#(specifically certain lines and physical gestures)

[my-current-obsession]

To be fair, the whole, “I’ll come back to you even if you don’t promise to wait,” is a line pulled directly from OG FFVII. It’s mentioned late game by Cid (who hilariously went to see a showing of loveless in Midgar but fell asleep then woke up just in time to view this ending scene 😂). But if you wanna deep dive on the meaning of this line, it’s worth noting that a version of the line is used in FFVIII in reference to the main ship of that installment — Rinoa and Squall — who also happen to be another mage/swordsman pair. And if you wanna go big brain square enix energy, there’s also the famous, “I’ll come back to you; I promise…I know you will,” between Sora and Kairi in Kingdom Hearts when he goes off on another journey while she awaits his return. If you go down those rabbit holes, it seems square really has a type for their main pairs, no?

I don't remember that line in OG FF7, but it's been years since I played it so I'll take your word for it. But you're right that similar lines/sentiments pop up frequently in other FF and KH games, so yeah, Square has a type. I still think the conversation between Cloud and Aerith in KH2 is the quickest and easiest parallel to make here though, considering the same pair can have basically the same interaction, in an entirely different game. Yes, Cloud could also have this conversation in the play with T or Y. But only Aerith's would have the added depth of being a potential callback/reference to another moment the pair shared.

And considering this game liked to callback to several moments between Cloud and Aerith in the previous game (him remembering their first meeting being what snaps him out of Sephiroth's control, the "will you be okay getting back", "if I said I wasn't" in the ending...) I think it's totally reasonable to assume that Square might have subtly referenced at least one Clerith moment from outside the compilation.

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 21K

Masterlist

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Y/N moved with deliberate grace across the living room, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. The silk pajamas caught the low light as she settled onto the sofa across from him, tucking one leg beneath her.

Harry noted the careful distance she maintained, positioning hrself at the far end of the sofa rather than the center.

Everything about her posture, spine straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in her lap, spoke of boundaries being established.

"I think we should set some ground rules," she said, her voice steady and measured. Professional. As though they were discussing a business contract rather than the boundaries of a fake marriage.

Harry took another sip of his whisky, using the gesture to mask his appraisal of her. The shower had washed away her makeup, revealing a faint scatter of freckles across her nose that he hadn't noticed in years. Her hair, still damp, was several shades darker than its usual color, framing her face in loose waves that would dry into the soft curls he remembered from their youth.

He set his glass down on the side table with deliberate care. "I thought we already had rules."

"Clearly they weren't specific enough," Y/N replied, a hint of sharpness breaking through her composed facade. "Otherwise tonight wouldn't have happened."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately relaxed in contrast to her tension. "Alright. What did you have in mind?"

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly, as though she'd been expecting more resistance. "First, no physical contact beyond what we've already established without prior discussion and agreement. That means hand holding, arms around waists or shoulders, and brief, closed mouth kisses on cheeks or foreheads are acceptable. Anything beyond that requires explicit consent beforehand."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's going to be difficult to maintain if we're trying to appear convincingly married. Spontaneity is part of authenticity."

"Spontaneity doesn't mean surprise make-out sessions," Y/N countered. "It means natural-looking interactions within agreed-upon boundaries."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her expression intensifying. "I'm not asking for the impossible. I'm asking for basic respect. If you think we need to change our approach to physical interactions in public, we discuss it first. Not in the car on the way to an event, not five seconds before it happens. Properly discuss it, when we're both clear-headed and have time to set parameters."

Harry considered her words, turning his glass slowly between his fingers. "And if something unexpected happens? If the situation calls for a response we haven't specifically outlined?"

"Then you follow the spirit of our agreement rather than looking for loopholes," she replied without hesitation. "You're not stupid, Harry. You know the difference between an arm around my shoulders during a photo and what you did tonight."

The accusation hung between them, sharp-edged and undeniable. Harry fought the instinct to defend himself, to justify actions they both knew had crossed a line.

"Fine," he conceded after a moment. "No physical escalation without prior agreement. What else?"

Y/N seemed momentarily surprised by his easy surrender, her prepared arguments faltering. She recovered quickly, however, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

"Second, we need better communication about our schedules and public appearances. I shouldn't be blindsided by auction bids or impromptu interviews. Your team sends you daily briefings and I think I should be included in those emails."

This request was entirely reasonable, which somehow made it more irritating. Harry had deliberately kept her out of certain loops, maintaining whatever small advantages he could in their power dynamic.

"That can be arranged," he agreed, his tone carefully neutral. "Though some matters are confidential like new music, potential collaborations, that sort of thing."

"I'm not asking for creative access," Y/N clarified. "Just information about events, interviews, and public appearances that might affect me or require my participation."

She paused, then added with pointed emphasis, "And advance notice of any narrative changes you or your team are planning to push."

Harry understood the subtext immediately. The auction's implication of family planning had been a calculated move by his publicity team, designed to generate positive speculation and soften his image further. She'd been ambushed with it, expected to play along without preparation.

"My team can be... overzealous," he acknowledged, offering the closest thing to an apology he could manage. "I'll make it clear that any narrative developments need to be run by both of us."

Y/N nodded, some of the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Thank you."

The simple expression of gratitude felt strange between them, a momentary deviation from their usual pattern of barbed exchanges and cold silences.

"Is that all?" Harry asked, reaching for his whisky again.

She uncurled from her position on the sofa, rising to her feet with fluid grace. "I think that covers the essentials. We can revisit if other issues arise."

Harry nodded, watching as she prepared to leave the room. Something compelled him to speak again before she disappeared.

"Y/N."

She paused, turning back with a questioning look.

For a moment, he considered apologizing properly for the kiss, for the auction, for all of it. The words rose in his throat, then faltered and died before reaching his lips.

"Goodnight," he said instead, raising his glass in a small, sardonic toast.

Y/N studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Goodnight, Harry."

She turned and left, her silk-clad form disappearing into the shadowed hallway, leaving Harry alone with his whisky, his memories, and the uncomfortable realization that their little war had become as much a habit as a genuine expression of antipathy.

He drained his glass, the peaty warmth of the scotch doing nothing to ease the hollow feeling that had settled in his chest. Setting the empty tumbler aside, Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering when exactly maintaining his hatred for Y/N had become more effort than simply letting it go.

Perhaps he could just…let it go. Not friendship—never that—but something less actively hostile. Perhaps a  neutral space where they could both catch their breath before returning to their performances.

The thought was still circling his mind as he finally rose and headed upstairs toward their shared bedroom. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom, momentarily arrested by the sight of Y/N seated at the ornate vanity across from their king-sized bed.

She was brushing her hair with methodical strokes, the damp strands catching the warm light from the bedside lamps. In the mirror's reflection, he could see her expression—distant and thoughtful, with none of the guarded tension she typically wore in his presence.

She noticed him in the mirror and their eyes met briefly before she returned her attention to her hair, the brush moving in long, smooth strokes from crown to ends. The domesticity of the scene struck him with unexpected force. This quiet, intimate moment at the end of a day that had been anything but quiet or intimate.

Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the charged silence between them.

He moved to his side of the room, unbuttoning his shirt with mechanical efficiency. Each movement was precise, controlled, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling beneath his composed exterior. He slipped the white dress shirt from his shoulders, revealing the tapestry of tattoos across his chest and arms, before hanging it carefully in the section of the walk-in closet designated as his.

The silence between them felt loaded with unspoken tensions and not just from tonight's events, but from years of accumulated grievances and misunderstandings.

"Grumpus," Y/N's voice cut through the quiet, the seemingly random word landing between them. "Is there a reason that's what you're naming this cat we're supposedly getting?"

Harry turned to find her watching him through the mirror, her brush suspended mid-stroke. He could see her grip on the handle tightening, her knuckles whitening slightly against the silver handle.

The question caught him off-guard. 

Had he chosen the name deliberately? Or had it surfaced from some buried corner of his memory without conscious intention?

Harry reached for a plain white t-shirt, pulling it over his head before responding. "The shelter's sending one over tomorrow. I’m told it’s grumpy. The name seemed... fitting."

It wasn't quite an answer, and they both knew it. He watched her reflection as she processed his words, trying to discern whether he was acknowledging their shared history or simply offering a convenient explanation.

"Fitting," she repeated, the single word carrying a weight of skepticism. "And you just happened to mention this cat during your interview today without bothering to tell me first."

Harry shrugged, moving to unbutton his trousers. "It was a spontaneous response. The interviewer asked about pets, and I thought it might add a nice domestic touch to our narrative. My assistant arranged it this afternoon."

Y/N resumed brushing her hair, though her movements were now sharper, less fluid. "So we're getting a cat. A grumpy cat named Grumpus. Because you thought it would make a good story."

The accusation in her tone was unmistakable. Once again, he'd made a unilateral decision that affected them both, barely hours after agreeing not to do exactly that.

"We don't have to keep the name," he offered, stepping out of his trousers and folding them neatly. "It was just the first thing that came to mind."

Y/N set the brush down with deliberate care, turning on the vanity stool to face him directly rather than continue the conversation through their reflections.

"That's not the point, Harry. The point is that once again, you've made a decision that affects our daily lives without even mentioning it to me. Now we'll have a living creature to care for, one that needs food, attention, veterinary appointments, and you didn't think that was worth discussing first?"

Harry paused, one hand on the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. There was a strange vulnerability in standing before her in his underwear while having this particular conversation. A physical exposure that mirrored the emotional exposure of acknowledging he'd been thoughtless.

"I didn't think—" he began.

"Clearly," she cut him off, though without the sharp edge her interruptions usually carried. "Harry, a pet is a long-term commitment. What happens to this cat when our arrangement ends? Have you thought about that?"

The question hung between them, unexpectedly weighty. Their arrangement had an expiration date. A fact they both acknowledged but rarely discussed directly. In eight months, their contractual marriage would conclude, and they would go their separate ways, their paths likely never to cross again.

Harry hadn't considered the cat beyond its immediate PR value. The thought of what would happen to it after their separation hadn't occurred to him.

"I'll keep it," he said finally, the solution seeming obvious now that he thought about it. "After we... after the year is up. It can stay with me."

Y/N studied him, skepticism evident in her expression. "You travel constantly. You're on tour half the year. When exactly will you have time to care for a pet?"

"I have staff," Harry replied, defensive now. "People who can look after it when I'm away."

"So you're getting a cat that you'll barely see, to be cared for by employees," Y/N summarized, shaking her head slightly. "That poor animal."

Her genuine concern for a cat they hadn't even met yet caught Harry by surprise. It shouldn't have. Y/N had always had a soft spot for strays, even as a child. He remembered her coaxing a half-feral kitten from under a garden shed one summer, spending days earning its trust with patience and bits of canned tuna.

The memory surfaced unbidden, another unwelcome intrusion from a past he'd worked hard to forget.

"If you're so concerned, you can take it when we're done," he offered, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression closed off immediately, her momentary openness vanishing behind the familiar mask of cool detachment. "That's not the point either. The point is that you made this decision unilaterally, without considering the long-term implications."

She turned away from him, moving toward the bed. "But what's done is done. We'll figure out the logistics later."

"You're right."

Y/N froze, then slowly turned back to face him, genuine confusion evident in her expression.

"I should have discussed it first," Harry continued, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the unfamiliar territory of admitting fault. "It was impulsive, and I didn't think through the consequences."

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised by his easy agreement. "Yes. You should have."

A beat of silence passed between them, neither quite sure how to proceed in the face of his unexpected acquiescence.

"For what it's worth," he added, moving toward the en-suite bathroom, "I did think you might like having a cat around. You always seemed fond of them."

The statement hovered in the air between them. A small acknowledgment of their shared past, an admission that he remembered details about her preferences. It was dangerously close to kindness, and they both seemed equally unsettled by the implication.

Y/N's expression softened slightly, a complex emotion flickering across her features. "I do like cats. But that's not—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, sparing them both the repetition of her point. "It should have been a conversation. It will be, next time."

He disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for her response, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Leaning against the marble counter, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror, confronting the uncomfortable truth that had been needling at him all evening.

The name hadn't been a coincidence. Some part of him had remembered Grumpus, had remembered the fierce way Y/N had defended her beloved pet, the way her eyes had flashed with indignation at his casual cruelty. Some part of him had wanted to see if she remembered too. If their shared history still registered for her the way it occasionally, inconveniently did for him.

And now he had his answer. She remembered.

Harry turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face as if it might wash away the complications of the past that kept seeping into their present. When he reemerged from the bathroom several minutes later, teeth brushed and face washed, Y/N had already settled on her side of the bed, her back to his empty half, a clear physical boundary established despite their shared mattress.

He slipped under the covers on his side, maintaining the careful distance that had become their nightly ritual. The king-sized bed allowed them to sleep without risk of accidental contact, a neutral zone of several feet separating their bodies even in unconsciousness.

As he reached to turn off his bedside lamp, Harry found himself speaking into the dimness, his voice low and unexpectedly sincere.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about the kiss tonight. You were right, it crossed a line."

In the soft glow of her reading lamp, he saw Y/N's shoulders tense slightly, though she didn't turn to face him.

"Thank you for acknowledging that," she replied after a moment, her voice carefully neutral.

Another silence stretched between them, this one less hostile than those that usually punctuated their interactions.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said finally, reaching to switch off her own lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

"Goodnight," he echoed, settling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see.

In the darkness, with Y/N's measured breathing the only sound breaking the silence, Harry found himself wondering how many more nights they would spend like this. Physically close yet emotionally distant, separated by years of hurt and misunderstanding that neither was willing to address.

Eight more months of their arrangement stretched ahead of them. The prospect felt simultaneously endless and strangely insufficient, as though a single year could never be enough time to untangle the knots they'd tied in each other's lives.

Harry closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and silence the uncomfortable thoughts circling his mind. Across the expanse of sheets that separated them, Y/N shifted slightly, a small reminder of her presence that followed him down into uneasy dreams.

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Twelve years earlier

In sleep, Harry's mind drifted backward through time, peeling away the layers of adulthood, fame, and cultivated disdain until he found himself standing once more at the edge of the woods that separated his family's summer estate from the small town where Y/N had grown up.

The dream-memory came with startling clarity. the humid summer air heavy against his skin, the mixed scent of pine and wildflowers, the particular quality of afternoon light filtering through the leaves overhead.

He was thirteen again, gangly and uncertain in his still-growing body, wearing expensive shorts and a polo shirt that his mother had insisted upon despite the impracticality for woodland exploration. The clothes were a constant reminder of the world he belonged to, the expectations he carried, even here in this secret place where he came to escape them.

In the dream, he waited at their usual meeting spot, a fallen oak that created a natural bridge across the small creek that marked the unofficial boundary between their worlds. 

He was early. 

He was always early, though he'd never have admitted how eagerly he anticipated these meetings, how they formed the bright center of his otherwise regimented summer days.

When Y/N appeared through the trees on the opposite bank, his dream-self felt that familiar leap of excitement, followed immediately by the practiced suppression of it. Even at thirteen, he'd been learning to hide his genuine reactions, to maintain the careful distance his mother had taught him was necessary with people "like them."

The Y/N of his memory-dream crossed the log bridge with practiced ease, her movements confident in a way his never quite managed to be in these woods that were more her territory than his. She wore denim shorts with frayed edges and a faded t-shirt, her long hair caught up in a messy ponytail, her skin sun-kissed in a way his mother would have considered common.

She was beautiful in the unself-conscious way of the young with all bright eyes and quick smiles, unaware yet of how the world would try to dim both.

"You're late," his thirteen-year-old self said, the words coming out more accusatory than he'd intended.

"By like two minutes," dream-Y/N replied with an easy grin, dropping her backpack onto the soft ground. "And only because Grumpus followed me halfway here. I had to keep stopping to make sure he went home."

"That ugly cat is still alive? Figured it would've wandered into traffic by now."

The words had been calculated to provoke, and they'd succeeded. Y/N's expression shifted instantly from warmth to anger.

"Don't call him ugly! He's beautiful, and he's smart, and he's the best cat in the world!"

"He's got one eye and he's fat," Harry had countered, the cruel words spilling from him with practiced ease, an echo of his mother's dismissive tone. "And that orange tabby fur makes him look like someone spilled cheap juice on a dirty carpet."

In the dream, as in the memory, Y/N's eyes flashed with a fury that transformed her, no longer just the carefree girl from town, but something fiercer, a defender of all things loved and vulnerable.

"Take that back," she'd demanded, stepping closer, her hands curling into small fists at her sides.

"Why should I? It's true. That cat is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

The lie had tasted sour even as he'd spoken it. In truth, he'd found Grumpus rather charming in his battered, one-eyed dignity. But something in him had needed to push, to test, to see if Y/N would accept his cruelty the way so many others did, intimidated by his family name and wealth.

She hadn't.

"You're just like your mother," she'd spat, the words landing like a physical blow. "Pretty on the outside, mean on the inside. And for your information, Grumpus lost his eye defending me from a dog that was three times his size. He's brave and loyal, which is more than I can say for you, Harry Styles."

In the dream, as in the memory, his name in her mouth had felt like an indictment and a reminder of all he represented. All he was expected to be.

"At least I'm not poor," he'd retorted, falling back on the most obvious difference between them, the one his mother emphasized most often. "At least my dad can afford a proper house instead of that tiny shop your family lives above."

The moment the words left his mouth, he'd wanted to recall them. Y/N had gone very still, her expression shifting from anger to something worse—disappointment, as though she'd finally seen him clearly

"My dad works hard," she'd said quietly, her voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "Every day, with his hands, making things people need. What does your dad do, Harry? Besides count money other people earned for him?"

The question had pierced straight through his practiced arrogance, touching on insecurities he hadn't known how to articulate at thirteen. What did his father do, really? What value did the Styles family add to the world beyond accumulating wealth and influence?

Unable to answer, he'd lashed out again.

"At least my father isn't one bad season away from bankruptcy," he'd sneered, parroting phrases he'd overheard from his parents' discussions about the "quaint local businesses" they occasionally deigned to patronize.

Y/N had looked at him then with such raw hurt that even in sleep, decades later, Harry felt the shame of it burning through him. She'd picked up her backpack with deliberate calm, slung it over one shoulder, and turned to leave.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," she'd declared, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Not tomorrow, not ever. Find someone else to spend your summer with, Harry Styles."

"Fine!" he'd shouted at her retreating back. "I don't need you anyway! There are plenty of other kids around here who'd love to hang out with me!"

She hadn't turned around, hadn't acknowledged his words at all, just continued walking away until she disappeared among the trees, leaving him alone with the hollow victory of having the last word.

He'd meant it, in that moment. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't seek her out again, wouldn't return to their meeting spot, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him waiting for her.

Yet the very next day, he'd found himself at the fallen log, arriving even earlier than usual, his heart racing every time a bird startled from the underbrush or a branch cracked in the distance. He'd waited for over an hour, telling himself with each passing minute that this would be the last one, that he was only staying to prove he could, that he didn't care if she came or not.

When she'd finally appeared on the opposite bank, her expression guarded but her presence an undeniable olive branch, the relief had been so overwhelming he'd had to disguise it as annoyance.

"Took you long enough," he'd said by way of greeting.

"I wasn't going to come at all," she'd admitted, crossing the log bridge with less confidence than usual. "But then I thought maybe you'd apologize."

He'd scoffed, thirteen and foolish and desperately afraid of revealing how much her friendship meant to him. "Apologize for what? Telling the truth about your weird cat?"

Y/N had studied him for a long moment, something older and wiser than her years in her gaze. Then, remarkably, she'd smiled. A small, knowing thing that suggested she saw through him in ways he wasn't comfortable being seen.

"You're right. Grumpus is kind of funny-looking," she'd conceded, dropping down to sit on the fallen log. "But he's still the best cat in the world, and I won't let anyone say otherwise, not even you."

