m an sfw blog now i’m an sfw blog now i’m a-

when he knows you’ve been working too hard or feels like you need some time off, he’ll just call up your agent and explain you won’t be available for the next two days or so

do i know how modeling agencies work? no

am i going to write this anyways? yes <3

anyways he will literally get up at the most random hour because he just can’t stop himself from designing for you

ngl he probably learned to do makeup a long time ago so expect him to additionally help you with that too on the off chance

practically adores your body and will quite literally worship it

modeling comes with certain standards and while you may be out here breaking trends and being sexy (bc the world i right for, everyone is model-worthy) mitsuya always makes sure you’re taking care of yourself

he brings you things when you have shoots and makes sure you’re being taken care of before and after fashion shows

matching outfits matching outfits matching outf-

y’all are featured in so many magazines it’s unreal

it’s even better when you walk into his workshop and his assistants just stare at you slack-jawed and silly because goddamn you’re so hot b look at you go

and mitsuya is more than glad to show you off just a tad

makes you the most gorgeous outfits during banquets or shows

you have the honor and privilege of saying your boyfriend made your outfit during talk shows

has occasionally modeled alongside with you (i mean look at him ofc he has :/)

prefers watching you shine the brightest in the spotlight though <3

Taglist: @hanemiso @greenshirtimagines @nameless-shrimp @chifuyu-whisperer @sigmafied @nullified-kiss @swrdemon @allisonlol @sebtomm @amaejiki @jessbeinme15 @arixsux

[pingutats]

For the “ways to say i love you” prompts, 43 please!

thank you for the request! from this list, prompt 43: "I picked these for you."

warnings: none! this is just fluff!

word count: 1.8k

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

This is definitely Harry’s domain.

Y/N hugs her shoulders as she stands in her bedroom-turned-dressing-room, staring at the rack of expensive clothes that have been left for her. Through the door, she can hear the noise of the crew bustling around her living room. This house has, of course, been the site of many Harry-hosted parties that had packed in a lot more people than there are present here today — despite that, this smaller group is threatening to become overwhelming for her.

She’s doing this for Harry. A couple of months ago, he was approached by AnOther Magazine to do a big feature with them — a kind of sequel to the one that he did when they were still called Another Man — and he’s been pouring his heart and soul into it since then. It feels like every single day, he’s been off chatting with a writer or meeting with the creative director. He dragged boxes out of storage to rifle through for mementos of his life as a solo artist last week. Y/N knows that some of their friends have been interviewed to talk about Harry. She’s pretty sure Stevie Nicks is one of them.

The centrepiece, though, is a photoshoot more intimate than he’s ever shared before. In the same way that the shoot set in his hometown years ago illustrated where he came from before he rocketed to stardom, this one will reveal who he is underneath all the make-up and glamour of fame.

Harry as he exists in private: in his home, with his girl, sharing this image of himself for the very first time.

Y/N was apprehensive at first — hell, Harry was too — but they’ve discussed it at length. He’s always been a private man, but his ethos is that honesty is integral to his art. He sings in detail about her in his music and puts that into the world with minimal censoring. This magazine feature, at its core, is just another artistic venture. He doesn’t want to hold back. When she understood it like that, it was easy for her to agree.

Her conviction that this is an important thing to do for Harry doesn’t stop the nerves, though. She’s never been a model, or even remotely a figure of interest beyond her connection to Harry. It’s his limelight that she’s stepping into. She can’t help but feel nervous about it.

The first outfit she’s wearing is a boldly patterned dress, custom-made by Gucci at Harry’s request. This isn’t the first time she’s wearing something this expensive (there are no compromises on fashion when you’re with Harry) but it still makes her feel like a fish out of water. She holds the hanger at arms-length for a moment, vaguely anxious that she might have put on weight since the fitting and it won’t fit her anymore, then carefully slips it off. She steps into it gingerly and shrugs it over her shoulders, then reaches behind her to pull the zip up as far as she can reach. She stands in front of the mirror and looks at her reflection, frowning.

Her make-up, which was done earlier, is colourful and dramatic. The point of this home shoot is to show the dichotomy between Harry’s celebrity persona and his private life, illustrated through the elaborate costuming inside their relatively normal home. She doesn’t recognise herself in it.

There’s a knock at the door, startling her out of her thoughts. She whips around, back straightening. “What is it?”

“Can I come in?” It’s Harry’s voice, and just those four short words in his gentle tone are enough to dissolve some of her anxiety.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself into a calmer headspace. “Yeah,” she answers.

He opens the door discreetly and slips inside, careful not to reveal her to the people in the living room while she’s not properly dressed. She appreciates his caution. Although he’s apparently comfortable enough to walk around near-strangers half-naked—he’s only wearing his boxers right now—she definitely isn’t.

“Everything alright, darling?” he asks. Every step that brings him closer puts her more at ease. She’s always been an anxious person, but he’s like a drug to her. From the very first time they met, he’s been the person she feels most natural with. They just work. Things feel right with him.

She smiles at him. It’s a weak stretch of her lips, but a smile nonetheless. “Yeah. Can you zip me up, please?”

“Of course.”

She turns back around to face the mirror and reaches behind her head to pull her hair out of his way. His fingers are warm against bare skin of her back, finding the zipper and dragging it up, his knuckles brushing against her skin more than is probably necessary. He fixes the way the straps sit over her shoulders with the same attention to detail that she’s seen his stylists give for him a hundred times before. His lip is tucked between his teeth as he does so, glancing from the mirror back to her, his face the image of concentration.

Finally satisfied, he takes a step back and rakes his gaze up and down her figure. “Y’look gorgeous.”

She shrugs, staring at herself. “Thanks, H.”

“I mean it.” He plants a kiss on her cheek, holding her by the waist as they look at each other through their reflections. “Pretty dress for a pretty girl.”

Heat rises in her face and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Now you’re doing too much.”

He shakes his head. “‘M not. Promise I’m not.”

She hums, appraising their reflection with a frown. Even in his underwear, Harry is Harry, and she… She feels like she’s playing dress up in someone else’s wardrobe, dipping her toes into someone else’s life. Harry is at ease in a place like this but she certainly isn’t.

Harry seems to sense this. “Something the matter?” he asks her gently.

“No, just —“ she wrings her hands in front of her, searching for the words. “I don’t feel like me.”