It had been a peace offering of sorts. An acknowledgment of his perspective without surrendering her own. More generosity than he'd deserved, even then.

"I guess he's not the ugliest," Harry had mumbled, the closest thing to an apology he could manage at thirteen. "Maybe the second ugliest."

Y/N had laughed, the sound breaking the tension between them. "You're impossible," she'd said, but there had been fondness in it, forgiveness he hadn't earned but desperately wanted.

They'd spent the rest of that afternoon exploring the creek, searching for unusual stones and competing to see who could skip rocks the furthest across the wider pools. Neither had mentioned their fight again, but something had shifted between them. A sort of recognition that their friendship could withstand storms, that they would fight and make up and continue finding their way back to each other despite the worlds that sought to separate them.

In the dream, as the memory began to fade, adult Harry found himself trying to hold onto it, to preserve the simple clarity of that reconciliation, the unspoken promise it had contained. They'd been so young then, unburdened by the weight of adult expectations, unaware of how completely their paths would diverge, how thoroughly his mother's influence would eventually poison what had once been pure.

He stirred in his sleep, his adult body shifting restlessly beneath the expensive sheets of the bed he now shared with the woman who had once been that fierce, forgiving girl. The Y/N who slept beside him now carried the same spirit within her, though life had taught her to guard it more carefully, to be less free with her forgiveness, her trust.

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 “What do you mean she’s crying?”

Harry was seated at the head of a long glass conference table in the sleek downtown offices of his record label, half-listening to his manager's breakdown of potential brand partnerships for the upcoming quarter. The room was a study in minimalist luxury. Clean lines, muted grays, and strategically placed greenery designed to convey both success and artistic sensibility.

Around him, the members of his team, his publicist, manager, lawyer, and two label executives, were engaged in the familiar dance of pretending his opinions mattered while subtly steering him toward decisions they'd already made. It was a dynamic he'd grown accustomed to over the years, occasionally asserting his preferences forcefully enough to remind them who ultimately paid their salaries.

When his phone vibrated against the table, Harry glanced down to see his assistant's name flashing on the screen. Normally, she wouldn't interrupt a scheduled meeting unless it was urgent.

"Excuse me," he murmured, rising from his chair with the practiced smoothness of someone accustomed to his movements being observed. "I need to take this."

His manager paused mid-sentence, clearly annoyed but too professional to show it beyond a tightening around his eyes. The others at the table shifted in their seats, using the interruption to check their own phones or refill water glasses.

Harry stepped into an adjacent empty office, closing the door behind him before answering the call.

"Anna, what is it?" he asked, his tone clipped with the irritation of being pulled away from business matters, no matter how tedious they might be.

His assistant's voice came through with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, Mr. Styles, but there's a situation at the house with Mrs. Styles."

Harry tensed, an unexpected jolt of concern catching him off-guard. "What kind of situation?"

"It's about the cat." Anna's voice grew more hesitant. "The shelter delivered it this morning as arranged, but when Mrs. Styles saw it, she... well, she became upset."

Harry frowned, moving further into the empty office. "What do you mean, 'upset'?"

There was a pause on the line, then Anna admitted, "She's crying, sir. Quite a lot, actually."

"What do you mean she's crying?" Harry demanded, the volume of his voice rising enough that he glanced toward the door, concerned about being overheard.

"I don't know exactly," Anna continued, her words coming faster now. "It was the only tabby available on short notice. Orange, one-eyed, missing the right eye, actually, and yes, it's a bit overweight. I didn't think it was that ugly. But when she saw it, she just... started crying. Should I get another one? I can call around to other shelters—"

Harry cut her off, his mind racing to process what he was hearing. "Wait. You're telling me the cat is orange, one-eyed, and overweight?"

"Yes, sir. The shelter said he's about seven years old, very sweet-tempered despite his appearance. I thought that matched what you were looking for. A tabby with some character. Was I mistaken?"

Harry leaned against the edge of the desk, suddenly needing the support. The coincidence was too precise to be accidental. This cat was essentially Grumpus reincarnated, down to the missing eye. No wonder Y/N had broken down. To her, it wouldn't seem like coincidence at all, but rather a deliberate cruelty, a calculated reminder of their past designed to wound her.

"Mr. Styles? Are you still there? Should I return the cat?"

Harry dragged a hand down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "No, don't return it. I'll... I'll handle this. Is Y/N still at the house?"

"Yes, sir. She's in the library with the cat. She actually seems quite attached to it already, despite her emotional reaction. She was crying but also... petting it? Talking to it? It was a bit confusing, to be honest."

Of course she was attached already, Harry thought. For all her carefully constructed defenses around him, Y/N had always had an almost immediate capacity for connection with animals, a genuine warmth and empathy that extended to creatures most people overlooked or dismissed.

"I'm on my way," Harry said, making a decision that would surprise his team in the next room. "Tell her I'll be home in thirty minutes."

"But sir, your meeting—"

"Reschedule it," he instructed, already moving toward the door. "Something's come up at home that requires my immediate attention."

Ending the call, Harry returned to the conference room, where six expectant faces turned toward him.

"I need to cut this short," he announced, gathering his things with efficient movements that discouraged questions. "Family matter. My assistant will be in touch to reschedule."

His manager started to protest, but Harry silenced him with a raised hand. "It's not negotiable, Mark. The partnerships will still be there tomorrow."

Without waiting for further discussion, Harry strode from the room, texting his driver as he made his way to the elevator. The twenty-minute drive from downtown to their Hampstead Heath mansion would give him time to figure out what exactly he was going to say when he arrived home. What explanation he could possibly offer that wouldn't sound like either a cruel joke or an uncharacteristic sentimentality?

The truth was, he hadn't specified any particular appearance for the cat beyond "tabby." The one-eyed, orange, overweight reality was pure coincidence. The kind of cosmic joke that might seem amusing if it weren't causing Y/N genuine distress.

As his car navigated through midday London traffic, Harry stared out the window, remembering the fierce way twelve-year-old Y/N had defended her beloved pet against his casual cruelty. The memory brought with it a familiar discomfort and the recognition of how easily he'd adopted his mother's disdain, how readily he'd leveraged his position of privilege to wound.

Now, years later, he'd unintentionally recreated the exact circumstances that had triggered their first real fight. A  fight that, in his dream-memory last night, he'd recognized as a turning point in their relationship, the moment he'd first understood that Y/N wouldn't simply accept his cruelty because of who he was.

When the car finally pulled through the gates of their estate, Harry found himself unusually anxious about what awaited him inside. He'd seen Y/N angry, frustrated, resigned, and coldly polite, but he hadn't seen her cry since they were teenagers. Hadn't been confronted with the raw vulnerability that tears represented.

He entered the house quietly, nodding to the housekeeper who appeared briefly in the hallway before tactfully withdrawing. Following his assistant's information, Harry made his way to the library, a room Y/N had claimed as her primary retreat within the sprawling mansion, filling it with books that reflected her eclectic interests rather than the carefully curated literary selections his interior designer had originally installed for show.

Pausing outside the closed door, Harry took a deep breath, still unsure exactly what he planned to say. Then, with a decisive motion, he knocked lightly and entered without waiting for a response.

The library was bathed in the soft natural light that streamed through its tall windows, illuminating the comfortable reading nook Y/N had created in one corner. She was curled in the oversized armchair, her legs tucked beneath her, a small orange bundle of fur nestled in her lap. At Harry's entrance, she looked up, and he was struck by the evidence of recent tears. Her eyes slightly reddened, her cheeks still bearing faint tracks of moisture.

The cat—an uncanny echo of the long-ago Grumpus—lifted its head from her lap, regarding Harry with a single yellow eye that seemed to hold judgment beyond its feline capacity. The right eye socket was scarred but well-healed, suggesting the injury had happened years ago.

"Harry," Y/N said, clearly surprised by his unexpected appearance. "What are you doing home? I thought you had meetings all day."

Her fingers continued to stroke the cat's fur as she spoke, an unconscious gesture of comfort. 

Though whether for herself or the animal, Harry couldn't tell.

He remained near the doorway, suddenly uncertain of his welcome in this space that had become distinctly hers within their shared home. "Anna called. She was concerned about... your reaction to the cat."

Y/N's hand stilled momentarily on the orange fur, then resumed its gentle motion. "I see. And that was enough to pull you away from your important business meetings? I'm fine, Harry. You can go back to work."

There was a brittle quality to her composure that suggested it might crack with the slightest pressure. Harry took a few steps further into the room, moving cautiously, as though approaching a wild creature that might bolt.

"She said you were crying," he said quietly, watching Y/N's face for her reaction.

A flash of embarrassment crossed her features, quickly replaced by a defensive lift of her chin. "I was surprised, that's all. It was...an emotional coincidence."

Harry moved closer still, until he stood just a few feet from her chair. From this distance, the cat's resemblance to the long-ago Grumpus was even more striking. The same broad face, the same slightly matted orange fur, the same air of dignified resignation to the indignities of existence.

"I didn't ask for a one-eyed cat," he said, the words emerging more abruptly than he'd intended. "I just told Anna to get a tabby. The rest was... coincidence."

Y/N met his gaze directly, a hint of her earlier vulnerability still visible beneath her composed exterior. "A very specific coincidence, don't you think? Orange, overweight, one-eyed. just like the cat you once called 'the ugliest thing you'd ever seen.'"

The quotation of his teenage self's cruel words hung in the air between them, a reminder of how long she had carried them, how precisely she remembered the hurt he'd caused.

"I didn't plan this, Y/N," Harry said, finding himself in the unusual position of needing her to believe him. "I wouldn't... I'm not that cruel."

Something in his tone must have convinced her, because after studying his face for a long moment, Y/N's expression softened slightly.

"No," she agreed quietly, "I don't think even you would go that far. It's just... seeing him, it brought everything back so vividly. Not just Grumpus, but... that summer. Who we were then."

The cat chose that moment to stretch languidly in her lap, pressing its head against her hand in a silent demand for continued attention. Y/N obliged automatically, her fingers resuming their gentle stroking.

Harry found himself moving to sit on the ottoman near her chair, close enough to reach out and touch the cat if he wanted to, though he kept his hands to himself.

"I remember," he admitted, the words feeling like a concession of territory he'd been determined to defend. "I dreamed about it last night, actually. About our fight over Grumpus."

Y/N looked up sharply, surprise evident in her expression. "You did?"

Harry nodded, uncomfortable with the admission but unwilling to retract it. "About how I said he was ugly, and you told me I was just like my mother."

A faint flush colored Y/N's cheeks. "I was angry. Children say hurtful things when they're angry."

"You weren't wrong, though," Harry said, the honesty surprising them both. "I was becoming exactly what she wanted me to be. Sometimes I think I still am."

The statement hung between them, more vulnerable than anything he'd allowed himself to express since their arrangement began. Y/N regarded him with a mixture of surprise and something that might have been understanding.

"What do you want to do about this cat?" she asked after a moment, steering them back to the immediate issue. "I assume you didn't actually want a pet, given how rarely you're even home."

Harry glanced at the animal, which had settled more comfortably in Y/N's lap, its single eye already drooping with contentment.

"We can keep him," he said, surprising himself with the decisiveness of it. "He seems to have chosen his person already."

Y/N's fingers paused in their stroking of the orange fur. "Are you sure? A pet is a long-term commitment, beyond our... arrangement."

"We can determine custody arrangements when the time comes," Harry replied, matching her tone. "For now, he's here, and he seems comfortable. Unless you'd prefer we find him another home?"

Y/N looked down at the cat, now purring audibly in her lap. "No," she said softly. "I'd like to keep him."

A moment of accord stretched between them. Rare enough in their contentious relationship to feel significant. Harry found himself reluctant to break it by rising to leave, by returning to the polished professional persona waiting for him back at the office.

"Have you named him yet?" he asked instead, settling more comfortably on the ottoman.

Y/N's lips curved in a small smile, the first genuine one he'd seen directed at him in longer than he could remember. "I was thinking of calling him Grumps. In honor of the original, but... his own identity."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the gesture for what it was. A bridge between past and present, a recognition of history without being bound by it. "Grumps it is, then."

The cat opened its single eye at the sound of its new name, regarding them both with what Harry could have sworn was approval before settling back into Y/N's lap, clearly having found its home.

In the quiet of the library, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the gentle sound of purring filling the space between them, Harry and Y/N had reached an unexpected cease-fire—a fragile peace built on the foundation of a shared memory and the unexpected arrival of a one-eyed cat that bridged the years between who they had been and who they had become.

The peaceful moment in the library was interrupted by the sharp buzz of Harry's phone. He glanced down to see his mother's name illuminated on the screen, and a familiar tension immediately settled across his shoulders.

Y/N noticed the change in his demeanor, her own expression shifting from open to guarded as she recognized the caller without needing to be told. She had developed a sixth sense for detecting when Anne was about to intrude on their lives.

 It wasn't hard considering Harry's entire bearing changed, a subtle straightening of his spine and tightening around his eyes that spoke volumes about the complex dynamics between mother and son.

"I should take this," Harry said, already rising from the ottoman, creating physical distance as if preparing for battle. "It's my mother."

Y/N nodded, her fingers continuing their rhythmic stroking of Grumps' fur. A self-soothing gesture as much as comfort for the cat. "Of course."

Harry moved toward the window, putting several feet between them before answering the call, though not leaving the room entirely. Perhaps he was unwilling to completely break their momentary truce, or perhaps he simply didn't want to grant his mother the privacy such distance would afford.

"Mother," he greeted, his voice sliding into the polished, slightly detached tone he reserved for his most important business contacts—and for Anne. "This is unexpected."

Y/N couldn't hear Anne's side of the conversation, but she could track its content through Harry's responses and the subtle shifts in his expression. A muscle working in his jaw, a tightening around his eyes, the slight straightening of his already perfect posture.

"Tonight?" Harry's voice carried a note of surprise, though not outright objection. "That's very short notice."

Another pause as Anne presumably continued speaking, Harry's eyes briefly meeting Y/N's across the room before darting away.

"Yes, I understand you're my mother," he said, a hint of the exasperation he usually kept carefully contained bleeding into his tone. "But we do have schedules, and—"

He was cut off, listening for several long moments before responding with a resigned, "Of course. We'll expect you at seven, then."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries that sounded hollow even from Y/N's position across the room, Harry ended the call and turned to face her, his expression a complex mixture of annoyance and resignation.

"My mother has decided to grace us with her presence for dinner tonight," he announced, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Apparently, she's heard some concerning rumors about us 'starting a family' and feels the need to investigate in person."

The phrase hung in the air between them, laden with implications. They both knew what Anne really meant. she'd gotten wind of their cat adoption through her extensive network of informants (likely one of the household staff who reported to her on the side), and had interpreted it as a sign they might be taking steps toward a real marriage rather than the arrangement they'd agreed upon.

Y/N stroked Grumps' fur thoughtfully, her expression carefully neutral. "Let me guess. she didn't phrase it as a request."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Anne Styles doesn't make requests. She makes pronouncements that we're expected to accommodate."

He moved back toward the seating area, though he didn't resume his place on the ottoman, choosing instead to lean against one of the bookshelves. "I'm sorry about this. I know how she can be, especially toward you."

The apology was unexpected. a deviation from their usual script where Harry either ignored his mother's rudeness toward Y/N or tacitly supported it through his silence.

Y/N looked up at him with mild surprise. "It's fine. I've survived Anne Styles before; I can do it again for one dinner."

"She'll likely be at her worst tonight," Harry warned, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of genuine agitation. "The idea of us becoming more... permanent... is exactly what she's been dreading since this arrangement began."

Y/N set her jaw, a flash of determination crossing her features. "Well, she'll just have to be disappointed, won't she? Both about our supposed 'family planning' and about getting a rise out of me. I can play the dutiful daughter-in-law for one evening."

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You shouldn't have to."

"We both do things we'd rather not as part of this arrangement," Y/N reminded him, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "One dinner with your mother hardly compares to some of the public appearances I've endured."

Harry acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head, then glanced at his watch. "I'll have Mrs. Patterson prepare something suitable for dinner. Mother will find fault regardless, but at least we can avoid giving her obvious targets."

"I should probably change," Y/N said, gently relocating Grumps from her lap to the cushion beside her as she stood. "Your mother has strong opinions about what counts as appropriate attire for a Styles family dinner."

The cat made a small sound of protest at being moved, then promptly resettled, curling into a tight orange ball against the arm of the chair.

Harry's eyes tracked the movement, then returned to Y/N's face. "Wear whatever you want. It's your house too, at least for now."

The qualification "at least for now" was unnecessary but typical of Harry, a reminder of the temporary nature of their arrangement that he seemed compelled to insert into any moment that might suggest otherwise.

Y/N chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the practical matters at hand. "Should I tell Maria to set up the formal dining room? Or would you prefer the smaller one?"

"The formal dining room," Harry decided after a moment's consideration. "Mother expects a certain level of... performance. Best to give her the full spectacle she's anticipating."

Y/N nodded, already mentally cataloging the preparations that would need to be made. 

The specific china Anne preferred, the floral arrangements that would meet her exacting standards, the precise positioning of the silver that would avoid her criticism.

"I'll speak with Maria," she said, moving toward the door. "And have Thomas bring up a bottle of that Bordeaux your mother pretends not to enjoy but always finishes."

Harry's mouth twitched in something close to genuine amusement. "Good call."

As Y/N reached the doorway, she paused, turning back to face him. "Do you think we should hide Grumps for the evening? Your mother isn't exactly... kind... about things she finds aesthetically displeasing."

Harry glanced at the sleeping cat, something hardening in his expression. "No. Let her see him. If she has something to say about his appearance, she can say it to me."

The protectiveness in his tone was surprising. Another deviation from their established patterns. Y/N studied him for a moment, trying to reconcile this Harry with the man who had spent the last four months maintaining careful emotional distance from both her and anything that might suggest genuine investment in their shared life.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Dinners with Anne were exercises in restraint and strategic diplomacy, with Y/N constantly navigating a minefield of subtle insults and pointed questions designed to expose her as unworthy.

Tonight would be no different. 

Except perhaps that for the first time since their arrangement began, there was a possibility, however small, that Harry might actually stand beside her rather than allowing her to weather his mother's disdain alone.

As Y/N made her way upstairs to change, she reminded herself not to read too much into one afternoon's unexpected ceasefire. Their marriage remained what it had always been: a business arrangement with a defined expiration date. Getting attached—to Harry, to this life, or even to the one-eyed cat currently sleeping in the library—would only make the inevitable ending more painful.

Still, as she opened her closet to select an outfit that would armor her against Anne's critical gaze, Y/N couldn't entirely suppress the small, treacherous spark of hope that had ignited in her chest. Hope that perhaps, in some small way, the dynamics between them were beginning to shift.

Several hours later, with the house prepared to Anne's exacting standards and both Harry and Y/N dressed for the occasion, the doorbell rang precisely at seven o'clock. Anne Styles was nothing if not punctual, particularly when punctuality could be wielded as another measure of superiority.

Harry had changed from his earlier business attire into a more casual but equally expensive ensemble. Dark trousers and a cashmere sweater in a shade of green that emphasized his eyes. He stood in the entryway as their housekeeper moved to answer the door, his posture alert but outwardly relaxed, like a fighter preparing for a bout he's confident of winning but knows will be grueling nonetheless.

Y/N descended the stairs just as the door opened, revealing Anne Styles in all her intimidating glory. At fifty-six, Anne was a striking woman—tall and slender, with expertly colored hair cut in a sleek bob that framed a face maintained through the most exclusive cosmetic procedures available. She was dressed impeccably in a tailored ivory suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, accessorized with a signature pearl necklace and subtle but unmistakably real diamonds at her ears.

Her gaze swept the entryway critically before landing on Harry, her expression softening marginally as she extended her cheek for his dutiful kiss.