He furrows his brow. “I know what you mean. ’S weird when you do all this—” he flutters his hand around the room, at the rack of clothes and towards the door where they can hear someone giving directions to shift the couch slightly to the left “—just to get a photo done. And I know you’re not used to it.” He squeezes her waist gently. “But you look beautiful. Just like you always do.”

She can’t suppress a small smile at that, bumping her head against Harry’s shoulder with a quietly mouthed, “Thank you.”

He turns his head to kiss her hair, then releases his grip on her waist and moves over to the rack of clothes. “But did y’see…” He bends down to pick up a plastic container marked Look 1 from the shelf at the bottom. He opens it up to reveal various pieces of jewellery inside, and delicately picks out a couple pieces with nimble fingers. “I picked these for you.”

They’re her earrings. More specifically, they’re the earrings that he gave her for their first anniversary. A couple of dangling pearls—he’d bought them during his obsession with the gems. They’re a sweet memento of that time of their lives, of the honeymoon phase that felt like it lasted forever, that never really fizzled out even to this day. They’re her favourites.

She realises her mouth has dropped open. “When did you sneak those in?” she asks.

He shrugs, smirking. “I have my ways. I’m sneaky.” He returns to his previous position standing behind her, nudging her hair behind her ear with his knuckles. “May I?”

She nods, trying not to shiver as his fingers brush against her ears.

“There we go,” he says, stepping back. “Is that a bit better?”

The girl in the mirror looks familiar now. Despite the make-up and the dress, she can see herself. The same face, framed by the same earrings, that has accompanied Harry through all sorts of days and nights. Today is just another one of those things. Something they’re doing, together, and isn’t that all she wants, for them to do everything together?

Being with Harry is a dream she never wants to wake up from. They’ve built a paradise together and now they get to share a tiny part of it with the world—not for the world to share in it, but to see just how beautiful it is.

There’s a little part of Y/N that hopes it makes the rest of the world jealous. They should be, she thinks.

“It’s perfect, H,” she tells him, glancing over her shoulder so she looks at his real face, not just his reflection. “Honestly. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” He looks proud of himself—his eyes are shining and his dimples are on display as he looks her up and down once more. “It’s all you.”

Y/N mirrors him, her gaze travelling down his body. She bites her lip.

Harry seems to remember suddenly that he’s only in his underwear—his hands fly to cover his thinly-clothed privates and he looks at her, his mouth open in a sly grin. “This is not the time,” he scolds, his shoulders shaking as he suppresses laughter.

Y/N rolls her eyes, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him to turn around. “Go get dressed, you dork.”

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

The suit that Harry wears is made out of the same material as Y/N’s dress, bright and bold colours. The photographer is accomodating of her nerves as he has them sit on the couch. The window is wide open to allow the natural light to illuminate their faces, and the Y/N can feel the warmth of the sun on her face. The sky is a brilliant blue. It’s a perfect day.

“Okay, look this way,” the photographer tells her, drawing her attention from the window to the camera. “A little closer, Harry.”

Harry shifts over, his thigh pressing against hers. His hand comes to rest on her knee, then lifts suddenly as if he’s remembered something. “Hang on a minute,” he says to the photographer, holding up a finger.

He twists around to face Y/N and carefully sweeps her hair back over her shoulder, tucking it behind her ear to ensure the pearl earring is on clear display. She smiles at him, which he returns in a quick unspoken exchange of gratitude and care.

“Alright,” Harry says, settling back to face the photographer. His hand finds Y/N’s and he squeezes it. “We’re good.”

The camera clicks and the flash goes off. Their hands remain joined on Harry’s lap.

.                               .                           .                               .                           .

hope you enjoyed this!! if you did, a reblog & any kind of message would be really appreciated. i'm open to any requests, from the prompt list linked above or from your own imagination, which you can send here. all my other writing is linked on my masterlist. have a lovely day!

[new-sandrafilter]

The Making (and Re-Making) of Timothée Chalamet

BY DANIEL RILEY / PHOTOGRAPHY BY RENELL MEDRANO

He found superstardom and artistic acclaim instantaneously. Now, with unique candor, the actor of a generation reveals what it’s like to come of age in our very upside-down era.

The day after the Oscars in 2018, everything that had changed, changed back again. Timothée Chalamet had spent the previous months becoming known. He had acted in a film, Call Me by Your Name, which was critically acclaimed as well as an instant object of cultish admiration—and his performance had made him, at 22, the youngest person nominated for best actor in 80 years. He had, simultaneously, been transformed into the rarest of pop confections—fawned over by younger women, older men, and every demographic in between. And he had traveled without pause on the awards circuit since early autumn, back and forth from New York and Los Angeles, practically living out of the first-class lounge and the lobbies of the Bowery Hotel and the Sunset Tower.

But the day after the Oscars, the moment the clock struck midnight and his carriage turned into a pumpkin, Chalamet was right back where he'd been before the whole fantasy had begun: in New York, with no credit card, no apartment, and no longer any structured demands on his time and attention. Outsiders who had witnessed the arrival may have regarded this 22-year-old as being in possession of wealth and clout, but he was suddenly back on his own dime, which amounted to maybe five or six dimes, reticent to stay with family and friends whose lives he felt he was disrupting with all his new baggage. Of course they couldn't possibly comprehend the chemical reaction that had just transpired. They were still hydrogen and oxygen, and Timothée Chalamet was all of a sudden water.

And so, for three weeks, he disappeared into the wallpaper of the Lower East Side. Specifically, the wallpaper of a little apartment that the French street artist JR kept for visiting collaborators. Chalamet holed up against the ugly New York weather of late winter, and did the only thing he could think to do: learn lines. The King would be his first film since his pivot into fame, and he was anxious to get back to acting after such a long stretch of merely talking about acting. Even more, he needed to blot out the unrecognizable icon the internet was already beginning to make of Timothée Chalamet.

I met Timothée for the first time at the onset of that initial blush of fame, when all of us were being introduced to an actor who had both rare talent and the un-engineerable it that chings like an audible sparkle off a jewel in a cartoon. I wrote a story for this magazine about that first chapter in the arrival of a film star. This is the second chapter, the story of what's happened since. It wasn't evident yet, but those three weeks in New York in 2018 were the starting line of what would amount to a 30-month stretch of four new films, two new Oscar campaigns, some refreshing romance, an incessant awareness of the confusing image of himself as—what else to call it?—an emerging global movie star, and a constant concerted effort to figure himself out as both a young actor and a young person in the unceasing spotlight.

This summer, we were talking about all this on a little screened porch out back of a modest cabin in Woodstock when Chalamet recalled those three weeks. “My world had flipped,” he said. “But if I kicked it with my friends, things could still feel the same. I was trying to marry these two realities. But I don't even think I knew that was what I was doing. That dissonance was real. And thank God. Because I feel like if I'd caught up to it immediately, I would've been a psychopath or something.”

Out on that porch, I asked him a version of the same question over and over: What had the last two and a half years been like for him, as a human being? His response was a multi-hour monologue that I would characterize as: intense. He expressed unadulterated gratitude for his great good fortune. But he also expressed confusion and tension. He is firmly in a moment when he is concerned that everything he says or does or thinks will look or sound wrong. He backtracked a lot (“Wait, let me try that again”). He jumped on and off the record (“Sorry, sorry, sorry, this is just for you…”). It was important for me to know, he said, in order to communicate the context of his experience, if not the specifics.

.

“I want to get back to the undefined space again. I'm chasing a feeling.” 

He lives in the same world all of us do—only with the potential for adoration and blowback turned up to 11. He seems, at once, to trust his own instincts while also second-guessing most thoughts the moment he's convinced of them. It is an exhausting way to be. At times, when he was up on his feet, in his T-shirt and shorts, pacing around the little screened porch, hands tugging at his mane, I could feel the gears grinding to the point of smoke. He wanted so desperately to get this right, to express what he really meant, to feel the right feelings, to live the right way, to be the right kind of man for the people in his life that he knows he can and should be, despite everything else, despite the noise. He's doing his best.

Timothée had rented the house for the month of July, as a little escape but also as an opportunity. He was slated to play Bob Dylan in a new biopic. No telling when it might film, given everything, but for now he had more time to himself than he'd had in years, which meant time to maybe huff the vapors of some Woodstock Dylanalia. “It's not like I'm suffering from lack of connection otherwise,” he said, “but it just really feels like I'm connecting to something here.” When he arrived, he discovered that his little house had a wall devoted to Dylan—to the albums he'd recorded in the run-up to his timeout in Woodstock in the late '60s. Timothée relished happening upon that wall his first day in the Airbnb. The universe offered signs if you nudged it toward coherence.

He knew what the cabin might seem like—like some young actor taking himself way too seriously, “treating himself like an artist.” But he was back and forth between Woodstock and New York all month, bombing up and down the interstate in the Honda sedan he'd rented from Enterprise. (He learned how to drive on Beautiful Boy.) All the while Dylan was top of mind. Timothée was late to the party but helplessly obsessed. He quoted him generously. He fixated on both the art and the persona. He marveled at the way the artist could be out there so much, making such an impact, while also keeping the real person obscured behind the music, the characters in the songs, the language. In the city, we spent time walking around Greenwich Village, Timothée in an identity-concealing face mask and bucket hat and sunglasses, able to search out old Dylan addresses in an invisibility cloak. He ran from site to site, with notes he'd kept while reading Dylan's memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, barreling up stairs and peering into windows. He was a 24-year-old actor, taking advantage of the pause between the second phase of his career and the third and thinking hard, daily, about how to play the next few years.

He rented the house in Woodstock, too, so that he could have a little space all to himself. He craved the privacy to try things and to fuck up. To make small mistakes now, out of view, when it was just him, when he was still young, so that he didn't have to worry about it later. At one point, he stood up and slapped an empty water bottle off the table so that it clattered against the screen of the porch. “I want to know what that sounds like!” he shouted. He hadn't taken many missteps yet, and it made him uncomfortable, wary, that he would someday. The month felt like a controlled burn. In the most innocent way, that was what Woodstock was about. He got to practice his guitar and harmonica in peace, cook himself his “shitty pasta” without judgment, permit himself space to keep growing up. So much was in the spotlight now. But in that cabin, he could sit on the couch for a while and re-familiarize himself with “the crease in the cushion” that he'd lost touch with over the past few years. The quiet. The stillness. That sunlight there coming through the trees. He could breathe a little. Sleep a little. It had all been so good for him so far. But the goodness made him anxious. When will the other shoe drop? Not there. He'd deleted Instagram off his phone. He'd stopped posting on Twitter. He was reading again. Listening to albums all the way through. Slowing down. What was it like to have lived these past two and a half years? It was like a lot of things, but here at the end of it, it just felt good to sleep.

Back at the start of the 30-month run that led to Woodstock, Timothée turned over the keys to JR's studio and went to Europe to shoot The King. The role was like none of the films he'd just received notice for. “Here I am on set with all these Hungarian men with scars on their faces, and they're like, ‘You're the center of the shot, you're the badass! And we know you tried to put on all this weight, but like: You're wearing all the chain mail.’ If they took the chain mail off, my throat is still this big…” There he was trying to keep in perspective this new fame, this new validation, this new temptation toward ego, all while being thrust into the center of “something called The motherfucking King.”

When he returned to New York that summer, he skipped off the atmosphere again with another awkward reentry. One moment he was on the battlefield of the biggest-budget drama he'd yet experienced, the next he was “back in New York, on the A/C/E at Port Authority, just like, What the fuck is going on?” It was a pattern over the past few years. The calmly intense immersion into work, the “thud of lost purpose,” as he called it, when the work ended. It happened the same way in the fall of 2018 with Little Women—reunited with Greta Gerwig and Saoirse Ronan and the crew from Lady Bird. There was just an ease with which he plugged in with them, “a vocabulary of friendship” that existed there.

Timothée's career thus far has been filled with these sorts of friendships, notably those across generational lines. Even a casual observer may have picked up on it. Those glommings-on to older people in his life. Armie Hammer. Kid Cudi. Greta Gerwig. When I asked Gerwig to comment on the arc she's witnessed up close, from Lady Bird to Little Women, she wrote a note about “my friend Timmy”: “It's hard for me now, because I'm his friend, to see him strategically.… I love talking to him. We can get on the phone and talk for an hour or more without even realizing it, just skipping from subject to subject, making jokes, me feeling old and happy and him being funny and anxious and delightfully all over the place.” It's an odd gap he finds himself in—forced to be more accelerated than most 24-year-olds while also having not lived enough life yet to fit in absolutely with the people he enjoys spending time with most. On a recent visit with his grandmother in New York, she surprised him by saying, “I wish you would hang out with people your own age more often. It must be so weird.” It made him chuckle. Even she'd noticed. She might be right. But how could he resist the orbit of these creative geniuses he'd so long admired and who were filled with so much knowingness?