"Darling," she greeted, her voice carrying that particular upper-class British inflection that suggested generations of privilege. "How lovely to see you, though I wish it hadn't been so long. A son should visit his mother more regularly, don't you think?"

Before Harry could respond, Anne's attention shifted to Y/N, who had reached the bottom of the stairs. Her expression cooled noticeably, the smile becoming fixed and considerably less warm.

"Y/N," she acknowledged with a slight nod, not offering the cheek kiss she had given Harry. "I see married life agrees with you."

The comment was delivered with just enough emphasis to suggest the opposite. That Y/N was somehow failing to meet the standards expected of a Styles wife, despite her efforts to present an appropriately polished appearance in a simple but elegant navy dress that highlighted her figure without being provocative.

"Anne," Y/N returned with a practiced smile, refusing to rise to the bait. "What a pleasant surprise. We're so glad you could join us for dinner on such short notice."

Anne's eyebrow arched slightly at the implied criticism of her last-minute arrival, but she moved past it with practiced social grace. "Well, when one hears rumors about one's only son, one naturally wishes to investigate personally rather than relying on secondhand accounts."

Harry stepped forward, placing a hand at the small of Y/N's back in what might have appeared to an observer as a gesture of marital solidarity, though Y/N felt the slight tension in his fingers that betrayed his own discomfort.

"What rumors would those be, Mother?" he asked, guiding both women toward the formal living room where drinks had been arranged. "I wasn't aware we'd been doing anything newsworthy lately."

Anne settled gracefully onto one of the pristine cream sofas, arranging herself with the precision of someone accustomed to being photographed from every angle. "Oh, just whispers here and there about you two... nesting. First a cat, I'm told, and who knows what might follow. I thought it prudent to check whether congratulations might soon be in order."

The implication was clear. Anne was concerned they might be considering children, a development that would complicate the clean break planned at the end of their contract year.

Y/N felt Harry's hand tense against her back before he removed it to pour drinks at the sidebar. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Mother," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "Y/N has indeed adopted a cat, but that hardly constitutes 'nesting.'"

"A cat?" Anne repeated, accepting the glass of chilled white wine Harry offered her with a slight moue of distaste. "How... domestic. Though I suppose it's less commitment than other options."

Her gaze slid meaningfully to Y/N's midsection before returning to her face with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It was a somewhat impulsive decision," Y/N admitted, accepting her own wine from Harry with a grateful nod. "But he needed a home, and we have plenty of space."

"He?" Anne inquired, clearly fishing for details.

As if on cue, a distinctive orange shape appeared in the doorway of the living room. Grumps, apparently having awakened from his nap and decided to investigate the new voice, sauntered into the room with the unhurried confidence of a creature who considered the entire house his domain.

Anne's eyes widened slightly as she took in the cat's appearance—the missing eye, the slightly matted orange fur, the overall impression of an animal that had seen better days despite clearly being well-fed.

"Good lord," she exclaimed, making no attempt to disguise her revulsion. "What on earth is that? It looks positively...feral."

Harry, who had been raising his own glass to his lips, set it down with a deliberate motion that caused both women to look at him.

"That," he said with a calmness that didn't quite mask the edge beneath, "is Grumps. Our cat. Who has had a difficult life but is now part of this household."

Anne's eyebrows rose at his tone. "Really, Harry, there's no need to be defensive. I was merely expressing surprise. If you wanted a pet, I would have thought you'd select something more...suitable. Perhaps a purebred of some sort."

Grumps, oblivious to the discussion of his merits, proceeded to leap gracefully onto the sofa beside Y/N, who automatically stroked his fur, drawing a loud purr that seemed to fill the tense silence.

"Grumps chose us," Y/N said quietly. "Sometimes the best things in life aren't what we'd have selected if left entirely to our own devices."

The comment could have been harmless, but there was an undercurrent that suggested Y/N might be referring to more than just the cat. Anne clearly caught it, her lips thinning slightly as she took a deliberate sip of her wine.

"How philosophical," she remarked dryly. "Though I've always found that careful selection according to appropriate criteria yields far better results than...impulse adoptions."

Harry cleared his throat, clearly recognizing the brewing tension. "Dinner should be ready soon. Mother, I believe Mrs. Patterson has prepared that salmon you enjoyed last time."

The attempted change of subject was transparent but effective. Anne allowed herself to be led into a discussion of the menu, though her gaze kept returning to Grumps with barely disguised distaste, particularly when the cat settled more comfortably against Y/N's thigh, his single eye regarding Anne with what could almost be described as disdain.

As they made their way into the dining room a short time later, Harry leaned close to Y/N, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Round one to us," he murmured, a hint of unexpected humor in his tone. "Though I expect she's just warming up."

Us

Y/N glanced at him in surprise, taken aback by the casual use of "us" that positioned them as a united front rather than adversaries. Harry didn't meet her eyes, already moving ahead to hold Anne's chair, but the moment of alliance hung between them.

Another small crack in the wall they'd so carefully constructed.

As they took their seats at the impeccably set table, Y/N couldn't help but feel that this dinner, unlike previous encounters with Anne, might represent something of a turning point. 

The dining room had fallen into a familiar rhythm

Anne's crisp voice dominated the conversation while servants moved silently around them, replacing courses and refilling wine glasses with practiced efficiency. The tension that had briefly lifted in the library earlier that day had settled back around Harry and Y/N's shoulders like a well-worn coat, each of them retreating to their practiced roles in this recurring performance.

Y/N kept her eyes on her plate, cutting a perfect bite of the expertly prepared salmon as Anne continued her seemingly endless monologue about the latest scandals and triumphs among London's elite circles. Her fork moved mechanically between plate and mouth, the food—despite Mrs. Patterson's considerable culinary skill—tasting like little more than texture against her tongue.

"...and then Caroline Whitmore-Hayes had the audacity to suggest that her daughter's debut should precede the Westfield girl's, despite the Westfields' significantly superior connections," Anne was saying, her voice carrying the particular blend of amusement and disdain she reserved for recounting the social missteps of those she considered beneath her. "I told Judith Westfield not to concern herself. No one of consequence would attend the Whitmore-Hayes affair regardless of timing."

Harry made an appropriate noise of acknowledgment without actually commenting, a skill he had perfected over years of these dinners. His posture remained impeccable, one hand occasionally reaching for his wine glass in what Y/N had come to recognize as his subtle method of self-medication during his mother's visits.

"The entire affair reminded me of that unfortunate garden party the Hendersons hosted last summer," Anne continued, her gaze sliding briefly to Y/N. "You remember, Harry. The one where they invited that woman who claimed to be some sort of 'influencer.' As if social media popularity could ever substitute for proper breeding and connections."

The comment was clearly aimed at Y/N, a reminder of her status as an outsider to Anne's world despite the wedding ring on her finger. Four months into their marriage, and Anne had yet to miss an opportunity to emphasize Y/N's supposed unsuitability.

Y/N took another bite of her salmon, chewing deliberately as she maintained her composure. She had learned early in their arrangement that responding to Anne's barbs only provided the woman with more ammunition. Silence was her most effective weapon as it meant denying Anne the satisfaction of visible discomfort.

Harry cleared his throat, setting down his fork with deliberate precision. "Speaking of social media, the new campaign images for Burberry were released today. My team tells me the response has been exceptionally positive."

It was a clumsy attempt at changing the subject, but Y/N appreciated the effort nevertheless. 

Anne's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, I saw them. You looked quite handsome, darling. Though I did wonder about the styling choices. That particular shade of blue doesn't do your complexion any favors. I've always told you that deeper tones bring out your eyes more effectively."

Harry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The creative director felt it complemented the overall aesthetic of the campaign."

"Of course, dear," Anne conceded with the air of someone humoring a child's mistake. "I'm sure they know best, though I can't help but feel that my son deserves to be presented in the most flattering light possible. Perhaps next time you might suggest they consult with someone more experienced."

Before Harry could respond, Anne turned her attention to Y/N, her expression shifting into the particular blend of polite interest and underlying judgment she reserved for her daughter-in-law.

"And what about you, Y/N? Have you found anything productive to occupy your time lately? It must be terribly dull for you, rattling around this enormous house while Harry is working."

The question carried its own set of barbs. The implication that Y/N was useless, idle, merely decorative. 

Y/N set down her fork, meeting Anne's gaze directly for the first time since they'd sat down to dinner. "Actually, I've been quite busy. The children's literacy foundation asked me to chair their fundraising committee for the spring gala. It's an important cause. Bringing books and educational resources to underserved communities."

Anne's expression remained pleasant, though her eyes narrowed slightly. "How... charitable. Though I would have thought the Styles Family Foundation might be a more appropriate channel for your energies, given your position. The literacy foundation is rather... small, isn't it?"

"Small but impactful," Y/N responded, keeping her tone light despite the familiar frustration building in her chest. "They've helped establish libraries in over fifty schools across the country in the past year alone."

"Hmm," Anne hummed noncommittally, taking a delicate sip of her wine. "Well, I suppose it's good for you to have some project to keep yourself occupied. Though do be careful about overcommitting the Styles name. There are considerations beyond your personal interests."

Harry set down his wine glass with slightly more force than necessary, drawing both women's attention. "Y/N's work with the literacy foundation has my full support, Mother. In fact, we've discussed making it one of our primary charitable focuses moving forward."

we

The "we" hung in the air. A small but significant deviation from Harry's usual careful language that maintained separation between them. Y/N glanced at him in surprise, finding his expression unreadable as he returned to his meal.

Anne, however, didn't miss the implication. Her gaze sharpened, moving between them with renewed assessment.

 "How unusual," she remarked after a moment. "You've never shown particular interest in literacy charities before, Harry."

"Perhaps my interests are evolving," he replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. 

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against fine china. Y/N found herself oddly unable to continue eating, her appetite diminished by the strange undercurrents between mother and son.

 Something had shifted in the dynamic, though she couldn't quite identify what—or why.

After a moment, Anne deliberately changed tactics, her smile brightening with artificial warmth. "I ran into Camilla Fairchild at the Harrington's benefit last week. She asked after you quite specifically, Harry."

The name was clearly meant to provoke a reaction. Y/N didn't recognize it, but from the subtle tightening around Harry's eyes, she gathered this Camilla was someone from his past. 

Likely someone Anne considered a more suitable match than Y/N.

"Did she," Harry responded flatly, not phrasing it as a question. "How is Camilla these days?"

"Absolutely thriving," Anne enthused, warming to her topic. "She's just returned from overseeing the Paris office of her father's company. Made quite a splash in the international business community, from what I hear. And of course, she's as lovely as ever."

Anne turned to Y/N with a smile that was all teeth. "Camilla and Harry were quite close for a time, you know. Everyone expected them to announce an engagement eventually. Two perfectly matched young people from excellent families. It was such a disappointment when their schedules pulled them in different directions."

The meaning was clear: Camilla had been the appropriate choice, the woman Anne had selected for her son. Y/N was the mistake, the temporary diversion that would eventually be corrected.

Y/N maintained her neutral expression with effort, refusing to give Anne the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. "How fortunate for Camilla to have found such success in her career," she replied evenly. "Paris is a beautiful city."

Harry's hand moved suddenly across the table, covering Y/N's in a gesture that appeared spontaneous but felt calculated for his mother's benefit. "Camilla and I wanted very different things," he said, his eyes meeting Y/N's with an intensity that seemed performative yet somehow genuine. "It became clear we weren't compatible."

The touch of his hand was warm against hers, his palm slightly calloused in a way that surprised her. For someone who lived such a privileged life, Harry's hands bore the evidence of real work. Perhaps from his music, or from the fitness regimen he maintained with religious dedication.

Anne watched the gesture with poorly disguised disapproval. "People's needs and desires change over time, darling. What seems incompatible at twenty-five might make perfect sense at thirty."

The implication hung in the air: Harry's marriage to Y/N was the youthful mistake; reconciliation with someone like Camilla would be the mature correction.

Harry's fingers tightened slightly around Y/N's before he released her hand, his expression cooling as he turned back to his mother. "I'm quite satisfied with my current situation, Mother."

The statement was perfectly calibrated. It is supportive enough of their marriage to rebuff Anne's meddling, yet ambiguous enough that it could refer merely to the business arrangement rather than any genuine emotional attachment. It was exactly the sort of careful linguistic navigation Harry had perfected in their months together.

Anne's smile thinned, but before she could respond, a distinctive thump followed by the padding of paws announced Grumps' arrival in the dining room. The orange cat sauntered in with his characteristic confidence, tail held high as he surveyed the gathering with his single eye.

Anne visibly recoiled as Grumps approached the table, fixing her with what could only be described as feline contempt. "Really, must that creature be allowed at the table? It's hardly hygienic."

Grumps, as if understanding the criticism, chose that moment to leap gracefully onto the empty chair beside Y/N, settling himself with regal dignity. A one-eyed, battle-scarred monarch surveying his domain.

Harry's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Grumps appears to have decided he's part of the family dinner, Mother. I'm afraid we've been rather permissive with his boundaries."

"Clearly," Anne replied, her distaste evident as she deliberately shifted her chair away from the cat's line of sight. "When I had pets as a child, they understood their place in the household hierarchy."

"Times change," Y/N murmured, reaching over to stroke Grumps' fur. The cat responded with a rumbling purr that seemed deliberately provocative in the tense atmosphere.

Anne's eyes narrowed at Y/N's subtle defiance. "Some standards should remain constant, regardless of changing fashions. Discipline and proper order have always been the foundation of well-run households. And successful marriages, for that matter."

The server entered with the dessert course, momentarily disrupting the brewing tension. As delicate plates of panna cotta were placed before each of them, Anne returned her attention to Harry, her expression softening into something almost wistful.

"Your father always said that the true measure of a man was his ability to maintain order in his own home," she remarked, the invocation of Harry's deceased father clearly calculated for maximum impact.

Harry's expression tightened, as it always did at the mention of his father. "Dad had many opinions about how others should live their lives," he responded, his tone deliberately neutral. "Not all of which I share."

Anne's lips pressed together in disapproval. "Your father built everything we have, Harry. His wisdom deserves more respect than that."

"I respected my father," Harry replied, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "But respect doesn't require blind adherence to outdated values."

Y/N remained silent, watching the familiar dynamic unfold. Anne's most effective weapon had always been Harry's complicated relationship with his father

 In their four months of marriage, Y/N had learned to recognize the signs of Anne deploying this particular strategy when other approaches failed.

Anne set down her spoon, her expression a perfect blend of disappointment and concern. "I worry about you, darling. Your father had such hopes for your future. For the Styles legacy. He would be concerned about the direction your life has taken recently."

The "direction" was clearly meant to encompass everything from Harry's marriage to Y/N to the adoption of a one-eyed rescue cat. all deviations from the carefully plotted course Anne and her late husband had envisioned for their son.

Harry's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Y/N surprised both of them by speaking.

"With all due respect, Anne," she said quietly, "I think a father's greatest hope would be for his son's happiness, not adherence to a specific blueprint for his life."

Both Harry and Anne turned to her with matching expressions of surprise, though for entirely different reasons. 

Harry appeared startled by her willingness to enter a conversation that had previously been strictly between mother and son, while Anne seemed genuinely shocked by Y/N's audacity.

"I hardly think you're qualified to speculate on what Desmond Styles would have wanted for his only son," Anne replied, her tone glacial. "You never even met the man."

"No, I didn't," Y/N acknowledged, maintaining her composure despite the chill emanating from her mother-in-law. "But I've heard Harry speak of him often enough to understand he was a man who valued determination and authenticity. Qualities Harry demonstrates every day."

The statement wasn't entirely truthful. 

Harry rarely spoke of his father voluntarily but it served its purpose. Anne's expression flickered, momentarily uncertain how to counter this unexpected approach.

Harry was watching Y/N with an unreadable expression, something complex shifting behind his eyes.

"My father," he said after a moment, his voice carrying an unusual weight, "believed in making strategic choices. In that respect, at least, I think he would have approved of my recent decisions."

Anne's gaze moved between them, clearly sensing something had changed but unable to identify exactly what. "Perhaps," she conceded reluctantly. "Though Desmond always took a long-term view. Temporary... arrangements... were never his preference."

Temporary

Arrangements

Y/N felt a strange hollowness expand in her chest at the reminder, though she maintained her neutral expression with practiced ease. Their arrangement had always been clear—this was a business transaction, not a love match. The fact that something seemed to be shifting between them recently didn't change the fundamentals of their agreement.

Harry set down his dessert spoon, his panna cotta barely touched. "I believe I'm capable of making my own judgments about what would best serve the Styles legacy, Mother. But I appreciate your concern, as always."

The dismissal was polite but firm. A signal that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Anne recognized it for what it was, her lips thinning slightly before she adopted a more conciliatory expression.

"Of course, darling. I only want what's best for you."

The remainder of dessert passed in strained conversation about safer topics: the upcoming charity season, Harry's plans for his next album, Anne's recent renovation of her country house. Throughout it all, Grumps remained regally seated in his chair, occasionally fixing Anne with his one-eyed stare in a manner that seemed deliberately provocative.

By the time coffee was served in the sitting room, the atmosphere had settled into a brittle détente, with Anne having apparently decided to reserve her more pointed critiques for another occasion. As she gathered her things to leave shortly before ten, she turned to Harry with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I've been thinking, darling. It's been too long since you visited the estate in the country. Why don't you and Y/N come for the weekend at the end of the month? The gardens will be lovely by then, and it would give us a chance for some proper family time."

The invitation was clearly a strategic move rather than a genuine desire for their company. Anne's country estate had been the site of some of their most tense encounters, a place where Anne held complete control over the environment and could more effectively isolate Y/N from Harry's attention.

Harry hesitated, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll have to check my schedule, Mother. We've got quite a lot of commitments in the coming weeks."

"Of course," Anne replied smoothly, kissing his cheek in farewell. "But do try to make it work. Family should be a priority, after all."

Her gaze slid to Y/N, the smile remaining fixed in place as she extended her hand rather than offering the cheek kiss she'd given Harry. "Y/N, it's been... illuminating, as always. Do take care of that cat. I'm sure with proper attention, its appearance could be somewhat improved."

Y/N accepted the limp handshake with a practiced smile of her own. "Thank you for coming, Anne. It's always a pleasure."

The blatant untruth hung in the air between them, acknowledged by neither but understood by both. As Thomas showed Anne to the door, Y/N felt the tension she'd been holding in her shoulders begin to release, the familiar post-Anne exhaustion settling into her bones.

Harry remained in the foyer, watching through the side window as his mother's sleek black car pulled away from the house. Only when the taillights had disappeared down the long driveway did he turn back to Y/N, his expression unguarded for a rare moment.

"Well," he said, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine weariness, "that was about what I expected."

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, suddenly too tired to maintain the perfect posture she'd held throughout dinner. "She seemed particularly determined to emphasize our temporary status tonight."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Mother excels at reminding everyone of their proper place in her world order."

"And my proper place is very much not as your wife," Y/N observed, stating the obvious without rancor. It was simply a fact. One they both had acknowledged from the beginning.

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You handled her well tonight. Especially that bit about my father. I've never seen her quite so wrong-footed."

It wasn't quite a compliment, but it was closer than anything he'd offered her in their four months of marriage. Y/N shrugged, uncomfortable with the acknowledgment.

"I've had enough practice by now," she replied, pushing herself away from the doorframe. "Though I think Grumps may have been the real MVP of the evening. Your mother's face when he jumped on the chair was... memorable."

Harry's expression lightened, a genuine smile briefly transforming his features. "He does seem to have excellent timing. And an uncanny ability to identify the person in the room most likely to be annoyed by his presence."

The shared moment of amusement felt foreign between them. Y/N found herself wanting to preserve it, to extend this unusual ceasefire beyond the boundaries of Anne's visit.

"Would you like a real drink?" she asked impulsively. "Something stronger than the wine we had with dinner? I think we've both earned it after surviving another Styles family dinner."

Harry looked surprised by the offer, hesitating as if weighing the implications of accepting. Their usual pattern after one of Anne's visits was to retreat to separate corners of the house, processing the encounter in isolation rather than together.

"Actually," he said after a moment, "that sounds like exactly what I need."

Y/N nodded, leading the way toward the library where they kept the better liquor. As they walked in companionable silence, Grumps appeared from wherever he'd been hiding during Anne's departure, falling into step beside them with his distinctive one-sided gait.

The library had transformed from a formal space into something more intimate as the night progressed. What had begun as a single drink to decompress after Anne's departure had evolved into several, the expensive whiskey loosening the rigid boundaries they typically maintained. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the book-lined walls as they settled deeper into the oversized leather chairs.

Y/N's cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, her posture relaxed in a way it rarely was around Harry. The glass in her hand was nearly empty––her third of the evening—and her laughter came more freely with each sip.

"I want to rip my hair out sometimes when you shower and then just leave your towel in the bed. Yes we have housekeeping but it's called being decent," she said, gesturing emphatically with her free hand. 

Harry snorted, taking another sip of his whiskey as he lounged back in his chair, legs stretched out toward the fire. His usual perfect posture had given way to something more casual, his hair slightly mussed where he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly during their conversation.

"At least I don't leave my makeup scattered across every surface in the bathroom," he countered, his accent growing slightly more pronounced with the alcohol. "How many bloody lipsticks does one person need? And why can't they all go in the same drawer?"

He mimicked opening various drawers and cabinets, his expression exaggerated. "It's like a treasure hunt every morning just trying to find my own razor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though the gesture lacked its usual edge. "They're organized by color family, not that you'd understand the concept. And at least I don't leave wet towels on Egyptian cotton sheets."

Harry leaned forward to refill his glass, the movement slightly less coordinated than usual. "The sheets dry eventually," he said with a dismissive wave. "What about how you insist on keeping the temperature at arctic levels? I found Mrs. Patterson wearing a cardigan in the kitchen last week, in August."

Y/N laughed, the sound genuine and unguarded. "Some of us don't naturally run at the temperature of a furnace. And Mrs. Patterson exaggerates. It was barely below seventy."

"Barely below seventy," Harry mimicked, dropping his voice to a dramatically serious tone. "Tell that to Grumps—I found him sleeping on top of the heating vent earlier."

As if summoned by his name, Grumps appeared in the doorway, stretching languidly before padding over to jump onto the arm of Y/N's chair. The cat settled into a comfortable position, his single eye regarding Harry with what looked suspiciously like judgment.

"See? He agrees with me," Harry said, gesturing at the cat with his glass. "That's his 'Harry is right and you're being ridiculous' face."

Y/N scratched behind Grumps' ears, earning a contented purr. "This is his 'I tolerate the loud human because hes going to be feeding me occasionally' face, actually. I've become fluent in Grumps expressions."

Harry's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the expression transforming his face in a way that still caught Y/N off guard. When he genuinely smiled, not the practiced, camera-ready version, but the real thing, he looked younger, more approachable. Almost like the boy she'd known all those summers ago, before his mother's influence had fully taken hold.

"What about how you alphabetize the spice rack?" he continued, shifting to sit sideways in the chair, his long legs draped over one arm. "Who does that? It's maddening trying to find anything."

"It's called organization," Y/N protested, taking another sip of her whiskey. "Not everyone wants to hunt for oregano for ten minutes every time they cook."

"But paprika and pepper should be together," Harry insisted with the passionate conviction of the mildly drunk. "They're both... p spices. It just makes sense."

Y/N burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. "P spices? That's your organizational system? By first letter?"

"It's intuitive," he defended, trying to maintain a serious expression but failing as a smile broke through. "Better than your color-coordinated bookshelf. Looking for that music history book the other day was like trying to solve a bloody Rubik's cube."

"The blue section is clearly music and arts," Y/N replied with exaggerated patience. "Everyone knows that."

"Everyone does not know that," Harry countered, leaning forward to emphasize his point. "Because it's a system that exists only in your mind. Like how you insist the good mugs can only be used on weekends."

Y/N gasped in mock offense. "The handmade pottery mugs are special! They shouldn't be used for random Tuesday morning coffee."

"They're mugs, Y/N. Their purpose is to hold liquid, not to mark special occasions."

"Says the man who has separate towels for his hair and body," she shot back, grinning. "Talk about unnecessary."

Harry's eyes widened. "How do you know about that?"

"Mrs. Patterson told me," Y/N admitted, looking smug. "She finds it hilarious that you need a specific towel just for your precious hair."

Harry ran a hand through said hair self-consciously. "It's not weird. Hair towels are smaller and more absorbent."

"Mmhmm," Y/N hummed skeptically, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And I suppose the special Italian conditioner that has to be specially imported is also completely normal?"

Harry's expression shifted to genuine surprise. "How do you know about the conditioner?"

"I live here too," Y/N reminded him, gesturing broadly with her glass. "I notice things. Like how you organize your clothes by designer, not type or color."

Harry looked slightly disconcerted at the revelation that she'd been paying such close attention to his habits. His gaze dropped to his whiskey glass, turning it slowly in his hands.

"Well, I notice things too," he said after a moment, glancing up with a challenging expression. "Like how you always put your left shoe on first. Or how you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."

Now it was Y/N's turn to look surprised. "I don't talk to myself."

"You absolutely do," Harry insisted, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Usually when you're reading. You have entire conversations with the characters and arguing with them when they make decisions you don't like."

Heat rose to Y/N's cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol or the fire. "I... I didn't realize I did that out loud."

"It's..." Harry hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. "It's actually rather charming. Especially when you get really worked up about some nineteenth-century idiot making poor choices."

The word "charming" hung in the air between them, unexpected and slightly dangerous. This was new territory.

Acknowledging positive aspects of each other beyond the carefully maintained façade they presented to the public. Y/N took another sip of her whiskey, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Well, at least I don't sing the same line of a song over and over for days," she countered, steering them back to the safer ground of gentle teasing. "Last week it was just 'the rhythm of the rain' for three days straight. I nearly lost my mind."

Harry laughed, accepting the shift in tone. "Occupational hazard. Sometimes a line just gets stuck in my head until I figure out where it belongs."

"In the meantime, the rest of us suffer," Y/N replied with an exaggerated sigh.

"Speaking of suffering," Harry said, his expression turning mischievous, "what about your obsession with those terrible reality dating shows? The walls in this house aren't soundproof, you know. I can hear you yelling at the TV from my study."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her free hand. "They're a guilty pleasure, okay? And those people make objectively terrible decisions. Aomeone needs to tell them."

"And that someone is you, shouting 'He's clearly using you for screen time!' at eleven at night?" Harry's impression of her voice was comically high-pitched.

"I do not sound like that," Y/N protested, laughing despite herself. "And I was right about that guy. He dumped her the minute the cameras stopped rolling."

Harry raised his glass in a mock toast. "To your superior judgment of reality TV contestants' motivations."

Y/N clinked her glass against his, still smiling. "And to your completely unnecessary hair towels."

The moment felt surreal. Sitting in the library, trading playful insults with the man she'd been at constant odds with for months. The alcohol had lowered their usual defenses, allowing a glimpse of what their relationship might have been under different circumstances. 

if they'd met as equals rather than through a business arrangement, if Anne's influence hadn't poisoned Harry against her family from childhood, if the weight of expectations and resentments didn't constantly hover between them.

Harry seemed to be having similar thoughts, his expression turning contemplative as he studied her over the rim of his glass. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning them a deeper, warmer green than usual.

"You know," he said after a moment, his voice softer, "when we were kids, that summer when I was eleven and you were... what, 10? I used to look forward to seeing you at the lake every day."

The sudden shift to their shared past caught Y/N off guard. They rarely discussed their childhood encounters. the brief friendship they'd formed during the summers when Harry's family stayed at their country estate near Y/N's childhood home. It felt like opening a door they'd tacitly agreed to keep closed.

"I remember," she said carefully, watching his expression. "You taught me how to skip stones. You were so proud when I finally got one to bounce four times."

A genuine smile spread across Harry's face at the memory. "You were a determined little thing. Wouldn't stop until you beat my record."

"And I never did," Y/N admitted with a rueful laugh. "What was it, eight skips?"

"Nine, on a good day," Harry corrected, his expression softening. "Though I'd been practicing for years by then, so it wasn't really a fair competition."

Y/N swirled the remaining whiskey in her glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Your mother found us there once, didn't she? At the lake. I remember her being... unhappy."

Harry's expression clouded slightly at the mention of Anne. "That's putting it mildly. She forbade me from going back to that part of the property for the rest of the summer. Said it wasn't appropriate for me to be 'consorting with the shopkeeper's daughter.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, clipped tones with surprising accuracy, though there was an edge of bitterness beneath the impression.

"Yet you still came back the next day," Y/N reminded him, remembering her surprise when he'd appeared at their usual meeting spot despite his mother's prohibition.

Harry's gaze dropped to his glass. "I did."

It was a reminder that there had been a time when Harry had chosen Y/N's company over his mother's approval, however briefly. Before the years of conditioning had fully taken hold, before he'd learned to view her through Anne's contemptuous lens.

"What happened to us, Harry?" Y/N asked softly, the alcohol making her braver than she might otherwise have been. "We were friends once, weren't we? Before... all of this."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he stared into the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight she rarely heard from him.

"We were children," he said, not unkindly but with finality. "Children don't understand the complications of the real world."

The statement felt rehearsed, as if he'd told himself the same thing many times over the years. A justification for the distance he'd put between them as they grew older, for the contempt he'd adopted toward her family in mimicry of his mother's attitudes.

Y/N nodded slowly, accepting the boundary he'd drawn even as disappointment settled in her chest. The brief window of genuine connection seemed to be closing, the walls between them reasserting themselves despite the alcohol and the cozy intimacy of the firelit room.

"I should probably get some sleep," she said after a moment, setting her empty glass on the side table and gently dislodging Grumps from his perch on the arm of her chair. "It's getting late."

Harry glanced at her, something complicated flickering in his expression before it settled back into careful neutrality. "Of course. It's been a long day."

As Y/N stood, she felt the effects of the whiskey more strongly, swaying slightly on her feet. Harry rose quickly, one hand reaching out to steady her elbow. The contact was brief but electric, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "Perhaps we both had more than intended."

They stood close for a moment, closer than they typically allowed themselves to be when not performing for cameras or guests. Y/N could smell the subtle notes of his cologne mingled with whiskey and the sandalwood scent of the fire, a combination that was uniquely Harry, familiar yet somehow new in this context.

"Thank you," she said softly, stepping back carefully to reestablish the appropriate distance between them. "For the drinks and... this. It was nice to just talk for once."

Harry nodded, his expression difficult to read in the flickering firelight. "It was... a pleasant change of pace."

The formality of his response should have been jarring after the relative ease of their earlier conversation, but Y/N recognized it for what it was. A retreat to safer ground. A reminder of the actual nature of their relationship, regardless of momentary détentes.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said, offering a small smile as she turned toward the door, Grumps trailing at her heels.

"Y/N," Harry called as she reached the threshold, causing her to pause and look back. "For what it's worth... I did consider you a friend. Back then."

The admission was small but significant. An acknowledgment of a truth they both knew but rarely voiced. Y/N nodded, unsure how to respond to this unexpected olive branch.

"So did I," she finally replied, the simple truth feeling both inadequate and too revealing.

With a final nod, she continued out of the library, leaving Harry standing by the fire, whiskey glass in hand, his expression thoughtful as he watched her go. The corridor felt cooler after the warmth of the library, or perhaps it was simply the absence of the unexpected connection they'd briefly shared.

As Y/N made her way up the grand staircase toward her bedroom, Grumps padding silently beside her, she couldn't help but wonder what had prompted Harry's unusual openness tonight. Whether it had been merely the influence of good whiskey and exhaustion after his mother's visit, or something deeper���a hairline crack in the careful walls they'd built around themselves.

Either way, she knew better than to assign too much significance to a single evening of relative harmony. Tomorrow would likely bring a return to their usual careful distance, the momentary connection forgotten or deliberately ignored as they resumed their performative roles.

Yet as she prepared for bed, moving through her nightly routine with the mechanical precision of habit, Y/N found herself replaying moments from their conversation. 

The genuine laugh when she'd teased him about his hair towels

The softness in his expression when he recalled teaching her to skip stones

The brief warmth of his hand on her elbow.

Small things, insignificant in the grand scheme of their arrangement. Yet somehow, as she slipped beneath the cool sheets of her bed, these moments felt like pebbles dropped into still water—tiny disturbances that sent ripples outward, changing the surface in ways too subtle to name but impossible to entirely ignore.

Harry's brow furrowed as he slipped beneath the silk sheets an hour later, expecting to find Y/N already lost to her dreams. Instead, her voice cut through the darkness like a blade—sharp, accusatory, and laced with years of unresolved pain.

"You lied."

The words charged with emotion brewing since their conversation in the library. The whiskey's warmth still lingered in his veins, but the comfort it had provided was rapidly evaporating.

"What?" he asked, genuinely startled by her wakefulness and her accusation’s directness.

Y/N shifted in the darkness, turning to face him. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, he could see the hurt etched across her features.

"That's what happened to us. You lied," she repeated, her voice steadier now but no less wounded.

Harry's jaw tightened. "About what?"

"You said, no, you promised you'd come back. But you never did."

"Christ," he muttered, settling onto his back with a heavy exhale. "You're drunk."

"And you're a liar," Y/N replied, her voice clearer now, more steady than he'd expected.

The whiskey still coursed through his veins, warming his blood and loosening the tight grip he usually maintained on his memories—on the parts of himself he'd worked so hard to bury. That summer. That clearing in the woods. Her lips against his, inexperienced but eager.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening. "It was a lifetime ago."

"You said you'd come back," she repeated, her voice steadier now, more insistent. She propped herself on her elbow, the sheets pooling around her waist. "That summer. In the woods. You promised."

The woods. The clearing. The dappled sunlight through the leaves. Her younger face tilted up toward his, trusting and open in a way she never looked at him anymore. The taste of her lips, inexperienced but eager. His whispered promises.

"We were kids," he said dismissively, though something uncomfortable twisted in his stomach. "People say things."

"Not just people. You." Her voice hardened. "You looked me in the eyes and promised. Then you vanished."

"What do you want me to say?" Harry snapped, propping himself up on his elbow. "That I'm sorry? Fine—I'm fucking sorry I didn't keep a promise I made when I was sixteen. Is that what you need to hear?"

"I need to understand what happened to us!" Y/N's voice rose, cracking slightly. "How did we go from that to... to this? To you treating me like I'm nothing but an inconvenience, like I'm beneath you?"

"I didn't have a fucking choice!" Harry's volume matched hers now, the careful facade of indifference crumbling. "You think my mother would have allowed me to keep seeing you? The daughter of a shopkeeper?" 

"You're such an asshole," she hissed. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you offered me this arrangement. You knew who I was."

"Of course I knew who you were," he snapped back, his own temper flaring. "The pathetic girl from the village my mother always warned me about. The one who wasn't good enough for me then, and certainly isn't now."

Her sharp intake of breath told him he'd struck a nerve. Good. He wanted to hurt her like she was hurting him with these memories.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. "You want the truth? My mother happened. She told me what a fucking embarrassment it would be if anyone found out I was sneaking around with the shopkeeper's daughter. How it would ruin everything my family had built."

"And you believed her," Y/N said quietly. "You just... accepted that I wasn't good enough."

"I was a kid!" Harry's voice rose to match hers. "A stupid kid who'd been taught his whole life that people like you were—"

"People like me?" Y/N cut in, sitting up fully now. "What exactly are 'people like me,' Harry? Poor? Common? Not worthy of breathing the same air as the almighty Styles family?"

Harry ran a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw rough against his palm. "I was sixteen, for fuck's sake. We were kids."

"Bullshit," Y/N snapped, her voice rising. "You just decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Your mother made sure of that, didn't she? Made sure you understood that people like me weren't good enough for people like you."

Harry sat up abruptly, anger flaring. "Don't pretend to know what happened. You have no fucking idea what my life was like then."

"Then tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me why you left without a word. Why did you promise to meet me and then never showed up. Why you let me wait there in that clearing for hours like some pathetic, lovesick fool!"

"Because I was a coward!" Harry shouted, the admission tearing from him before he could stop it.

 "Is that what you want to hear? That I was too fucking weak to stand up to my mother? That I let her convince me you were beneath me? That I spent years trying to forget about you because remembering hurt too goddamn much?"

Y/N stared at him, momentarily stunned by his outburst. Then her eyes narrowed. "So you just... what? Decided to hate me instead? To treat me like dirt the under your expensive shoes? That was easier?"

"Yes!" he hissed, leaning closer, his face inches from hers. "Yes, it was fucking easier to hate you than to admit I was wrong. Than to admit I missed you. Than to admit that for years after, every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face waiting for me in that clearing."

The tension between them crackled like electricity, years of resentment and unspoken truths finally surfacing. They were breathing hard, glaring at each other in the half-light.

"You're such an asshole," Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

"And you're a fucking pain in my ass," Harry growled back.

"Was it worth it?" Y/N asked quietly.

The question hit him like a physical blow. Was it worth it? The Grammy awards, the sold-out stadiums, the wealth beyond imagination—all of it built on the foundation his mother had established for him, brick by calculated brick.

"Yes," he answered automatically, but even to his own ears, the word sounded hollow. "It has to be."

"So you admit it," she challenged, not backing down despite his proximity. Her eyes flashed in the darkness. "You left because you thought I wasn't good enough. That I wasnt worth it”

"I left because I had bigger things waiting for me than some summer romance!" he shouted, losing his composure entirely. "What did you expect? That I'd throw away everything for you?"

"I expected you to at least say goodbye!" she shouted back, pushing against his chest. "Not to make promises you had no intention of keeping!"

He caught her wrists, his grip firm but not painful. "What's the real problem here, Y/N? That I broke a promise, or that I was your first taste of rejection?"

Her face contorted with rage. "You arrogant son of a—"

"Careful," he warned, his face inches from hers. "That's your mother-in-law you're talking about."

"This isn't a real marriage," she spat.

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It's not. It's business. So stop acting like I broke your heart."

"You did break my heart," she admitted, the raw honesty in her voice momentarily stunning him. "And the worst part is, you never even cared enough to notice."

The sudden shift in her tone caught Harry off-guard. He watched as the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by something worse—resignation. 

"I didn't expect you to throw everything away. I just thought I was worth a goodbye." 

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could turn away.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Don't—don't cry."

"I'm not crying because of you," she lied, her voice thick as she wiped angrily at her cheeks. "I'm crying because I'm tired and drunk and I hate that I ever agreed to this stupid arrangement."

Harry stood frozen, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. This wasn't the fiery Y/N he'd grown accustomed to sparring with. This was the girl from the lake, vulnerable and hurt.

Hurt that he'd caused, both then and now.

“because I wasted so much time wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why you hated me."

Harry's hand dropped away. "I never hated you," he admitted quietly. "I hated what you represented. The choice I was too weak to make."

Y/N wiped at her eyes, her vulnerability making her look younger, reminding him of the girl he'd known. "Your mother would have made your life hell."

"She did anyway," Harry said with a bitter laugh. "Just in different ways."

More silence stretched between them, but it felt different now—less hostile, more thoughtful.

"I didn't..." he began, then stopped, unsure what to say. "I wanted to come back."

Y/N went still, her back to him.

"My mother found out," he continued, the words coming reluctantly. "About us. About that day in the woods. Someone saw us and told her. She was... livid. Said she'd cut me off completely if I ever saw you again."