“I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles.”

In the winter of 2019, another Oscar campaign left him feeling disoriented all over again. Everything, Timothée said, was exactly the same as the first time except him. He'd put in this undeniable performance, but maybe one that sparked a little less for Oscar voters than that first kiss with a stranger. Now he was in all the same rooms as before, the same lunches and dinners and cocktail parties, shaking hands with the same Academy members who showed up at everything to get a little nibble of the freshest biscuit, growling ominous things at him, like: You don't have my vote yet.… “I really don't know how to talk about this stuff, man,” he told me, “because my experience of it is at the center of it. There's just some dark energy at these things, and this time around I felt like I could see it. And yet I'm thinking, Why isn't this going the exact same way?”

He wasn't nominated for Beautiful Boy, but the fresh air came, as it always seemed to, on the set of the next film: Wes Anderson's The French Dispatch. The movie is about a fictional English-language magazine (based on The New Yorker of the midcentury) and is structurally organized like the magazine itself, featuring short pieces at the “front” of the movie and a triptych of long features at the back. Timothée costars in the second feature, about a May '68-style student-protest leader named Zeffirelli and the middle-aged magazine journalist (Frances McDormand) assigned to report on his cause.

“I had seen Timmy in Lady Bird and Call Me by Your Name,” Anderson wrote to me, “and I never had the inconvenience of ever thinking of anybody else for this role even for a second. I knew he was exactly right, and plus: He speaks French and looks like he might actually have walked right out of an Éric Rohmer movie. Some time around 1985. A slow train from Paris, a backpack, a beach for 10 days in bad weather. He's not any kind of type—but the New Wave would have had a happy place for him.”

The privilege of early fame that Timothée most appreciates is the ability to choose the directors he works with. His role in The French Dispatch is a minor one, but it's a Wes Anderson movie—it's as simple as that. Due to the episodic nature of the film, some of the other “stories” were already being shot when Timothée arrived in Angoulême, a town that reminded him of the one he spent time in growing up, “so French it was like a caricature,” he said. Timothée had the opportunity, then, to hang with some of the elders he doesn't act with, like Jeffrey Wright, Bill Murray, and other seasoned members of the Wes Anderson troupe. “It was immediately as if it wasn't his first time with our group,” Anderson explained. “He was somehow already part of the family. The youngest member.”

Timothée had seen McDormand around for years, but he'd never felt like she was someone he could approach. “We'd shared an agent,” he said. “And it was no disrespect to me, but I hadn't been in any movies yet. What business do I have talking to Frances McDormand? But now, and this is the gift of acting, I really feel myself coming into my own as a community of thespians, as opposed to actors. And man, that sounds pretentious, but I just mean it's not about the fucked-up ladder of success and un-success, and being the guy or the girl, and then being off the list… That's not what I'm talking about with her on set, that's not what she's espousing to me. She's talking about a long career. She's talking about marriage with a creative partner and consultant. So to be able to have conversations like that and then a story line in the movie where they're kind of on an equal field? Even if she's an experienced, wise woman and he's an idealistic, naive boy? That's the exact relationship of exchange I want with my intergenerational peers.”

There's a particularly memorable scene in The French Dispatch, reporter and subject having fallen into bed together, when there's a knock at the door. Timothée looks at McDormand, anxious about who's there, mortified when McDormand informs him it's his mother. There, in that scene, we see all the desire of Zeffirelli—this energetic young man with all the right intentions, who strains to be intellectually and emotionally riper—clash with the reality of his age. It felt familiar to me, and no doubt to Timothée. It was some of my favorite acting in the film. I asked McDormand if there was anything in their scenes that struck her as particularly mature for someone his age. “Maturity is not something a fellow actor is the most concerned with,” she said. “Playfulness, discipline, and rigor. I do recall, during our scene in bed, the crew responding to his work with true respect for his focus. He was bringing it and we sat up and paid attention.” Anderson added: “I think my favorite moments with Timmy during a scene were the ones where I saw him pause and find a new attack. A new angle, which he does very clearly and assertively. What I love is how he will surprise you with something new, completely unexpected and perfect.”

One night, while McDormand was shooting a scene without Timothée, her husband, Joel Coen—he of the Brothers—asked Timothée if he wanted to go out for a steak. Over dinner, Timothée grilled Coen about Dylan. He knew Coen was a fan and had steeped in it on Inside Llewyn Davis. “He almost seemed weary of even talking about this stuff, it was so big and potent,” Timothée told me. But Coen noted that the truly incredible thing about Dylan was not so much the quality, which was obvious, but the quantity—the rapid amount of work in short succession, one groundbreaking album after another, in those early years. That takeaway resonated deeply with Timothée. Especially as he reflected on it from summer 2020, during the pause, during the moment of no work. That gush from Dylan made him want to work—harder, longer, better, more.

A week after our conversation in Woodstock, Timothée and I were in New York City, sitting on a bench along the Hudson, talking about what he's looking for when work resumes. “I want to get back to the undefined space again,” he said. “I'm chasing a feeling. When you think you're doing some great thing, it's probably something you've done before, and when you really fucking have no clue, that's when you're doing something on the edge, good or bad.”

Timothée's mask had slipped down his face as he was saying this, and two young women, about his age, approached cautiously. “Would you mind if we got a…,” they asked, and he hopped up without hesitation. “How'd you recognize me?” he said, friendly, but genuinely curious, as if he hadn't just been shouting about art in a voice that sounded a lot like Laurie from Little Women or Timmy from late-night shows.

“Was it the scrawny limbs or the hair?” I asked him as he sat back down.

“Definitely the first.”

From France, last spring, it was straight to Hungary—right back to the exact apartment in Budapest he'd stayed in while shooting The King—to start work on Dune. Very few actors had become as famous without a blockbuster. And while he'd really gotten it down how to act on an indie set, how to make every second and every take count, he knew this would be something altogether different. It wasn't just the shoot that would prove taxing. A film of Dune's scale would likely be the can opener to a whole other stratum of Hollywood prominence.