He moved closer, cautious as if approaching a wounded animal.

"I was sixteen, Y/N. Music was all I had. It was my only way out from under her thumb. If she'd cut me off, I wouldn't have had the money for the demos, for the connections I needed. I couldn't..."

"You couldn't choose me," Y/N finished, her voice small. "I understand."

"No, you don't," Harry sighed, the fight gone from him too. "I tried to send you a letter. My mother intercepted it. After that, she made sure we left early and never returned to that house. By the next summer, I was on tour. Everything happened so fast."

He hesitated, then placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. When she didn't shake it off, he gently turned her to face him.

"I'm not saying it was right," he said, looking down at her tear-streaked face. "I'm not saying I'm not a coward or an asshole. But I didn't forget you, Y/N. I just... couldn't have both worlds."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his face for the truth. After a moment, she nodded slightly.

"I waited for you," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "That whole next summer. Every day at our spot in the woods."

The confession hit Harry like a physical blow. He closed his eyes briefly, guilt washing over him.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words inadequate but sincere. "I should have tried harder to reach you. To explain."

Y/N nodded again, wiping away the last of her tears. "And I'm sorry for bringing it all up. It's ancient history now."

"Is it?" Harry asked, surprising himself with the question. His hand was still on her shoulder, and he was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing.

Y/N looked up at him, confusion evident in her expression. "What do you mean?"

Harry struggled to articulate the strange feeling in his chest—a mixture of nostalgia, regret, and something else he wasn't ready to name.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Just... today, with my mother. The way she talked to you. I hated it."

"You defended me," Y/N said softly. "I didn't expect that."

"Neither did I," Harry confessed with a hint of a smile. "Turns out there are limits to how much of her bullshit I can stomach."

Y/N gave a watery laugh, and the tension in the room eased slightly.

"We should try to get some sleep," she suggested, gesturing toward the bed. "Tomorrow's another day of pretending we don't want to strangle each other."

Harry nodded, but as they both climbed back into bed, he found himself saying, "What if we tried?"

"Tried what?" Y/N asked sleepily, already settling onto her side of the mattress.

"To not hate each other," Harry clarified, staring up at the ceiling again. "To at least... I don't know, call a truce or something."

There was a long silence, and he thought perhaps she'd already fallen asleep. Then he felt her shift slightly closer.

"I'd like that," she murmured, her voice soft with approaching sleep. "A truce."

"Goodnight, Y/N," Harry whispered, something unfamiliar and warm settling in his chest.

"Goodnight, Harry," she replied, and for the first time since their arrangement began, the silence between them felt peaceful rather than hostile.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the bedroom. Harry had woken early, his mind uncomfortably full with memories from the night before. The rawness of their conversation, the tears, the vulnerability—it all felt like too much in the harsh clarity of daybreak. 

He'd slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Y/N, and spent an hour in the home gym, pushing himself through a punishing workout as if he could sweat out the uncomfortable feelings taking root in his chest. By the time he returned upstairs, showered and dressed in fitted jeans and a simple white t-shirt that clung to his still-damp torso, he'd built his walls back up, brick by emotional brick.

Morning arrived with the gentle persistence of English summer sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. Y/N stirred slowly, the events of the previous night returning to her consciousness in fragments—whiskey in the library, unexpected laughter, confessions in the moonlight. A strange sense of vulnerability lingered, as if something fundamental had shifted while they slept.

She reached out automatically for her phone on the nightstand, checking the time. 8:47. Later than she usually woke, but understandable given how late they'd stayed up talking. Harry's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. He must have risen some time ago.

As she stretched and contemplated facing the day, Y/N wondered how their interaction would be affected by last night's unusual openness. Would there be an awkward acknowledgment? A tacit agreement to pretend nothing had changed? Or perhaps, optimistically, a slight easing of the constant tension that characterized their daily coexistence?

The answer came sooner than expected. As she descended the stairs, voices drifted from the kitchen—Harry's, and what sounded like Mrs. Patterson discussing the day's schedule. Y/N paused in the doorway, taking in the scene: Harry leaning against the counter in workout clothes, hair damp from a recent shower, scrolling through his phone while Mrs. Patterson arranged fresh flowers in a vase.

"Good morning," Y/N said, stepping into the kitchen.

Harry glanced up, his expression instantly hardening in a way that felt like a physical blow after the relative warmth of the previous night. His eyes, which had been soft in the firelight as he recalled teaching her to skip stones, were now cold and distant.

"Finally decided to join the land of the living?" he remarked, his tone carrying that familiar edge of condescension. "It's nearly nine."

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the sharp contrast to the man who had apologized in the darkness just hours ago. "I was tired," she said simply, moving toward the coffee maker. "We were up late."

"Some of us still managed to be productive this morning," Harry replied, gesturing to his workout clothes. "I've already been for a run, showered, and handled three calls with the label about the tour schedule."

Mrs. Patterson shot Y/N a sympathetic glance before busying herself with the flowers, clearly sensing the tension and wanting no part of it. This was familiar territory—Harry's subtle digs, the implication that Y/N was somehow failing to meet an arbitrary standard he'd set.

"Congratulations on your superior time management skills," Y/N replied, keeping her voice deliberately light as she poured juice into a mug—one of the everyday ones, not the "special" weekend pottery. "I'm sure your morning was far more virtuous than mine."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly, whether at her refusal to rise to the bait or simply from general irritation was unclear. "I've got meetings in the city all day," he said abruptly. "Don't wait up."

"Wasn't planning to," Y/N replied automatically, the familiar script of their antagonism reasserting itself with depressing ease.

Mrs. Patterson cleared her throat delicately. "Will you be wanting dinner when you return, Mr. Styles? I could leave something that could be easily reheated."

"No need," Harry said, still scrolling through his phone. "I'll be dining with the Sony executives. It will probably run late."

His tone carried a subtle implication—that these meetings were important, significant in a way that Y/N couldn't possibly understand. It was classic Harry, reinforcing the boundary between his world of music industry elites and her more ordinary existence.

"Very good, sir," Mrs. Patterson nodded, gathering her gardening shears and moving toward the door. "I'll just finish arranging these flowers in the sitting room."

As she left, a heavy silence fell between Harry and Y/N. It was Y/N who broke it, unable to reconcile the man before her with the one who had spoken with such unexpected honesty just hours ago.

"Is this how it's going to be?" she asked quietly, cradling her mug. "We have one honest conversation, and now you're going to be even more of an ass to compensate?"

Harry's gaze snapped up from his phone, his expression briefly revealing something—discomfort? guilt?—before settling back into cool indifference.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," Y/N pressed, setting her mug down with more force than intended. "Last night happened, Harry. We talked. Actually talked, for once. You apologized for something. And now you're acting like I've personally offended you by existing in your kitchen."

Harry's posture stiffened, his knuckles whitening slightly where he gripped his phone. "Last night was a mistake," he said flatly. "We'd both had too much to drink. I said things I shouldn't have."

"You mean you were honest for once?" Y/N challenged, frustration building. "God forbid you actually acknowledge that there's history between us, that we're not just strangers thrown together by circumstance."

"That's exactly what we are," Harry shot back, his voice hardening. "This is a business arrangement, Y/N. Nothing more. Whatever happened years ago is irrelevant to our current situation."

The dismissal stung more than it should have, given that it was nothing she hadn't heard from him before. Yet after the glimpse of a different Harry last night—one capable of reflection, of acknowledging past wrongs—the return to this cold, defensive version felt like a deliberate rejection.

"Right," she said, her own voice cooling to match his. "How could I forget? I'm just the shopkeeper's daughter who was convenient for your PR strategy. Nothing more."

Something flickered in Harry's eyes at her words—a brief crack in the façade before he reinforced it. "I have to go," he said, pushing away from the counter. "James is waiting with the car."

"Of course he is," Y/N murmured, turning away to stare out the kitchen window at the meticulously maintained garden. "Heaven forbid the great Harry Styles be delayed by an actual conversation."

Harry paused in the doorway, and for a moment Y/N thought he might say something more—might offer some explanation for his abrupt reversion to hostility. Instead, he simply adjusted his watch, his expression carefully neutral.

"Like I said, don't wait up."

With that, he was gone, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen with cooling coffee and the lingering sense that whatever brief connection they'd shared the night before had been deliberately severed.

She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, trying to process the whiplash of emotions. Had she imagined the significance of last night's conversation? Had it meant nothing to him beyond a momentary lowering of defenses due to alcohol?

No, she decided, recalling the genuine regret in his voice when he'd apologized for disappearing that summer. There had been real honesty there, however briefly. Which meant this morning's hostility was a deliberate choice. A retreat to familiar territory after venturing too far into emotional vulnerability.

Well into the night, Y/N remained at the window seat, watching as Harry emerged from the car in the driveway below. Even from this distance, his unsteady gait was evident as he stumbled slightly on the gravel, causing James to step forward with a steadying hand that Harry immediately shrugged off with visible irritation. She could hear the muffled sound of voices. James saying something in a concerned tone, Harry's response too slurred to make out the words but clearly dismissive in tone.

She hadn't seen Harry this drunk before. Throughout their four months of marriage, he'd been careful to maintain control, especially in public where photographers might be lurking. Whatever happened at his "business dinner" with Sony executives had clearly driven him past his usual limits.

Grumps lifted his head at the sound of the front door closing with more force than necessary, followed by a thud and muttered cursing that suggested Harry had collided with something in the foyer. The cat's ears flattened slightly before he settled back against Y/N's leg, apparently deciding the disturbance wasn't worth investigating.

Y/N debated whether to remain where she was or go downstairs. Their earlier interaction hardly encouraged her to seek him out, yet there was something about the uncharacteristic loss of control that worried her. Harry's public image, and by extension, their arrangement, depended on his maintaining a certain persona. If he was spiraling for some reason...

The decision was made for her when she heard the uneven progress of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the bedroom door swinging open with enough force to bang against the wall. Harry stood swaying in the doorway, his normally immaculate appearance in disarray, tie loosened and askew, top buttons of his shirt undone, hair disheveled as if he'd been repeatedly running his hands through it.

"Well, well," he slurred, his gaze finding her at the window seat. "If it isn't my lovely, devoted wife, waiting up despite being told not to."

The bitter emphasis he placed on "devoted" carried a weight of sarcasm that immediately set Y/N's defenses on edge.

"I wasn't waiting for you," she replied evenly, keeping her voice calm despite the tension coiling in her stomach. "I couldn't sleep."

Harry snorted, stumbling further into the room and collapsing onto the edge of the bed. "Couldn't sleep," he mimicked, his accent more pronounced in his inebriated state. "Worried about me, were you? How touching."

He fumbled with his tie, trying unsuccessfully to remove it before giving up with a frustrated grunt. The display was so at odds with his usual precise control that Y/N found herself rising from the window seat, concern temporarily overriding her irritation.

"What happened, Harry?" she asked, maintaining a careful distance. "This isn't like you."

His laugh was harsh, devoid of any real humor. "What would you know about what's 'like me'? You don't know me at all."

"I know you don't usually get drunk enough to barely stand," Y/N countered, crossing her arms. "I thought this was an important business dinner."

"Oh, it was," Harry replied, attempting to toe off his shoes and nearly toppling sideways in the process. "Very important. Lots of important people saying important things about my important career." 

He finally succeeded in removing one shoe, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. "And then my mother called the head of the label. Right in the middle of dinner. To express her 'concerns' about my recent behavior."

Y/N stiffened. "What concerns?"

"Apparently," Harry continued, his words running together slightly, "I've been 'overemphasizing my personal life' in interviews. Making our marriage 'too central to my public narrative.' Risking my 'long-term credibility with serious music critics.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, cutting tone with surprising accuracy despite his drunken state. The second shoe joined the first on the floor, followed by his suit jacket, which he shrugged off and tossed carelessly aside.

"She thinks I'm using you as a crutch," he added, his expression darkening. "That I'm hiding behind this—" he gestured vaguely between them "—this arrangement because I'm insecure about the reception of the new album."

"And the label executives agreed with her?"

Harry's laugh held a note of genuine bitterness that cut through the alcohol-induced looseness. "They're terrified of her. Always have been. My mother has connections throughout the industry. She's been shaping my career since before I had a career. So when Anne Styles calls with 'concerns,' everyone jumps to attention."

He attempted to unbutton his shirt, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. After watching him struggle for a moment, Y/N sighed and stepped forward.

"Let me," she said quietly, batting his hands away to deal with the buttons herself. It was an oddly intimate gesture for two people who maintained such careful distance, but the practicality of the situation overrode the awkwardness.

Harry's gaze fixed on her face as she worked, his expression unreadable beneath the glassy sheen of intoxication. This close, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, along with the lingering notes of his cologne and something else—cigarettes, though she'd never seen him smoke.

"They want to 'adjust the narrative,'" he continued as she finished with the buttons, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. "Less focus on being a 'settled family man,' more emphasis on me as a 'serious artist' focused on my craft. They're going to start planting stories about how absorbed I am in the new album, how I've 'retreated to focus on artistic exploration.'"

Y/N stepped back, processing the implications. "What does that mean for our arrangement?"

Harry shrugged, the movement loose and exaggerated. "Nothing changes officially. We're still married. You still get your money. I still get my..." he trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought momentarily. "Whatever I'm getting out of this."

The uncertainty in his voice struck a discordant note. Harry had always been clear about his motivations. The endorsements, the expanded fan base, the image reformation. This suggestion that he himself wasn't sure what he was gaining was new, and concerning.

"Harry," Y/N said carefully, "how much did you drink tonight?"

He waved the question away, falling back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. "Enough. Not enough. Who knows? The great Harry Styles, can't even handle his liquor properly. Another disappointment to add to the list."

The self-loathing in his voice was startling. A crack in the carefully maintained façade of arrogant self-assurance he typically projected. Y/N hesitated, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability.

"You should drink some water," she said finally, practical concerns overriding the complicated emotions swirling beneath the surface. "You're going to have a miserable headache in the morning as it is."

Harry's laugh held no humor. "Always so practical, Y/N. Always thinking about the sensible thing to do. Don't you ever just... lose control? Let yourself feel something without calculating all the consequences first?"

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. A criticism she'd heard before from friends who found her too cautious, too measured in her responses to life's challenges.

"Someone in this room has to maintain some sense," she replied, deflecting the personal nature of his inquiry. "And right now, it clearly isn't going to be you."

She moved toward the en-suite bathroom to get him water, but Harry's next words stopped her in her tracks.

"I saw your face this morning," he said, his voice suddenly clearer, as if he'd momentarily broken through the alcohol haze. "When I... when I was cold to you. You looked hurt."

Y/N turned slowly, finding him propped up on his elbows, watching her with an intensity that belied his drunken state.

"I wasn't hurt," she denied automatically, the lie transparent even to her own ears. "I was just surprised by the mood swing after... after our conversation last night."

"Liar," Harry said, the word lacking accusation, simply stating a fact. "You were hurt. I hurt you. I'm good at that, apparently. Hurting people. Especially people who..." he trailed off again, this time seeming genuinely lost in his own thoughts.

"People who what, Harry?" Y/N pressed, something in his tone making her heart beat faster despite her better judgment.

He shook his head, falling back onto the bed with his arm flung over his eyes. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. My mother's right. I'm making a mess of everything. The album, the tour, this marriage. All of it."

The defeated tone was so unlike him, so contrary to the confident, sometimes arrogant man, she'd lived with for four months. 

Y/N found herself moving to sit tentatively on the edge of the bed.

"That doesn't sound like you," she said quietly. "Since when do you let Anne dictate how you feel about your own life?"

A harsh laugh escaped him. "Since always. Haven't you been paying attention? My whole life is just... following her blueprint. Being what she wanted. The perfect son. The successful musician. Dating the right people from the right families. And the one time—the one time—I try to make a decision she doesn't approve of..."

He gestured vaguely toward Y/N, the movement uncoordinated and expansive. "Even this. Even marrying you. It wasn't really rebellion, was it? It was just... finding another way to prove something to her. Using you to make a point."

The blunt admission stung, despite being nothing Y/N hadn't already suspected. Still, having it confirmed so baldly, in Harry's own slurred words, felt like a physical blow.

"I knew what I was getting into," she said stiffly, rising from the bed. "This was always a business arrangement. Your motivations are your own business."

Harry sat up abruptly, reaching for her wrist with surprising coordination given his state. "No, that's not... I didn't mean..." He struggled visibly to organize his thoughts. "Last night, when we talked about that summer. About the kiss. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I'd come back? If I'd kept my promise?"

The question caught Y/N entirely off-guard, both its content and the raw vulnerability with which he asked it. She stared at him, trying to determine if this was genuine introspection or simply the rambling of a drunk man who wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

"It doesn't matter now," she said carefully, gently extracting her wrist from his grip. "We can't change the past, Harry."

"But what if we could?" he persisted, his eyes glassy but intent. "What if I'd stood up to my mother back then? What if I'd told her I wanted to spend time with the shopkeeper's daughter and didn't care what she thought? What if I'd been brave instead of... instead of whatever I was?"

The plaintive note in his voice made something in Y/N's chest ache. This was dangerous territory, speculating about paths not taken, possibilities that had withered years ago.

"You were sixteen," she said softly. "No one expects a sixteen-year-old boy to defy his mother, especially not one as formidable as Anne." 

Harry shook his head, the movement causing him to sway slightly. "I should have. I've spent over a decade doing exactly what she wanted, becoming exactly who she thought I should be. And for what? So she could call the head of my label and tell him I'm overemphasizing my marriage in interviews?"

His voice cracked on the last words, and to Y/N's horror, she saw his eyes filling with tears, actual tears gathering in the eyes of a man she'd never seen display genuine emotion beyond anger or irritation.

"I'm so tired, Y/N," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper 

Y/N hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. Her instinct was to comfort, but their history of antagonism made her wary of overstepping.

Still, something in his broken confession tugged at her, reminding her of the boy she'd once known. The one who'd taught her to skip stones and kissed her beneath the willow tree before disappearing from her life.

"T-tired of what, Harry?" she asked, her voice softening as she scooted closer on the edge of the bed. 

Harry's gaze fixed on her face, his green eyes glassy with alcohol and unshed tears. For a long moment, he said nothing, seeming to struggle with whether to continue down this path of unexpected honesty or retreat back behind his usual walls. The battle played out visibly across his features before he finally spoke, his voice rough and low.

"Tired of... pretending," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him something vital. "Tired of being what everyone expects. What my mother demands. What the label needs. What the fans want." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing in uneven tufts. "Tired of waking up every morning and putting on Harry Styles like he's a... a bloody costume I have to wear."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off-guard. This wasn't just drunk rambling. There was a depth of feeling behind his words that suggested these thoughts had been building for a long time, held back by the careful control he usually maintained.

"And what would you be," she asked carefully, "if you weren't being 'Harry Styles'?"

He laughed, the sound edged with something like despair. "That's just it. I don't even know anymore. I've been playing this part for so long I'm not sure where the performance ends and I begin." His hand found hers on the bedspread, gripping it with unexpected intensity. "Do you know who I am, Y/N? You knew me... before. Before all of this. Before I became... this."

The question was plaintive, almost childlike in its directness. Y/N looked down at their joined hands, his larger one enveloping hers completely, the familiar tattoos stark against his skin, and felt a strange ache in her chest.

"I knew a boy who loved to swim in the lake even when the water was freezing," she said quietly. "Who could skip stones farther than anyone I'd ever met. Who snuck me chocolate from the fancy box his mother kept for guests, even though he knew he'd be in trouble if she found out."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Harry's face at the memories. "I was better at skipping stones than you."

"You were," she acknowledged with a small answering smile. "You were patient enough to practice. I always got frustrated and gave up too easily."

His thumb traced an absent pattern on the back of her hand, the gesture unconscious and oddly intimate. "You were stubborn though. Wouldn't let me help you unless I pretended I was just as bad at it."

The fact that he remembered this specific detail, her childish pride, her refusal to accept direct instruction, was unexpected. Y/N had assumed those summers held little significance for him, especially given how easily he'd disappeared from her life afterward.

"That boy is still in there somewhere," she said softly, responding to his earlier question. "Under all the fame and the image and your mother's expectations. He's still part of who you are."

Harry's expression clouded, his grip on her hand tightening. "Is he? Sometimes I think that version of me died a long time ago. Killed by ambition or success or... or my mother's relentless fucking standards."

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, decades of resentment distilled into those few words. Y/N sensed they were approaching dangerous territory. Harry was revealing wounds he normally kept carefully hidden, even from himself.

"Maybe you just need to find him again," she suggested gently. "Reconnect with the parts of yourself that existed before all of this."

"How?" The question held genuine bewilderment, as if the concept of reconnecting with his authentic self was entirely foreign. "Everything I do is scheduled, managed, scrutinized. I haven't made a truly independent decision in years."

He laughed suddenly, the sound holding more genuine humor than bitterness this time. "Except marrying you. That wasn't in anyone's plan. Not the label's, not my manager's, and certainly not my mother's."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by this declaration. "I thought the whole point was that the label wanted you to seem more settled and relatable. That marrying a 'normal' girl would help with certain endorsements."

Harry shook his head, then immediately winced as the movement apparently intensified his dizziness. "That was the justification I gave them afterward. Made it seem like a strategic decision rather than..." he trailed off, seeming unsure how to complete the thought.

"Rather than what?" Y/N pressed, curiosity overriding her better judgment.

Harry's gaze found hers again, surprisingly direct despite his intoxication. "Rather than what it really was. A fuck-you to my mother. To everyone who's been controlling my life. And maybe... maybe a way to make up for what happened that summer. For breaking my promise to you."

The admission was too honest, too raw to be easily dismissed. Y/N felt her heart beating faster, unsure how to process this revelation. Had their entire arrangement been motivated not just by career strategy but by some lingering guilt over their shared past?

Before she could formulate a response, Harry's expression crumpled suddenly, the tears that had been threatening finally spilling over. One slid down his cheek, then another, until he was openly crying, quiet, shuddering sobs that seemed to surprise him as much as they did Y/N.

"Shit," he muttered, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the tears with the back of his hand. "Shit, I'm sorry. I don't... I never..."

The sight of Harry Styles––confident, controlled, perpetually composed Harry Styles—breaking down completely shattered Y/N's remaining hesitation. She moved closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders without conscious thought.

"It's okay," she said softly, feeling his body shaking against hers. "It's okay to feel things, Harry. Even the difficult things."

He turned toward her, his face pressing into her shoulder as if seeking refuge from his own emotions. His arms came around her waist, clinging with an almost desperate intensity as the tears continued.

"I'm so fucking tired," he repeated, the words muffled against her shirt. "I'm tired of disappointing everyone. The fans, the critics, my mother. You."

Y/N's hand moved to his hair automatically, stroking the soft strands in a soothing rhythm. "You haven't disappointed me, Harry."

He pulled back slightly to look at her, his face tear-streaked and vulnerable in a way she'd never seen before. "Haven't I? I've been awful to you. Every day for months. I've been cold and dismissive and... and cruel, sometimes. Because it was easier than admitting that I..." he swallowed hard, seeming to struggle with the words. "That I still care what you think of me. After all these years."

The confession hung between them, weighted with implications neither was prepared to fully examine. Y/N felt her own throat tighten with emotion she couldn't quite name. 

Not quite forgiveness, not quite understanding, but something in between.

"We've both been playing parts," she acknowledged softly. "The cold, demanding celebrity husband. The pragmatic, emotionless wife who's only here for the money. It's been easier than... than being real with each other."

Harry nodded, his forehead coming to rest against hers in a gesture of startling intimacy. "I don't know how to be real anymore," he whispered, his breath warm against her face, carrying the scent of expensive whiskey. "I've forgotten how."

Their faces were close now and Y/N could see every detail of his features. The fan of his lashes, damp with tears; the slight stubble along his jaw that would roughen into proper beard if left unattended; the small scar near his eye that makeup artists usually concealed for photoshoots.

His vulnerability in this moment was complete, all the careful artifice stripped away by alcohol and exhaustion and emotions too long suppressed.

"Maybe we could learn," she heard herself say, the words emerging before she'd fully formed the thought. "Together. How to be real again."

Harry's eyes searched hers, looking for something—sincerity, perhaps, or the catch that would reveal this as just another negotiation in their complicated arrangement. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

"I'd like that," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I've missed you, Y/N. Not just... not just now. But all these years. I've missed who I was when I was with you."

The confession struck her with unexpected force, a truth she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge: that she too had missed not just him, but the version of herself who had existed in those carefree summer days, before responsibility and hardship and the compromises of adulthood had reshaped her.

Before she could respond, Harry's eyes fluttered closed, his body slumping further against hers as exhaustion and alcohol finally overwhelmed him. His breathing deepened, the emotional storm passing as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving him drained and on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Harry?" she said softly, receiving only a mumbled, incoherent response.

With a sigh that held equal parts exasperation and unexpected tenderness, Y/N maneuvered him into a more comfortable position on the bed. She removed his remaining clothing down to his boxers—a task made easier by his semi-conscious state—and pulled the covers over him, positioning him on his side in case he became ill during the night.

As she moved to get him water and aspirin for the inevitable morning hangover, Harry's hand caught hers once more, his grip weak but insistent.

"Stay?" he murmured, the word slurred with approaching sleep. "Please?"

Y/N hesitated, weighing the emotional complexities of what had just transpired against the practical reality of a drunk man who likely wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. The vulnerability he'd shown had changed something between them, created a shift she wasn't sure either of them was ready to acknowledge in the cold light of day.

Yet the request itself was simple, human. A plea not to be left alone with the emotional aftermath of his breakdown.

"I'll be right back," she promised, gently extricating her hand. "Just getting you water and something for the headache you're going to have."

A faint smile touched his lips before his features relaxed completely into sleep. Y/N watched him for a moment, this unguarded version of Harry Styles so different from the man who had coldly dismissed her that morning. Would he remember any of this tomorrow? Would he retreat back behind his walls, pretend none of it had happened? Or would this unexpected moment of honesty create an opening for something different between them?

She didn't know, couldn't predict how either of them would navigate the aftermath of tonight's revelations. But as she went to fetch water and pain relievers, Y/N found herself hoping—against all practical judgment—that something of the connection they'd shared would remain when morning came.

When she returned to the bedroom, Harry was fully asleep, his breathing deep and even. She set the water and medicine on his nightstand, then hesitated, unsure whether to honor his request to stay or retreat to one of the guest rooms for the night.

After a moment's consideration, she changed into her nightclothes and slipped under the covers on her side of the bed, maintaining a careful distance between them. As she reached to turn off the bedside lamp, she glanced over at Harry's sleeping form, his face relaxed in a way it never was during waking hours.

"Goodnight, Harry," she whispered softly, before turning off the light and letting darkness envelop the room.

In the quiet darkness, Y/N lay awake for a long time, replaying Harry's tearful confessions and wondering what the morning would bring. Would he remember his vulnerability, his admissions about his mother's control, his suggestion that their marriage had been motivated by more than just business considerations? Or would alcohol erase it all, leaving them back at square one?

She didn't know the answer, and couldn't predict how either of them would navigate what had happened tonight. But as sleep finally began to claim her, Y/N found herself hoping.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: Phew! That was a long one. Yall really said you don’t mind the longer parts and I took that and RAN with it. I hope it wasn’t too long. But sheesh they really went at it in this one. Just kept escalating.

As always, thank you for reading <3

Masterlist

Taglist: Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite

[slotmachines-fearofgod]

As per the poll results...

Alpha-17 hated taking care of the cadets. 

They were loud, unruly, undisciplined, and cocky little sons of bitches. The Kaminiise that interrupted his and Fordo’s training session had said something about the CC batches needing mentors now that Fett was determined to get back to bounty hunting. Every Alpha ARC was to take on a batch as a trial run, regardless of the fact that Fett was never much of a mentor to them. 

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that his batch was a fucking mess. Maze had even patted him sympathetically on the back when they were given their official assignments. In their first week, two of them, apparently the twins of the batch, had already managed to get themselves into three offices they weren’t supposed to be in, and snuck out of the barracks almost every night. 

Alpha made them run suicides for hours for it. 

He didn’t care for his batch the way some of his brothers did, with soft gestures and words like “ad’ika” or “vod’ika.” They were clones, and they wouldn’t find any sort of soft spot in the middle of a battlefield. He’d raise them the way he was raised, with sharp tongues and extra training, and they’d come out the other side better for it. 

That doesn’t mean he didn’t care at all. 

CC-2224 was standing guard outside their barracks, which was a bad sign, especially considering he’d been the first to learn that if they got in trouble, they got in trouble as a group. He was usually the most effective at dissuading the rest. 

Not tonight.

“Cadet,” Seventeen greeted sharply, “sitrep.”

CC-2224 didn’t look him in the eyes, another bad sign. It had been one fucking month, and he was already having to put up with shit like this. 

“B - CC-5052 is experiencing residual discomfort from the training exercise today, sir. My batchmates are helping him with recovery.” Only three years old, six standard, and CC-2224 was already the best soldier out of all of them. But he was shit at covering for the rest. 

“Why are you guarding the door?” Seventeen crossed his arms over his chest, looming over the kid. If it was really what he said, he’d been in there helping with whatever cramp 5052 was feeling. 

The day’s training hadn’t even really been that difficult from a physical standpoint. It was Seventeen’s least favorite type of resistance training: the mental kind. The Kaminiise had them start it early so their minds automatically built up resistances to-

Oh. 

“CC-3636 asked that I remain outside so as not to crowd CC-5052 and explain to any who may be monitoring the barracks what is going on.” Seventeen knew enough to read between the lines of that statement. He was there to discourage any particularly nosy Kaminiise from looking too closely for flaws. They would be monitored closely for the next few days for any defects, a fact that had been made clear to them before the exercises had taken place. 

CC-2224 still wasn’t meeting his eyes. He looked exhausted now that Seventeen was actually looking for it. He had a certain deadness to his face that Seventeen had seen many times both in the mirror and on others. If he remembered correctly, today had been the first day this specific crew had to undergo this type of training. CC-2224 was probably the best off if he was well enough to stand guard. 

Seventeen breathed out slowly, for the first time unsure what to do with the cadets. Usually their problems were solved with laps in the rain around the compound, or latrine cleaning duty. Emotional issues were more Fordo’s thing. But Fordo had his own batch to tend to. 

“Step out of the way cadet,” Seventeen ended up saying, trying not to make it too gruff. The quick, quiet knock against the door signaled that he didn’t quite manage that. Nonetheless, CC-2224 let him pass, albeit a bit slowly. Probably trying to buy his batchmates time. 

It was apparently enough. 

5052, 3636, 1010, and 411 were all in their bunks, with 1010 just barely managing to reach his as Seventeen opened the door. 5052 was turned away from him, taking the furthest bunk in the corner, while 411 and 3636 took the closest. 1010 and an empty bunk stood in the middle, with 5052’s pressed up against the wall. He assumed one of the two empty bunks, above 5052 or below 1010, was for 2224.

“5052,” his voice rang out across the eerily silent room. It felt heavy in their room tonight, not light or even charged with an air of mischief like he was accustomed to it being. 5052 raised his head blearily, and Seventeen ignored the fierce ache in his chest at the sight of his red, puffy eyes. “With me,” he ordered, ignoring the subtle sharp looks 1010 and 3636 were exchanging. 

5052’s eyes watered briefly, before his face smoothed out. He was already learning the importance of a blank face, which was good. He shouldn’t be using it with Seventeen, though. 

5052 climbed out of his bed, his posture rigid in a way Seventeen had never seen before. Were it not for the situation, he would’ve applauded this cadet for his professionalism, something they’d all been lacking ever since he met them. 

“Sir,” 411 called, and Seventeen spared him a brief glance, “I was wondering if-”

“Later, 411,” Seventeen said sharply, training his gaze on the kid who was approaching him like he was a death sentence. “5052 and I need to take care of something.”

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what effect his words were having on the cadets, especially 2224 who stood guiltily in the doorway. It was fine. Maybe they’d finally understand he was in charge, or learn they weren’t as invincible as they believed themselves to be. 

As 5052 reached him, Seventeen held out a hand. The cadet looked up at him, then back at his hand, almost confused. Seventeen sighed, grabbing 5052’s hand with his, practically dwarfing the kid. He tried to keep his posture open and non-threatening, but he got the feeling the look 5052 cast at his brothers was him saying goodbye. As he tugged the cadet out the door, he noticed 2224 make a move to grab his brother, before 5052 shook his head. 

2224 watched them go with tears in his eyes. 

Fucking aiwha-bait Kaminiise demogolka. 

He could hear the soft crying before 5052 and he had turned the corner down the hall. To his credit, the cadet didn’t shed a tear. He may have cried it all out earlier, but one look at the kid proved otherwise. He put on a brave face, but it was just a face. Any clone trooper would be able to see right through it. 

He pulled 5052 along in silence until they reached his office. Seventeen punched in his keycode with his free hand, keeping a tight grip on the kid so he didn’t try to bolt. It was only once they were inside that Seventeen dropped the hand and sat in his chair. 5052 stood at attention directly in front of him, just how they were taught. 

“What happened?” It was less of a request, and more of a demand. 

5052’s voice barely shook as he spoke, “I suffered the after effects of today’s training, sir.”

Seventeen leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk, “Symptoms.”

5052 pressed his lips together, tears shining in his eyes once again, before answering, “I-I felt a shortness of breath, tightness in my chest, numbness of limbs, hand tremors, and tunnel vision.”

“You had a panic attack,” Seventeen summarized for him, nodding along with the conclusion. 5052 gave one sharp nod, like it took all his courage just to admit it. Hell, it probably did. If any of the longnecks found out, he’d be decommissioned. Just like with the Alphas, they wanted this first batch of CCs to be perfect. 

“Yessir,” he whispered, his lower lip wobbling slightly. 

Seventeen sighed, “At ease, 5052. C’mere.”

5052 fell back into parade rest, but didn’t move, eyes darting between the wall and Seventeen’s face. Seventeen raised his eyebrow, and sat back in his chair. He could play the waiting game. 

Eventually, the cadet caved and rounded the desk before he stood at Seventeen’s side, still looking past him instead of at him. 

“I know 2224’s been going around giving out names, so what’s yours?” Seventeen asked gently. 2224 was practically asking for a decom with that little scheme, but he couldn’t help but admire the sheer bravery, or maybe stupidity, the cadet showed.

5052 shook his head just slightly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Drop the sir, it’s just Seventeen for right now.” It would be easier if he put them on even footing. 

That got 5052 to look at him. 

There was a long pause where his mind was putting the pieces together, the fact that Seventeen took him to his office and not a long-neck, the gentle tone, the hand holding, the dropping of rank all beginning to click in his head. 

“I’m not - am I in trouble?”

Seventeen shook his head and 5052 sagged in relief almost immediately. This time, the tears did start, wracking his little body as his head dropped to his chest. Seventeen did the only thing he could and yanked the kid into his chest, calmly running a hand through his short curls and breathing in and out, getting him to match the pattern. 

It took a while, but 5052 began to calm down. 

“It’s alright, kid,” Seventeen said lowly, “You’re not the first vod to lose it after one of those training sessions and you won’t be the last.”

“Vod?”

“It means brother,” Seventeen said. He’d forgotten that less exposure to Fett meant the new generations wouldn’t likely have the chance to learn Mando’a. He’d have to talk to the other Alphas about fixing that. 

5052 nodded, before taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Seventeen allowed him that, just offering physical comfort like his batch was probably doing before he intruded. As much as they got on his nerves, they needed to know they were his vode, and he wouldn’t turn them in for something so little as a panic attack. He didn’t have to like them to treat them with some base decency. 

“My name is Bly,” he answered eventually, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Seventeen chuckled, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He gently disentangled them, before bringing him into a keldabe. “Do you know what this is?” 

He shook his head no. 

“This is a keldabe. In a fight, a keldabe can be a useful tool in getting your opponents disoriented and putting some distance between you and them. It’d be a bit rougher than this, and probably leave you with a bruise if I really put some effort into it.” He held eye contact with 5052, even as the slightly caged look came back into the cadet’s eyes, “But between family, friends, or partners, it’s a sign of affection. A sign that we’re here for each other, through all this blood and fear. Something so brutal, so painful, turned soft and loving in the presence of those you trust.”

“Oh,” the kid breathed out, and Seventeen could tell the exact moment that he understood what he was telling him. 

“I’m not letting those demogolka get their hands on you, even if your brothers are assholes,” the small laugh was almost happy, “I can’t go easy on you, vod. If I do, we’ll both be slated for decomm. Do you understand?”

The kid - Bly nodded, a very small smile beginning to form, “Thanks, Seventeen.”

Seventeen pulled back and nodded, hiding his laugh at Bly’s sudden yawn. It was getting late, and these kids hadn’t gone through sleep deprivation training yet. It would be best to let them rest while they could. 

—

“Again,” Seventeen called, grinning smugly as Fox snarled at him. A year into their training with him and this batch had quickly shot to the top, with the exception of the clone in front of him. Fox’s scores had been dropping lately, though the little dickhead refused to tell him what had been going on, so they were doing this. 

Sparring until Fox either dropped or spilled. 

It was looking more and more like Fox preferred the first option. 

Usually, when one of them was being difficult, he had them train until their legs gave out on them and they could do nothing but talk. Sometimes it took a little more or less work, especially when it came to Fox. Bly was happy to talk to him since that first night he’d shown he was safe, though he’d caught comments from Wolffe or Fox about the baby of the batch getting special treatment. Kote and Ponds generally folded as soon as they were physically exhausted, and Wolffe just had to get angry enough to spit it all out in quick succession. 

Fox was different. He was smarter. 

He didn’t take training laying down, and was clever enough to keep his cool even when Seventeen could tell he wanted to do nothing more than scream. He’d never dream of talking about his issues to anyone outside his batch, and even then Seventeen was pretty sure he’d only talk to Ponds or Wolffe. He hadn’t even wanted to tell Seventeen his name until Wolffe nagged him enough to make him stand, red-faced, in front of the older clone and spit it out. Seventeen pulled him into a quick keldabe, before repeating the name and telling him it suited him. 

Right now wouldn’t be solved with nagging or a keldabe. At least, not the gentle kind. Fox needed blood, he needed to gnash his teeth and give and receive a little pain. Seventeen understood that just fine. 

“Fuck you,” Fox spat, before lunging again. He was getting sloppier, more tired, and Seventeen was able to pin him in under a minute. He held the struggling kid there for a few seconds until Fox realized he wasn’t escaping and went limp, tapping out once again. 

“Again,” Seventeen repeated once Fox had caught his breath. This time, it was less than thirty seconds before Fox quit fighting, just lying quietly on the mat. 

“You know,” Seventeen huffed after a few moments of stillness, “You’re supposed to tap out.”

Fox tapped lightly, and Seventeen let him up. He grabbed his shoulder before Fox could get too far back into position to go again. 

“Your flight time went up again.”

“I know.”

“You gonna do anything about it?”

Fox’s glare was enough to make almost anyone else back down. But not him. 

“The fuck do you care?”

Seventeen stepped back, getting into a fighting position, “Again.”

Fox didn’t have buttons to push like Wolffe, nor did he give up when he should like Ponds or Kote. He needed a little of both, a little more push than most would have advocated for a kid, to get him to crack how he needed to. 