Director Denis Villeneuve told me Timothée was his “first and only choice” to play Paul Atreides, “the one name on the page.” When they met to discuss the prospect, Villeneuve told Timothée how happy he was to finally meet the young actor. And Timothée had to remind him that they'd met before, when Timothée read for Villeneuve's Prisoners. “ ‘Of course!’ ” Villeneuve remembered. “He did a great audition, but he didn't physically fit the part. He was probably swearing at me because I didn't take him.” Timothée was party to so many stories like that one—glancing interactions with these heroes of his before he'd broken through. It reminded me of the relationship between freshmen and seniors in high school. The freshmen remember everything about the seniors; the seniors hardly notice the freshmen. But we all become peers eventually.

“I felt there was one being on this planet right now that would be able to portray Paul Atreides,” Villeneuve said—referring to the hero of the 1965 Frank Herbert novel, who transforms from an unassuming heir into a messiah figure, a charismatic outsider and commander of men and women (and sandworms). I read Dune for the first time this summer and was shocked by the source material, how much I'd consumed in culture that had borrowed from it. Star Wars. Alien. The Matrix. Game of Thrones. Paul, therefore, is a type we're familiar with but also possessing singular characteristics Villeneuve wanted Timothée for: “He has a deep, deep intelligence in the eyes. Something you cannot fake. The kid is brilliant. Very intellectual, very strong. And you see that in the eyes. He also has a very old soul. You feel that he has already lived through several lives. And at the same time, he looks so young on camera. Sometimes he'd look almost 14 years old. He has this kind of general youth in his features and the contrast with the old-soul quality in his eyes—it's a kid that knows more about life than his age. Finally: He has that beautiful charisma, the charisma of a rock star. That Paul will lead the whole population of a planet later. Timothée has that kind of instant charisma onscreen that you can find only sometimes in the Old Hollywood stars from the '20s. There's something of a romantic beauty to him. A cross of aristocracy and being a bum at the same time. I mean, Timothée is Paul Atreides for me. It was a big relief that he agreed, because I had no plan b.”

“If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.”

I asked Villeneuve if he noticed Timothée struggling at all to adjust to the larger-scale production. “It didn't show when he was on set, but I think for him the big thing was to learn how to create his own bubble on set. So that he would not have to try to be the friend of everyone. When you're on a smaller set, when there's 25 people, you can be friendly with 25 people. When there's 800 people around, you cannot be friends with 800 people.” He chuckled. “It's too much. So how to save your energy, how to focus, how to give himself permission to be in his bubble and make sure that his bubble is respected.”

As ever, Timothée had a special affinity with those people on set who were a little older, a little wiser. Villeneuve said Timothée was constantly speaking with him and his wife in this open, vulnerable way about his concerns, his fears, how to deal with certain pressures. Villeneuve also described for me Timothée's relationships with his fellow actors, particularly the trio of Josh Brolin, Oscar Isaac, and Jason Momoa. “I felt like Timothée was deeply seduced—or maybe not seduced, but I just felt it was like a kid being with older brothers,” Villeneuve said. “He was younger, he was the little one on set, and everybody loved him. There's a scene in the movie where Timothée runs into the arms of Jason Momoa, and Jason grabs him like a puppy and lifts him into the air like he was a feather. And that's real! They really loved each other. It was very beautiful to see this young man being influenced by these people he admires.”

“His positive energy is infectious,” Zendaya, his nearest peer in the film, told me. “He really is so much fun to be around. We have very similar humor, and we can keep a joke going for a long time, but when the cameras start rolling and it's time to work, you can see it's game time, and he just taps into this brilliant intensity. It's awesome to witness.” Villeneuve underlined the energy as well, describing for me just having seen Timothée the night before we spoke, and marveling at “that beautiful, strong candor.”

“I will say that looking at Timothée working, I had a deep feeling that I was watching the birth of something,” Villeneuve added. “Not that it's for me—I say that with humility, because I feel that birth in all the movies he's done so far. I'm feeling it's someone that has insane potential. When I say potential, I don't want to reduce what he's doing right now, not at all. It's just that sometimes you are in front of somebody and you have the feeling you are in contact with a strong artist and that artist, his identity is still growing, building itself, learning its boundaries, learning how to protect some part of it. I think that we are witnessing something beautiful right now.”

At the end of summer 2019, Timothée finally resurfaced from Planet Dune. He had been on social media only sporadically while shooting for most of 2019, and so, for his vast base of fans, it was an overdue glimpse of the object of their affection. First up was the Venice Film Festival and the premiere of The King. There were clothes and Kid Cudi cameos and charming red-carpet interviews. It was an example of the sort of stretch, in the gaps between shoots, when Timothée could indulge his passions for hip-hop and fashion and all these things he'd loved all his life that were suddenly accessible. It was another of the delirious disorientations of the past few years—the way that people who were once subjects of his intense fandom were suddenly a part of his life as friends or acquaintances happy to have him around. He might still embarrass himself at times, helplessly rapping back lyrics to his hip-hop heroes or gushing like a broken dam about new music or clothes or art made by the makers in his life, but they were cool with him so long as he actually kept his cool.

Timothée also spent the end of last summer promoting The King, alongside his costar Lily-Rose Depp, whom he'd been dating for about a year. He is serious about keeping his former relationship with Depp to himself, but he did share one very sweet, very funny, very sad anecdote that encapsulates the spectrum of great and terrible that accompanies the private life of someone new to mega-fame like Timothée.

After Venice, he and Lily-Rose took a few days for themselves in Capri, where they were photographed by paparazzi. One image, in particular, circulated in which they were making out on the deck of a boat. Timothée is contorting himself into the kiss and looks a little awkward. Many people had their laughs. And some even suggested that the photo was staged for publicity. “I went to bed that night thinking that was one of the best days of my life,” Timothée told me. “I was on this boat all day with someone I really loved, and closing my eyes, I was like, indisputably, ‘That was great.’ And then waking up to all these pictures, and feeling embarrassed, and looking like a real nob? All pale? And then people are like: This is a P.R. stunt. A P.R. stunt?! Do you think I'd want to look like that in front of all of you?!”