They danced the familiar dance a few more times before, maybe the fourth or fifth time Seventeen pinned him, Fox let out a frustrated yell. That was close to what he was looking for.

“Kote took top spot for blaster modules this week.”

“I fucking know, okay?” 

That was what he was looking for. 

“I know Kote took top spot and I know Wolffe beat my fly time and I know Gree and his batch are taking over strategy mods! I fucking get it, so fuck off with whatever the hell this is!” Fox wriggled out from under him, and Seventeen let him go without a fight. He stayed facing away from Seventeen, but that was okay for now.

“I just…I hate this stuff! I hate being trapped in those rooms with those demogolka and fucking Fett watching over our shoulders like he ever did anything except leave and you acting like you give a shit when we both know you’re only here because we’re another assignment for you. I hate you pretending like we’re brothers or everything’s gonna be fine and we aren’t all gonna die soon or-or like any of us matter in the long run,” his rant was beginning to slow, and Seventeen approached slowly. The small break in his voice told him all he needed to know. 

“I don’t get the point when it doesn’t fucking matter if I die here or on a battlefield because death is death, and either way no one’s gonna care,” if he had to guess, the tears started about thirty seconds ago. 

The worst part is that Seventeen gets it. He’d lost one of his batch to the same thoughts. In the end, it hadn’t been the long-necks or a fight that did him in. Just a missing blaster and too much time alone outside. They all understood why, even if they never forgave him for it. 

It was because he understood that he placed one hand on Fox’s shoulder, forcing his vod to face him. 

“You’re right,” Seventeen rumbled, not leaning over and making himself small like he would for the others. Fox had always appreciated the truth above all else. 

“What?” He was right, tear tracks were carved down his vod’s face, and the small breathy disbelief looked like it might break the younger clone. 

“Fett’s a fucking asshole, don’t know why Kote likes him so much. The Kaminiise are indescribable in their cruelty, and I’m a dick. Doesn’t mean nothing you do matters, though.”

Fox scoffed and pulled away, trying to twist his face into that familiar hard sneer, “And what would you know about that?”

Seventeen shrugged, “Not sure. You don’t want me to know you. But I see the way Kote and Bly light up when their ori’vod is around. And I know Wolffe would never survive without you, and that Ponds would kill himself if you did what you’re talking about doing.” He looked this kid - his kid in the eyes. He needed him to know he understood. “You’re trying to get the Kaminiise to do it for you, so you don’t have to take the coward’s way out. I get it, vod’ika. But you know every single one of those little assholes in your barracks would hurtle themselves off the edge just the same if you died, by your own hand or not.”

“Wha-”

“Don’t do it for me,” Seventeen added, gentling his tone a bit as fresh tears sprang to his vod’ika’s eyes, “Don’t do it for Fett, and don’t you fucking dare do it for the long-necks. Do it for the brothers waiting for you back in the bunks. The brothers that would beat themselves up if they knew that you were even thinking about this. The brothers that are going to force you to cuddle with them even if they have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

Yeah, okay, maybe Seventeen liked to linger outside their door when he was done with his duties that didn’t involve five nightmares running around and making his life hell. Maybe he wanted to soak in his brothers’ laughter once in a while. So what. 

Fox looked at the floor, desperately trying to hold back tears. 

Seventeen sighed and knelt in front of him, opening his arms up and waiting. 

It took Fox less than thirty seconds to decide that yes, he did want the offered hug. Seventeen kept his laugh to a low rumble, a little closer to soothing than teasing. Fox squeezed him like he’d never been hugged before, even though Seventeen knew damn well that was a lie. It didn’t matter. 

“We don’t do it for ourselves,” Seventeen said lowly, “We’d never make it if we did. We do it for each other, or we don’t do it at all.”

Fox sniffed, and Seventeen didn’t even care that he was probably getting snot and tears all over his blacks. His little brother was going to be okay, and that’s what mattered. 

—

It took the Kaminiise two years to figure out who had started naming clones. Who started giving them just a little agency and independence. And when they found out, they made sure to make an example out of him. 

They came during the sleep cycles, when Seventeen wouldn’t be around to stop them, and took Kote from his bunk without a word. 

Two years in, one year after Seventeen had begun to call the littles his vod’ike, he found himself kneeling at the feet of the man he hated most in this place, begging for mercy for his charge. Fett was cold, he knew, but not so cold that his second favorite cadet would be left to rot. 

Kote had been in isolation for almost a week, and nearly every night Seventeen had a visitor from the batch crawl into his bunk with shaky hands and red eyes. A decomm would’ve been easier on them, but knowing their second-youngest was alive and alone, trapped and left at the hands of the Kaminiise, was breaking them.

Ponds and Kote had always been the anchors of the group. Ponds was the oldest, and the automatic go-to for most things. But Kote named them all, and every single one of them adored him for it. 

Fett was unyielding when Seventeen entered with accusations on the tip of his tongue. He was prepared to yell, to scream at the man who started this, who refused to leave them alone even after everything he’d already done to hurt them. But one look at the man had him falling to his knees, a single tear escaping his eyes as he pleaded with his head bowed. 

Fett said nothing, and Seventeen left feeling humiliated and angry.

Which was why, when Seventeen heard Kote had been let out and was currently in the care of Fett, he’d sprinted across the compound to collect his vod. 

He got there just in time to see Kote leave, tears dripping down his little face, crumpling against the wall outside of the dar’manda’s room. 

Seventeen said nothing, but knelt in front of his vod’ika and scooped him up, carrying him away from that place. 

As they walked, Kote’s hands fisted in Seventeen’s blacks as he tried to muffle his sobs into the older man’s chest. He clung to Seventeen like they were the last people alive on this planet, and Seventeen made sure to hold him just as tight. They made it to the Alpha barracks, which were thankfully empty, and laid down together on Seventeen’s bunk. 

Kote wailed for hours once he realized they were somewhere safe, away from long-necks and cold-hearted bounty hunters. Seventeen just held on, running a hand up and down his vod’ika’s back to comfort him, and whispered apologies into Kote’s hair. 

“Why didn’t they just decommission me?” Kote kept asking through tears, sometimes screaming and sometimes whimpering.

“Why did Prime have to name me?”

“Why didn’t I listen to him?”

“Why didn’t he find me sooner?”

So many questions that Seventeen had no answer to.

When the tears finally slowed, Seventeen spoke. 

“He tricked you, vod’ika. He’s a cruel and callous man and he tricked you.” 

Seventeen had always hated how Fett dug his claws into this kid. He didn’t care how it would hurt Kote, he didn’t care what would have happened to him. Seventeen was a violent man but even he didn’t understand why Fett would do this. 

“They couldn’t even say my name right,” Kote whimpered, “They kept saying ‘Cody’ and when I tried to correct them they - they just -” he broke off, burying his head into Seventeen’s chest and letting out another sob. 

“They will always hate you for the freedom you’ve given your brothers,” Seventeen rumbled, “And I will make sure they cannot deny your strength.” 

A plan was already forming in his head. He’d put Kote through extra training, make him into the best of the best. He’d make him good enough to rival an ARC. The Kaminiise couldn’t throw him out if he was useful enough, sharp enough, strong enough. 

“He named me Glory, Seventeen,” Kote cried, “Why? I don’t understand!”

Seventeen didn’t have an answer for that question either. 

“You have to stay away from him, Kote,” Seventeen said. He said it firmly, like it was an order, and not a plea, though they both knew better. Fett could easily take Kote away from Seventeen, away from his batch, and none of them except the kid crying into him could make it stop. 

“He - he loves me,” Kote wailed, “I’m his ad, he loves me! I can’t just-”

Seventeen cut him off harshly, “Kot’ika, if he loved you, I wouldn’t have had to beg him to interfere.” It was harsh, but his vod’ika needed to know. “He didn’t come looking for you. We did.”

Kote cried for a long time after that. He kept trying to make excuses, telling Seventeen about all the times Fett had supposedly cared. 

It just made Seventeen angrier. Fett had manipulated his kid into thinking he was more than a paycheck, more than food for a war that hadn’t even begun yet. Seventeen briefly entertained the possibility of killing him for it. 

Out of all the tools they’d been given, hope was never one of them. The kid screaming into the pillow was proof as to why. 

Kote eventually tired himself out enough to pass out on the bunk, and Seventeen sighed in relief as his breathing finally evened out. 

Both Maze and Fordo poked their heads in, for once not laughing at the sight of Seventeen curled around one of the kids he’d once told them he’d never call his own. They told him Kote’s batch had been alerted to his release, and they’d immediately demanded answers from the older ARCs, meaning Seventeen would probably need to make an appearance soon to ease their fears.

Seventeen just nodded along to the debrief, a wave of exhaustion hitting him as well. He eventually gathered himself enough to sit up, taking Kote with him. The kid just shifted sleepily, his face scrunching up in dismay even though he didn’t wake.

“They’re going to be looking for an excuse,” Fordo said quietly after a moment, “He needs to keep his head down.”

“I know,” Seventeen murmured. 

“Seventeen,” Maze said, “He’s terrified. Whatever you’re planning, leave him out of it.”

Seventeen just sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall. 

“I’m serious. He needs to stop making ripples, good or bad. He’s already too individualistic for their tastes.”

Maze was right. Kote had always been headstrong and stubborn, just like the rest of his batch. They all relied on each other too much and not only had it taken Kote down, but the rest of them either refused to or simply couldn’t pull themselves together in his absence.

“You boys remember our training on Rishi?” Seventeen asked after a moment. 

It was a stupid question, of course they did. They’d been dropped off on that moon, all in separate locations, with no comms or supplies to help them except what was expected in emergencies. They had to survive like that for a month before they were picked up again. It was the worst experience of any of their lives. 

“We need a program like that for them,” he said after a moment, ignoring the twin glares sent his way. Every single Alpha had become incredibly protective over their batchers in the two years the program had been going on. 

“Not exactly like that,” Seventeen assured them, “But their training is a lot more strategy and team focused. They need something closer to the way the ARCs were trained.”

Fordo snorted, “ARC training is a hell of a lot more brutal than what they’ve had to do so far. And it started a lot earlier.”

“It would make them indispensable,” Seventeen said after a moment, and he knew the silence following that statement meant he’d won. 

Still, he sighed and stood, clutching Kote against his chest, “I’m gonna get him back to his batch. I have a feeling they’re about to come looking.”

—

Wolffe was smiling, which immediately put Seventeen on edge. Wolffe had a few kinds of ‘smile’. There was the genuine one, which was rare but always rewarding, the smirk, which was the most common and meant he’d just kicked someone’s ass in hand to hand training and was about to get far too cocky about it, and then his grin, which meant he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Like now. 

Seventeen folded his arms across his chest, giving his best glare at the cadet. They were six months into ARC training, a year out from the event that kick started the idea, and all it had done was make his batch harder to handle. 

Not only were they trouble-makers, they were now troublemakers with all the strategy and training of their older counterparts. 

“It wasn’t me this time,” they’d finally hit that funny age where their voices no longer matched their faces, and all of them grew at different rates. It was maybe the one time in their lives they would look genuinely different from each other. 

Seventeen added an eyebrow raise to his glare. 

“Kote found him first.”

Him?

“It was his idea,” Wolffe was beginning to shrink back just a little under the glare, “But he’s not making any trouble.”

Seventeen snorted, “The day you di’kuts don’t make trouble for me is the day you’re all dead and buried.”

Wolffe flipped him off. 

“That’s ten extra suicides, cadet.” Seventeen smiled as Wolffe’s face immediately dropped and he started whining. 

“It was just a joke, you’re mean to us all the time,” Wolffe argued, not helping his case in the slightest. 

“I’m keeping you assholes alive,” Seventeen shot back, “Now what did you do?”

Wolffe scowled, replying, “Come on, old man,” before turning and marching down the hall.

“And that’s twenty,” Seventeen called after him.

Wolffe kept complaining the whole way there, even when Seventeen cuffed him on the back of the head for it. He led them to the CT barracks, which was new. To his knowledge, his batch never really came down here. There was no need to.

The experimental ARC babysitting program had gone well enough that when the CT clones were produced and of age, several Alphas had been relegated to managing these cadets, whom he’d been assured were either much less or much more rowdy than the CCs, depending on the batch. 

Alpha had just been assigned his first case, though it was a curious one. Two of the batch had been decommed almost as soon as they came out of their tubes, and the other three didn’t get along the way most batches tended to. They were first generation CTs, so some defects were expected, but the vitriol with which they treated each other certainly was not. 

It had been a jarring change from the crew he’d been taking care of for almost four years now.

Wolffe led him to a supply closet off to the side in the barracks, chattering all the way about how this was Kote’s fault. Seventeen ignored him in favor of looking around at the empty bunks, internally sighing about whatever scheme his vode had cooked up this time. 

When Wolffe opened the door, however, the cadet inside of the closet threw Seventeen for a loop.

“7567?” He asked, surprised. He was one of the batchers Seventeen had been assigned to take care of, the one that got picked on the most, actually. What really surprised him, however, was the state he was in. 

His usual obvious blonde head of hair had been shaved carelessly almost completely off. He could see a few cuts dotted across the kid’s head, and the kid himself looked like he’d lost a pound or two since the last time Seventeen had seen him nearly a week ago. 

He’d thought the kid was avoiding him, but there was obviously something more going on. 

“You know him?” Wolffe asked, sounding surprised and completely ignoring the sharp glare being thrown his way from the kid hiding in the closet. 

“He’s one of mine,” Seventeen responded, still searching for any more visible wounds or changes to his newest charge, “Haven’t been able to find him for a week.”

“Oh, uh, that may have been our fault,” Wolffe said, looking back at 7567, “What? Why are you glaring at me?”

“I told you not to tell anyone,” 7567 bit out, the harsh tone being somewhat off put by the higher pitch of his voice. He was just a bit younger than the CCs, and wouldn’t hit the growth spurt that truly mattered for another year or two. 

“Yeah, well, suck it up. Kote’s been going crazy trying to hide you from your batch and the Alphas,” came the nonchalant reply, and Seventeen furrowed his brow. Why would Kote be trying to hide 7567 from his own brothers?

“I figured he could help,” Wolffe continued, and Seventeen ignored the brief flash of warmth at the statement of trust. 

Now it was his turn to be glared at, and Seventeen took a second to admire the size of 7567’s balls before matching it with his own sneer. 

“You’ve been skipping training, cadet.”

“I didn’t want to,” he replied sulkily, “Kote said it wasn’t safe.”

Seventeen hummed, “And why would he say that?”

7567 hesitated for a moment, before quietly admitting, “He caught them doing…this,” he gestured to his head, and a sick moment of realization came over Seventeen, “He scared them off, but he didn’t want me to go back with them.”

Batchmates teasing each other was one thing, but hurting one another?

That would have to be dealt with. 

Seventeen sighed as he moved in front of Wolffe and crouched in the doorway of the closet, “So Kote, being the di’kut he is, hid you in here.”

7567 shrugged, “‘S not terrible.”

“You eaten recently?”

The cadet shook his head no after a moment, and Seventeen turned back to look at Wolffe, “Why exactly did you boys think this was a good idea?”

Wolffe crossed his arms, “I didn’t know until yesterday, ask Kote.”

“Not helpful,” Seventeen grunted, before turning back to 7567, “Since you and Kote are so tight, I assume you’ve got a name.”

7567’s eyes widened comically at him, giving him away in an instant. Of course Kote did, he’d always had a soft spot for the littles. 7567 still looked at Wolffe first, who must have given an affirmative.

“Rex,” he said quietly.

Seventeen nodded, “Alright Rex, with me. Wolffe, you too.”

Rex looked at him with slight suspicion in his eyes, and Wolffe let out a small noise of complaint. 

“Come on boys,” he tried again, adding a little bark to his voice that had them both scrambling to follow him out the door, “Medics first, then food.”

Once they reached a medical droid, Seventeen sent Rex off behind a curtain with it, and sat down next to Wolffe, giving him the ‘you’d better start talking’ look. 

Wolffe grumbled for a bit before admitting, “His batch are assholes. Too aggressive with him. He learned how to bite back, but Kote said it was pretty bad when he found them. Kid was bleeding like crazy and scared the shit out of Kote, who tried to take him here. He didn’t let him, on the grounds of his mutation, and wouldn’t budge.” Wolffe ran a hand through his hair, a tick they’d all begun to pick up from Seventeen, “He’s with us until further notice.”

Seventeen sat back in his chair, absorbing the information for a moment.

“Good,” he said simply, ignoring the look of confusion and surprise Wolffe sent his way. 

“Sir?” Wolffe asked, and Seventeen shifted in his chair, keeping an ear out for Rex. 

“He needs a batch,” Seventeen responded, “He’s too skinny and too short, probably from lack of nutrition, and his hair is going to make him stand out. He keeps going the way he’s going, his batch will kill him before the Kaminiise get the chance.”

“Oh,” Wolffe said, a little quieter this time. 

“You boys got lucky,” Seventeen continued, still keeping an eye on the curtain, “You got each other. He doesn’t have that.”

“He’s stubborn,” Wolffe said after a moment, “He’s apparently been fighting Kote every step of the way. Doesn’t want anyone to think they have to take care of him.”

That was good. That showed spirit. If Rex had allowed himself to be cowed, to back away without a fight and shrink into the shadows, Seventeen would have had a lot more work to do. As it was…

“He won’t be around his batch if I recommend him for ARC training,” Seventeen suggested quietly, “Of course, he’d need some older vode helping him out, the way I did with you.”

Wolffe snorted, “Not sure you helped us out so much as put the fear of the Manda into us.”

Seventeen grinned down at him, “Got you moving, didn’t it?”

Wolffe rolled his eyes and settled back into his chair, now eyeing the curtain in an equally curious and concerned way, “Think he’ll make it? He’s a CT.”

Seventeen shrugged, “Don’t know. Didn’t know if you boys were going to make it either.”

Wolffe eyed him critically, “What do you mean you didn’t know?”

Seventeen chuckled, “You’re smart and strong, but it takes more than that to complete what you’re being put through. It’s only been six months, and you’ve yet to hit the worst of it.”

Wolffe groaned, “Why are you so cryptic?”

Seventeen looked back at him, a gleam in his eye, “Because it pisses you off.”

Wolffe opened his mouth to say something that probably would’ve earned him another hour in the gym, when the curtain swung back, revealing Rex looking even grumpier than earlier. His head had a few small bacta patches on it, and he promptly ignored the droid in favor of marching over to where Seventeen and Wolffe were sitting.

The droid ignored Rex’s obvious unhappiness and followed him over, this time addressing Seventeen.

“A-17,” it began, “I believe this CT-7567 has a serious defect that must be looked at. Chromosome number-”

“I’m aware,” Seventeen growled at the droid, “We’re all aware. Now fuck off.”

The droid paused for a moment, unsure what to do with itself. 

“I must report this to Nala Se,” it finally concluded, and Seventeen just huffed in response. 

After a beat of silence in which the droid scurried away, a small voice behind Seventeen spoke, “Is she going to decommission me?”

Seventeen almost laughed. Almost. 

Instead he said, “Kid, she knew about your hair the second you left your tube. If you aren’t slated for it yet, you won’t be any time soon.” He turned to face his cadets, hiding his smile at the way Wolffe acted like he wasn’t just wrapping Rex up in a hug. 

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s go get you boys some food.”

—

Today was the day.

His batch was going to take and pass the final test, and become honorary ARC troopers. Two years after they started on the shortened ARC modules, and they’d all become so much more than the Kaminiise ever believed they could be. He’d stood in front of all of them before they marched off for their tests and told them he was proud of every single one, no matter the outcome. 

Rex sat with him, both quietly pretending they weren’t shitting their brains out with anxiety, and they waited. 

Fox and Wolffe came out together, wearing twin grins, and Seventeen knew without asking. He wrapped them up, squeezing the life out of them and ignoring the groans of embarrassment. Kote came out thirty minutes later, having completed and passed his own exams and combat trials, followed by Bly soon after. 