This was how things worked now. He'd disappeared into those four straight films and emerged into a new paradigm—one that followed him into the holiday season of last year and a whole new level of exposure with Little Women. Here was this film about sisterhood, female intimacy, and a feminist critique of art and commerce. And yet Timothée was still the shiniest object in the set for so many fans. “I'm very used to answering questions about Timothée's hair from 15-year-old girls,” Saoirse Ronan joked with me. “I imagine that's probably what you're going to ask me about?”

Ronan has the unique perspective of having filmed and then promoted two movies with Chalamet during the past three years, and has as clear an eye as anyone onto this early phase of his career. “He's had such incredible opportunities, and he doesn't let the reality of that pass him by,” she said. “He's incredibly gracious and grateful in relation to his work and the people he works with. I think he's become more open as an actor. He knows his instrument more. I think he works even harder now because there are projects that are on his shoulders in a way that they weren't before. And of course he's been totally catapulted into this whole other realm of attention and notoriety. So he's also having to balance the incredible fame and attention, which would completely freak me out if it was something I had to go through.”

.

“I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

When Timothée and I were sitting by the Hudson that afternoon back in summer, there were those two young women who approached him for a photo. But there were also two other young women who caught an eyeful of his profile as they strolled by and then surreptitiously positioned themselves out of his sight line but still in mine. They did that thing where one pretends to take a picture of the other while actually shooting back over her shoulder in selfie mode. That charade went on for five minutes or so while Timothée exercised his guts about reuniting with Gerwig and Ronan on Little Women, and though I was nodding along, I was also marveling at the lengths to which those two fans were willing to go to get a picture of him.

I asked Ronan what she's noticed about that level of attention, sitting beside him for so much of it. “I'm always kind of shocked by those things—when any one person can just completely take over people's lives so much,” she said, laughing a little incredulously. “But I'm also not surprised. There just aren't many other young male actors out there like him, who are able to hold an audience in the way that he does. His look is so magnetic and beautiful. One of the things that we spoke about a lot when we were doing Little Women, in terms of our characters, but also in terms of myself and him as people, is that we both have this masculinity and femininity equally. And I think that that's one of his strengths, is that he can be incredibly sort of feminine and sensitive and sensual, and also he's a guy that, you know, girls fancy. So he covers so much ground in terms of popularity. But at the end of the day, he's always gonna have this skill. He can be cute, but that only gets you so far.… And so I've seen him learn how to separate himself from all that other stuff when he's on set, when he's working.”

In Woodstock, Timothée had described to me with greatest admiration the way that Ronan can act in these films, at this highest level of acclaim and attention, but also remove herself, uncomplicatedly, from all the fuss: “She is like a superhero when it comes to this sort of thing, going through it so healthy—with the asterisk being excellent work across the board and four Oscar nominations. I think her, like, DNA of self is really morally right.” She knows herself extremely well, he said, and has the confidence to give up only so much of herself. Whereas he feels he is calibrating constantly how much of his true self to reveal. “Saoirse's one of my best friends in the world—at least I think we're best friends. And she's never judged me for…the Coachella of it all.” That is, the part of him that can't resist fanning out backstage with his favorite musicians or occasionally allowing himself to be in the spotlight even as he talks about preserving his privacy.

“He's 24, and he's gonna have a great time, and I would never judge him. I've been to Coachella; I just never got photographed at Coachella,” Ronan said, chuckling. “But yeah, we talk about that sort of stuff all the time. We've weirdly gone through this together for the last few years. We've both become more accessible. But he's had one sort of attention—I do feel like boys get it on a whole other level. I know that ultimately what he wants is to be good at his job. And that will always steer him on the right path. I've always let him know, and he's always let me know, we can talk to each other, and we do. He has good people around him, and I'm one of them, and Greta as well—we all kind of look out for one another.”

Timothée spent late May and early June asking questions of himself: What can I do? What is my role in all this? He felt conflicted when he sprang to action and conflicted when he stood still. But never did things feel less uncertain, less self-conscious, than when he was marching, anonymously, alongside hundreds or thousands of others in Los Angeles in the wake of the murder of George Floyd. It was an active way to participate—meaningful action, without being showy, without flexing any of the levers of fame or power. He was going to get hit no matter what he did, so he tried to follow his instincts of what felt humble, responsible, right.

“This idea,” he said, “that power is the mass body politic organized—and how many bodies can you get together—that makes sense to me.” He didn't disappear but, rather, stripped himself of his him-ness and became one body, among many, taking up space and participating in an unequivocal statement. “With a mask, a hood, a hat, glasses—my face is deleted,” he explained, “and I'm literally presenting a physical form, you know?” A single body in space that, like a vote cast in an election, is democracy embodied, but anonymous. The same unit of power as anyone else. “People might find it disingenuous, but I found it really grounding,” he said. “It was Oh shit, I don't feel out of place—and yet I haven't been in a crowd like this for years.”

He spent much of the summer talking with others about how a person should be in a cultural and political moment such as this one. “After a day of protests,” he said, “I'd ask friends if they ‘felt good.’ If we do, is it a good thing to feel good, or does that mean we're doing it for the wrong reasons? How much do I want to put on social media? Is it a virtue signal to put it on social media? But all social media is performative, right?” I heard him ask dozens of self-interrogating questions like these. He cares so genuinely about doing the right thing, about doing well by his family, his friends, and his fans. But he didn't want to misuse his privilege or his platform, to overreach so that the gravity of his fame sucked up anything from anyone else whose moment it was to speak. He didn't want to take up room; he wanted to help center other voices. On Instagram, he posted videos each day during the first week of marches in Los Angeles—no directives into camera, just an implicit charge to his followers: Show up. Listen. Be a body.

“I have so many thoughts on so much of it,” he said, “but I don't see the benefit of putting it down for consumption until I've really worked out exactly how I feel about it all. Who benefits from my half-baked ideas?” Who cannot relate to this in 2020? Who would want any of their dinnertime conversations with family and friends these past months chiseled into the stone of the internet? “I care so much about this stuff. But I would never want my caring to be misconstrued. I don't want my caring to be about me in any way.”

God, this stuff twisted him up. He knows how much has gone his way. But from the summit of good fortune and power, is it better to speak constantly—or to shut up, put on the glasses, pull down the hood, and live and act according to one's convictions as one individual among many individuals? To march. To vote. To speak through action rather than words. Staying in motion, showing up, being a body—it's a good place to start while he works out the rest of how he's meant to live a life true to his values with everyone watching.

He's seeking out the right path, the right people—with help from his “intergenerational peers” and Dylan and anyone else he can find. He wants the benefit of their knowledge and experience, and he's okay if it's slow going to accrue it. He's open to playing the role of the novice still. But there have also been things in his life these past of couple years that have made him realize, as he puts it, “adults are just kids a little bit older.” When he returned to New York from Los Angeles this summer, it wasn't to his childhood apartment or to a borrowed living space of an acquaintance. It was to his very own apartment, his first, in a little wedge of Manhattan he loved for being nowhere, but on the edge of several somewheres. He relished the mundanity of setting up his own place. To hear him talk about a first trip to CB2 was like hearing another person talk about their first trip to a movie set. “But I think if people saw what my apartment looked like, they'd be like, ‘Oh! This kid has no fucking clue what he's doing.’ ” He is so young and he is so old. It is his gift. He is so patient when he can suppress being so restless. So careful with the long arc of a career when he can resist obsessing over the instant. He is so confident when he centers on the work and so searching when he gets sucked down into questions about the rest of his life. Will he always be this way? This pliable and open? This self-reflective and intentional? He trusted so little of his new life, but he trusted his talent. That was the key. He knew he was as good as anyone at playing other people, even if he was still figuring out how to play himself.

We spent a good amount of time in Woodstock and in New York City and on the phone talking about where his career might take him from here. With great humility, he acknowledges his skill. But he has been thinking a lot about the difference between preternatural talent and mastery—the work that's required to ascend from that floor of young greatness to the ceiling of realized potential. That said, he's wise enough to know that his career could pivot in an entirely different direction—that the world could change or the opportunities could dry up or “eventually there's gonna be an Oscar Isaac in his 30s who's gonna bust out of Juilliard who's gonna be the next great actor and make me feel like a piece of shit. But right now…”

He told me, “If I get hit by a truck next week, I'm looking at 20 to 23, I don't know if you can top that.” To show up with Call Me by Your Name—he knows that that film was a unicorn, the sort an actor works his whole life to find. And the immediate Oscar nomination had freed him up to not spend the rest of his career chasing a certain kind of role that might lead to a certain kind of validation. “I'm not gonna be bashing my head against a wall trying to prove that I'm an actor,” he said. “The train can run over my leg and leave a track forever, and yet the point of entry for me…,” he said, trailing. “That's a good feeling.”

He looks at all these careers—all the careers you might expect: DiCaprio, Bale, Phoenix, Depp. And he does his best to separate the strands of each of their careers that might still apply to his. But all of the rules for acting success that those performers played by, for how to be in the public eye, for career arcs and longevity—those rules are irrelevant now. Hollywood is different, the media is different, fans are different, movies are different, the world is different. “I've realized that as much as these heroes of mine mean to me, and as grateful as I am when they offer me advice, even they acknowledge it's just a different thing now.”

And so it's occurring to him that the next few years will be Timothée finding the path that's right for him. Lately, he's thought about this next phase as shining a flashlight into the dark. There are potential projects that excite him considerably, some of which he's had a greater hand in engineering. There is, of course, the Dylan movie. But there's the question of how to spend the rest of the year, when most Hollywood productions are still paused. “The rest of the year,” he says, “I'm just thinking about Trump, man.” But after that…maybe Europe for a while? The Woodstock experiment did what he'd hoped it would—a little space, somewhere else. He would love to just breathe some different air again.

He was at another pivot point, as he had been when he and I were first together for Chapter 1. In the winter of 2018, the work had been validated, the public profile had developed suddenly. But the temptations, the confusion, the money—those were all lagging indicators. By mid-2020, all had caught up. And the money, in particular, was on his mind one afternoon in New York. We were talking about how a person might stay true to one's roots with that sort of thing when the reality, for him at least, had changed with Dune. I told him that one of the things that seemed to differentiate him from young stars of the past, and perhaps was a feature of his generation, was the way that material possessions didn't consume him. He didn't buy much stuff. He didn't own a car or a house. He liked borrowing clothes, but not necessarily keeping them. He agreed with the characterization, but then got immediately twisted up about a potential future hypocrisy: “But Dan, what if I do grow to like fancy shit?!”

Boomeranging back home after the surreal adventures out in the world—that was a good and grounding thing for him. Over the weeks we were talking, he spent time with his folks, delivered some COVID groceries to his grandma, and was in touch with his sister daily. And in New York, he and I kept running into ghosts. One afternoon, when we crossed the West Side Highway at Houston Street, he gestured at the athletic complex at Pier 40, where he played soccer growing up. He scampered over to a vending machine there to grab a bottle of water. When he pulled open his wallet to pay, he had only twenties. “Bad metaphor! Bad metaphor!” he screamed, jumping away from the vending machine, as though it were one of the great threats to his selfhood. This was the sort of innocuous moment that will hum with outsize resonance for me when I think about Chapter 2 from the future. All the things that one would expect to happen had happened in the first two and a half years since the arrival of a comet, and yet he was suspicious of so much of it.

Here is another way I will remember him from this moment: sitting on that porch in Woodstock—breeze and birds in the trees, sunlight in the leaves—looking for a higher power. Or at least expressing openness, as a nonreligious person, to the idea of some central organizing force in the universe—because, given everything lately, there has to be or we're fucked, right? Some of these searching things he said to me could be mistaken as a person spinning out a little. But that wasn't it at all. There was such calm. There was such contentment with the grace that had been afforded his life and career thus far, and where each might take him next. He was questing, yes—but he was firmly at the controls. The flashlight in the dark. Someone moving forward with great confidence into the unknown, with eyes wide, mouth shut, and ears listening more than they ever had before. There were no models for how a person like him should be anymore. There were no longer any adults who weren't just kids a little bit older. There were no blueprints for how to shape a career—so much had changed. There was only a head and a heart, his, and a feeling for the moment. “Maybe I'll never do a great work of art again, but I just feel like I'm confident in the way I'm trying to approach things now, how I'm setting up the angles,” he said on that porch in Woodstock. “When you think about Dylan. When you think about what Joel Coen said about the rapidness of the art, I'm just like: Trust the beat of your own drum. Give this its best shot. Give your artistry its best shot.”

.

Daniel Riley is a GQ correspondent and the author of ‘Barcelona Days,’ which was published this past summer.

A version of this story originally appears in the November 2020 issue with the title "Wild Heart."

PRODUCTION CREDITS: Photographs by Renell Medrano Styled by Mobolaji Dawodu Tailoring by Ksenia Golub Produced by Wei-Li Wang at Hudson Hill Production

[94erz]

Photographers will get members of BTS, some of the hottest men on earth right now and yet still somehow manage to take the most boring pictures. Like I think the only one who makes a photo session good is Hoseok because he moves.

Where’s the posing? Where’s the artistry? Why not more dynamic shots?

Taehyung is so beautiful but the Vogue covers are just his face? Hello? You got THEE Kim Taehyung on the cover of your magazine alone and you thought the best pictures were just headshots and one wall lean?

Like please that’s such a waste of him, move him, pose him, he’s taken some incredible pictures in the past, here’s a couple from that iconic Esquire shoot that I’m still obsessed with because I loved the posing!

Like damn. He was so hot for this. Iconic, stunning, and guess what? You can still see his face! You can still see how god damn fine he is! 

I just think headshots are boring we have so many of those, where’s the innovation? I need Korean photographers to take notes from the ones in the UK because I am obsessed with how one of my favorite actors (Charlie Heaton) is often photographed and I think Tae could have easily pulled off some similar poses and shots. But no, we got some more headshots...

[unimportant-ramblings]

Ramblings watches Halo

Episode 2: Unbound (Or Got my angel now)

In which I’m late as always, we meet some new friends and I’m going to talk too much about clothes

John MasterChief is #struggling. His past, present and future are suddenly uncertain given his revelations in episode one. While JMC is frankly unstable, he is not ready to become a #girldad to the newly orphaned Kwan, so he needs to drop her off with the literal only person he knows outside of the spartan program.

(side note: I’m obsessed with this exchange between JMC and Kwan:

Mood! That feel when parenting conflicts with your ongoing mental anguish).

The only person he knows is Soren, a man who left the Spartan program during training. JMC was technically supposed to shoot him for trying to leave, instead he gave him a 5 minute head start before he alerted people to bring him back. It’s interesting what this says about John MasterChief as a character; he wants to be a good person, he does not want to hurt people but he’s bound not just by his programming and “training” but also real loyalty to the UNSC. We see that Soren was emotionally and physically hurt by JMC calling the dogs after him, but JMC was similarly hurt by his departure in the first place. We see this again at the end of the episode as well, John, despite being warned not to let the UNSC have him or the special artifact/rock, he goes back to them because he has nowhere else to turn, because Halsey is the only one he can trust.

I hope, I beg, I pray that John has a different plan in mind because Dr Halsey has never had more crazy eyes on display. Readers will remember that I missed that the doctor was one in the same as Miranda’s mother, which of course is true but in my defense, this woman is bananas. I wrote in my notes that Halsey is that one person you know who will find a way to bring her current special interest into every conversation. She brings Cortana up when you guys are talking about where to get supper, without a doubt. That’s a developing story I’m sure, but I’m just kind of in love with her. The way she looks like she’s going to explode with glee about everything, the way she and JMC had their little chat. She’s unhinged, we stan.

Back to Soren, the thing about him is that I love him. This guy is everything; jubilant, foodie, amputee with robot parts, doting dad, stoner, wife guy. The perfect man? Maybe! Just the contrast between Soren’s easy going nature, his laughter, with JMC’s stiff “you have a child?’ tells us so much. His son Kessler is also a sweetie!

But now to the meat up this write up. First, like John MasterChief, backstory:

When I was in high school. I really needed my own money. I won’t go into it in depth, but I had very poor physical and mental health, and needed very badly not to be dependant on my parents (followers will now that this is the same time I got like cripplingly into anime so, that should tell you all you really need to know).After several attempts, I got my first ever job at the Gap, and I got it by lying my ass off. I told them that I knew all about the fashion industry (lie), I was going into fashion (bigger lie), and I was subscribed to several fashion magazines (I have never been subscribed to any magazine for any purpose because I’m under 40). However, I am very good at committing to a bit, so I do know much more about clothes than I once did, and now I know why.

It was not to sell jeans in the 2010s, it was so that when @sonofcarnelian and I talk about sci -fi franchises I can lose my damn mind for hundreds of words. This is of course reminiscent of the time I gargled nails over Timothy Zahn describing Mara Jade wearing a BOLERO JACKET. But you see, last week I, rightly, went on at length about Kwan’s incredibly designed layers. Usable, fashionable, futuristic, flattering. I cannot stress enough how much none of these things describes Soren’s wife Laera.

Why is Laera dressed like Effie Trinket, an extra from the Phantom of the Opera and a regency aunt were put into a blender. Yes, Soren describes her as a princess, but like?? She's wearing full length evening gloves and it’s morning.. And a diamond bracelet and a feather boa and a wig that looks almost light blue in certain lights? This is what my niece would draw if I asked her to draw a fancy lady. But this doesn’t fit the setting or circumstances at all. Like, I’m not asking for mothers to look or act a particular way you understand, see above with doctor halsey, but what does this outfit tell us about the character? Because this does not scream grounded presence and happy home! She’s dressed like she’s delusional! But her conversations with Kwan, John, Soren and her son are all coherent and compassionate. So I’m left with lingering questions and the vague impression that someone on staff was like “hey real quick what do women wear? No like girly ones?” This is what people accused Admiral Holdo of looking like in the last jedi (look at me, squishing MY special interest into every conversation like I’m Doctor Halsey or something. Kin).

Nevertheless, she’s great, she’s an icon, and again JMC has no other friends, so Kwan is left with the family Soren while JMC goes back to the UNSC for the time being. I’m pumped to see more iconic outfits from these gals.

@sonofcarnelian let's hear it for the girls!

Speaking of gals, 2 last notes I am excited to understand in the near future.

The human girl on the side of the aliens, who in my notes I referred to exclusively as “Jane Volturi” but the captions tell me is named Makee, is going undercover for the covenant, so that’s fun. She also has weird hand scars! Intrigue! She reveals these by taking off ridiculously long gloves in the saddest strip tease ever. Can’t tell if she and Laera look similar or if they are just both blonde! More intrigue!

And of course, wakey wakey, babe Cortana is awake and ready to go!! What does this mean I don't know but she's here!