They all sat and waited for Ponds. 

There was an air of anxiety coming from his cadets, and he knew why. 

They were supposed to graduate together, to be the first full batch to make it across the finish line. They’d worked hard for this, studied and trained together for years. They knew the manuals inside and out and had personally tested themselves against every single ARC and trainer they could coax onto the sparring mats. 

Ponds’ absence sent a shockwave through that steady confidence. 

An hour later and they were still sat there, all uneasy, all rhythmically bouncing their knees in near unison. 

An hour and a half later, the doors opened, and they all tensed, prepared for bad news.

What they were unprepared for, however, was a bloody, limping Ponds to walk through with the biggest grin any of them had seen on his face. 

“What the fuck,” Wolffe was, of course, the first to speak. “What the fuck!” He repeated, louder and more worried. 

This sent all of them into a frenzy, rushing toward their injured vod and checking him over, all shouting over one another and demanding to know what happened. Ponds just laughed at their concern, though Seventeen caught the slight wince at the movement.

After a few moments, he convinced them to quiet, and breathed deep, still grinning like a maniac.

“We passed,” he said after a slight pause, and the whole bunch erupted in cheers. They pulled themselves into a circle, Rex and Seventeen watching fondly from the outside, and congratulated each other, giving out hugs and keldabes left and right. Seventeen was fairly sure Wolffe and Fox hit each other a little too hard, and he smiled at the resulting stumble from the boys.

They were nearly seventeen standard years, which meant as soon as the war they were being bred for started, they’d all be shipped out without a moment’s hesitation. It was that thought that made Seventeen allow them to celebrate loudly, noisily, and unashamedly despite the attention it might have drawn. 

Eventually, they calmed down, and Seventeen muscled his way to the center, planting himself in front of Ponds. They were too tall now for him to need to kneel and get on their level, but still short enough that he could loom adequately. 

“Vod’ika,” he began lightly, settling a comforting hand on Ponds’ shoulder, “What happened?”

Ponds’ grin shrank slightly, but his answer was steady, “What do you mean? I passed!”

Seventeen allowed himself to smile at the no-longer-cadet’s enthusiasm, “I know, and I’m proud, but why are you hurt?”

“It was part of the test,” Ponds furrowed his brow in confusion, looking around at the others, “Didn’t all of you…” he trailed off, for the first time taking in the lack of injuries around him. Seventeen could see the moment realization dawned on his face, as well as feel the rising fury coming from the brothers behind him. 

“No,” Seventeen said gently, shaking his head, “That wasn’t part of the test.”

“Oh.”

“Ori’vod-” 

Seventeen cut whoever it was off with a short look behind him. They all looked equally scolded. 

He hated this was happening during their moment of triumph, but he knew if he didn’t address it, no one would. 

“Pond’ika,” Seventeen tried again, “What happened?”

Ponds stilled, his face becoming blank as he processed what was going on. Seventeen squeezed his shoulder a little tighter, becoming a grounding point until his vod’ika was ready. 

“I was going into my counter-insurgency exam and Ward was in the ring. He said he and I would spar and that I had to be prepared for anything,” his voice and expression remained steady, even as Seventeen’s grew concerned, “He flipped out a knife at one point and…” Ponds looked down and gestured to his leg and torso. 

“Why weren’t you wearing armor?” Kote asked from behind Seventeen. 

“He told me to take it off,” Ponds replied simply. 

Seventeen sucked in a breath. Ward was a grade A asshole, every ARC knew this. His ‘counter-insurgency’ fighting was just an excuse to fight dirty, to scar up troopers and taunt them for their lack of skill. 

Skirata should have been in charge of this exam, not Ward. Skirata had always been the kindest of the Cuy’val Dar, and by the looks on the rest of the batcher’s faces, they were thinking the same thing.

“Okay,” Seventeen said simply, “Take off the armor and let’s take a look.”

Ponds shook his head, “Can we do this in the barracks?”

Seventeen nodded, and immediately Wolffe and Fox were at Ponds’ side, helping him take the weight off his injured leg. Rex gave a quieter congratulations to Kote, his obvious favoritism not quite overshadowing his worry as he constantly looked back to check up on Ponds. Bly fell into lockstep with Seventeen, and their little crew easily made their way to the barracks. 

As soon as they got inside, Kote grabbed the medical kit and presented it to Seventeen, who began to set things out on the floor. He knelt in front of where Wolffe and Fox had sat Ponds on Wolffe’s bunk, but gave them enough space to help Ponds remove his armor. 

Bly settled in next to Ponds when Fox vacated the spot to go lock the door, and sucked in a breath as Ponds unbuckled his thigh gauntlet. Blood rushed from the wound, which had previously been pressured by Ponds tightening the straps to keep the wound secure, but it wasn’t deep enough to hit bone, for which Seventeen was glad. 

His torso was a little more complicated, the unnatural shift of skin telling Seventeen that one of his ribs was likely broken. If it had punctured a lung, they would’ve known by now, and he breathed a little easier with the knowledge. 

“Kote,” he called quietly but firmly, “Comm Aven, tell him we’re gonna need some help.”

Ponds opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when he received several glares from around the room. 

“Can’t believe you passed with this,” Seventeen mumbled, “You should’ve tapped out when he flipped out the knife.”

“We were all supposed to pass,” came the answer Seventeen had already guessed. 

“I know,” he sighed, “And this just proves how much you deserve it, but next time, you tap out, got it?”

There was no nod or sign that he agreed, which Seventeen had also expected. Ponds was just as stubborn as the rest of them, no matter how much he hated to admit it. 

He heard Kote talking quietly in the background and got to work, Rex occasionally pushing certain supplies his way and Wolffe and Bly talking calmly to Ponds as Seventeen went about patching him up. 

They didn’t want full batches to graduate ARC training, because then they could prove it was a waste of time and money. He’d known that the second he and a few others proposed the idea to Fett, the Kaminiise, and the Cuy’val Dar and nearly every single one of them had soured. 

Well they could take their elitist dar’manda bullshit and shove it up their asses. His batch had passed, regardless of Ward’s best efforts, and shoved it in every single one of their ugly faces. 

Ponds’ injuries had luckily not impacted the general mood after the initial shock, and soon they were all sharing details and comparing experiences in their different tests. They all laughed at Bly for forgetting to fill out the last digit of his number during one of the written tests, and Fox followed it up with how Wolffe was so nervous he forgot to load his blaster during the firing range exams. That was followed by a smack, which was followed with an insult, which was followed with Seventeen having to reach out and grab Wolffe before he made a move to tackle his brother. 

Nearly nine years old and they still acted four. 

Aven came in a few moments later, taking over the medical side of things for Seventeen, who took the opportunity to give the eldest a keldabe. Ponds smiled into the hold and relaxed a little further. 

They were no longer cadets, not as of that afternoon, and Seventeen knew he would have to let them go soon. 

Still, he sighed as Rex ganged up with Wolffe against Fox in their bickering, and turned around to scold his vod’ika.

—

In the years the war dragged on, Seventeen saw very little of his batchers. Rex and Kote, who was going by Cody in front of the natborns, visited when the war came to Kamino, and introduced him to vod’ika of their own. Wolffe called after what happened with Ventress, showing off his own scar from his encounter with the Sith acolyte. Bly commed often, asking mostly about business, but he’d once let slip something about him and his general. And Fox…Fox he never really saw. 

But they’d all gathered, either on a call or in person, to say goodbye to Ponds. 

Rex had sent him a message saying the batch had already had their night of grief, wallowing in each other’s arms. He was glad they’d taken the time for themselves, but even happier they still trusted him with this. 

They’d all formed little batches within their battalions, as they should, but he’d never really been able to take care of another batch like he did with them. There were too many cadets on Kamino now to focus on them one group at a time. 

So even if it was over a call, he was relieved to see their faces, and ached when they all looked to where Ponds usually stood during these video conferences.

It was quiet at first, and Seventeen took the opportunity to drink each of them in. They were all so much older, so much more exhausted, then he remembered them being. Fox and Wolffe in particular looked like hell, and though he knew it was a combination of grief and whatever osik they’d been handling recently, it didn’t look right on them. 

Kote spoke first, telling Seventeen what happened and declaring Boba dar’manda with vitriol hidden behind his teeth. He and Rex were in person together, as were Bly and Wolffe, and Seventeen appreciated Rex putting a hand on his shoulder to ground his ori’vod. Bly went next, starting to tell a story about Ponds during a fairly recent fight that brought small grins to his brothers’ faces. Wolffe joined in, as did Rex, and soon they were all at least smiling. 

The one vod that never spoke was Fox. 

It puzzled Seventeen how quiet he was. Fox had always been the first to speak up, the first to step in, the first to very loudly give his opinion. But now he was silent. He looked almost like he was disassociating. 

“Fox’ika?” Seventeen called, “You alright?”

Fox looked up once he noticed all the attention was on him and nodded quickly, “‘Course,” he assured them, his tone still sounding off, “Just…reminiscing I guess.”

There were a few murmured agreements from around the table, before the conversation turned back to Ponds. Seventeen caught Wolffe looking over worriedly a few times. He idly wondered how many of them made the effort to keep up with each other. He hoped all of them, but knew better than to assure himself of it. 

The call went on for a long time, most everyone having a good cry at some point. Seventeen was the only one that left with dry eyes when it was said and done. 

He sighed as their blue forms flickered out of existence, and looked across his desk. It was scattered with paperwork, test results, security reports, all the paperwork he’d been relegated to once his leg made it so he could never fight again. 

He unlocked the lowest drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle of moonshine Spur had snuck to him once Ponds’ death had been officially reported back to Kamino. He poured himself a drink and sat back in his chair, scrolling through old comms. There weren’t many with Ponds, just little questions his vod’ika had here and there, and a few scattered conversations about life in the thick of things. 

They were clone troopers, which meant they didn’t get holos or recordings of kids running around just being kids. They didn’t get keepsakes or days that could be spent talking and catching up. He’d known he would have to let them go eventually, and that when he did, there would be nothing to tether them to him.

It still hurt. 

Three glasses in, he picked up his comm again, and pulled up his conversations with Fox. 

It had been nearly six months since they last talked. 

A-17: I’m being sent to Coruscant soon for an escort

A-17: We should catch up

He waited a few minutes, then put his comm down. Fox was a Marshal Commander now, he’d respond when he could. 

Until then, Seventeen was content to drink to the memory of both Ponds, and the boys his batchers used to be.

[vadersassistant]

For My Adventures Clark, what about head-cannons and/or fanfic on what he does to make his girlfriend laugh & smile?

Gender neutral headcannons! How Clark comforts you, cares for you, tries to show love, and cheer you up.

Clark is observant, that much is clear. From X-ray and enhanced vision to super hearing, he uses all of his Kryptonian abilities at his disposal when it comes to you.

He could be halfway across the city stopping an entire robbery. All of the sudden you say something along the lines of being in pain and he's moving at unregistrable speed to get to you as soon as possible (of course after quickly finishing what he was doing). And yes, you are the only person he willingly listens in on.

Clarks always alert with how you're feeling, even if he's far away, he prioritizes your well being like you do his.

Feeling overstimulated/overwhelmed? Clark helps you get away from all of the commotion. Whether that's going up above the clouds and flying for a bit, or finding you a secluded spot to cool down and leaving you be.

He pays attention to your habits, along with common expressions you make when you're feeling a certain way. Especially when zoned out, Clark gently tries to get your attention to keep you grounded and helps in any way he can.

If he's really busy he might text you something random like 'look up'. You do, and suddenly you see a massive heart drawn into the sky, watching him wave to you from far above before going back to saving the city.

Clark loves to leave you notes too, things hidden in your office drawer, or in the lounge room fridge with a small sticky note attached.

He always gets you fresh flowers from a florist that gives him discounts. The thing is though, they're always hand picked, with different combinations and thought out reasons for as to why he chose those specific flowers. Maybe it reminded him of your eye color, or that specific flower stands for something. Whatever it is, the vase that sits on your desk always gets exchanged frequently, and is always taken care of.

Clark also loves picking you up, spinning you around and hugging you. He's very careful not to hurt you though, but those moments are often filled with mutual laughter.

A major part of Clarks love language is understanding and accepting his partner fully due to his own circumstances as a Kryptonian. While he may be aware of habits and or disabilities you have right off the bat, he wants you to tell him yourself when you’re ready, but he is your number one supporter.

He always tries to make you feel more comfortable in your skin, knowing what it’s like to be rejected and out of place in his own. You each teach one another about your different culture, and Clark takes it upon himself to do a good amount of research if it means getting to know you better!

Clark also loves physical touch, especially small gestures like hand holding. Even if you two had argued, or if you're upset, he always tries to reassure you by softly squeezing your hand, thumbing your skin, etc. His hands are quite large, and I like to think holding his partner's hand grounds him just as much as it grounds you.

I love writing for him, please feel free to request more!!

[notsosmallbean]

saw the musical!!!!

not sure if there's a point to just noting every thing I liked about the musical in general (too much to count), but here are some bits i specifically liked a lot about the exact experience I had in orlando on the 20th of january 2025.

as is public information, the cast was Morgan Traud (Amanda et al) James Lynch (Adam et al) and Adam Forward (Lawrence et al). I would let any and all of them have my kidneys. There are a good number of recordings (within the context) of James and Morgan performing on YouTube. I have not yet found Adam Forward singing any of his songs, and he was so funny and perfect for the role that this is a crime. please let me know where I can see more than the 1 minute video my friend has of him cutting his foot off <3

I really specifically like the exact bit of condom dialogue during wrong place, wrong time that they gave us yesterday: (upon pulling out the huge strips of condoms) "would you believe these were a gift..?" "FROM WHO?" "...my mom" - (he may have actually said "my mommy", but I have the memory of someone who benefits from all the flashbacks in these movies) anyway I really like that way of doing it

every actor for Adam online of course does his faggy little voice but OH MAN. James was COMICALLY whiney the entire show. I cannot make it clear to what extent this was, because looking at videos over time is indicating that he started off like a year ago being a bit whiney and has ramped it up immensely over time

Is the pig mask meant to fall apart before the Amanda then/now song? the hair was on one end of the stage and the pig head was on the other.

At Lawrence's request for applause during You Make it Hard For Me, the crowd went wild. In the same vein, there were a couple bits where Morgan RELISHED in the applause. damn right queen. I believe it was after Amanda's first song she just stood and nodded. Then after the Alison/Zep fight she gestured for more applause when it started dying off and then silenced the crowd after a few moments (a la Farquaad in shrek the musical, if I'm honest).

Honestly I think the audience was just really reactive versus certain recordings. The first song was a bit of a struggle for me to hear, but everything else it really enhanced my enjoyment getting to have other people laugh along at the "key in your eye" bit and such. Like yes! community!

GOING BACK A COUPLE, there was a bit during You Make it Hard For Me where the blowup doll pegs Lawrence. Very Funny.

Another bit idk if it's regularly what happens, but when James went to break the mirror the second time, he entirely missed the mirror. hit nowhere near it. and then there was just glass confetti out of nowhere.

That happened a lot, actually. James and Adam both committed so hard to the shitty overhand throws that there were several points where they had to throw things twice. I may be misremembering, but when James had to throw Adam the key for the box, he essentially threw it at the floor 2 or 3 times, prompting "I've been on stage right this whole time" before there was a successful throw

"what are you doing?" "rigor mortis... bleh"

Every time an actor made eye/camera contact while I was photographing them, I was so embarrassed. i promise i was not bootlegging, I just needed literally 200 photos of what is to date one of my best days of all time

James duel-wielding sex toys trying to get the tape player

it was a small venue, so billy's handler started down on the floor with his trike after Amanda's song. he gave up after going maybe 5 feet and then carried it most of the way onstage

Certainly not specific to this showing but oh my GOD the apartment kidnapping combat goes so hard. Accidentally started cheering when she took that twink down, apologies.

Related: the violence of the foot-sawing and gunshot both hit so perfectly. both of them were so physically impactful, because Adam and James both lined up perfectly the blood/movements/sounds to the point that I was shocked it could be done with blood packs.

That is except of course when Adam seemed to recognize the splatters were not actually reaching the splash zone and purposefully started flinging blood into the audience. 10/10

Not technically in regards to the show itself, but afterwards I bought a bit of merch and was stood nearby to the table gushing to my friends when the man selling things got my attention to give me a not-yet-for-sale design they're testing for some sort of trading card of adam?? exhilarating, I feel so honored <33

Might reblog with more things as I remember them! overall I had such a splendid time and want to catalogue as much as possible because of aforementioned bad memory. I love saw and I love live theater!!! I wish this was a permanent installation in florida so I could go every couple weeks

[thedustyleaves]

hi bendix! any tips for drawing/ lighting backgrounds? yours are so gorgeous and cohesive, is there anything specific you think about when planning the layout and props?

Thank you for the question! I'll do my best to answer it, but if something doesn't make sense, feel free to hit me up with some follow-up questions, because sometimes I just end up rambling, hah!

There's a couple of things I keep in mind when I do my bigger illustrations. I always want certain things or characters to be in focus, so for my cowboy illustration, I wanted the four characters from my comic to be the main focus of the piece. I used a couple of different techniques to emphasize this, whereas one of them is lighting.

The background is overall a lot darker and has more contrast between dark and light, than the foreground. To further separate the group from the background, I used the window in the back to add a rim light (that honestly makes no physical sense but it looks neat so...), to make them feel more cohesive as a group.

The second thing is balancing the amount of details I put into it. While there is a lot of stuff, the background has broader, bigger and clunkier shapes than the group in the foreground does.

To keep the feel of the details to a minimum, I kept them within those shapes, so the paintings still feel like single boxes, with stuff in it.

This helps the foreground pop with all the smaller details I've added there.

The next thing is colour. The overall colour scheme is very reddish and brown, but to connect the four characters in the foreground, I added blue to them.

Kain, Christie and Dakon all wear bits of the blue and Raki is holding playing cards with the same blue, while his entire outfit is tinted blue-ish, so even if it's black, the cold tones match with the blues.

This also puts them in contrast to the background characters that are exclusively red/brown and stays within those colour groups.

The details on the table are only 3-4 colours as well; I like to keep my palette to a minimum so the things I want to stick out, actually stick out, and so it doesn't get too busy.

The final thing I like to do, is direct the gaze of the viewer, and use contrast in shape and gestures.

The background and the background characters has very straight lines ...

... whereas the foreground characters are more curved by leaning towards each other, and by sitting around a small round table, that forces them closer to each other as well.

To further direct the gaze of the viewer, I use the eye-lines of the characters. We tend to follow eye-lines in pictures, so I always make sure that my background characters (or some of them) are looking at the thing I want to show off, and that the main characters especially are doing the same thing.

When all is said and done, whenever I start a new illustration, I can basically picture it in my head because I have hyperphantasia. When I sit down to draw, I nudge things around until the idea fits as an illustration, so don't be afraid to just throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks. Winging it will take you far, hahah!

I hope this was somewhat helpful :)

[dailycharacteroption]

Roleplay Ramblings: Spell Storage part 3

(art by IrenHorrors on DeviantArt)

The Mind

Now, with spellbooks and magic-as writing out of the way, it’s worth taking a moment to talk about the classes that don’t use physical notation for their spell knowledge.

Indeed, while scholarly wizards and alchemists note down their magic or quasi-magical chemistry in some form, other casters do not, either due to quirks with how their magic works or because it comes from an outside source, so let’s talk about that a bit.

So, getting it out of the way first, certain magical traditions, namely primal and divine, have no need to store spells for the most part. Instead they simply petition the divine or natural forces that they revere to grant them power. If the spells can be said to be stored anywhere, it is likely within the connection between the caster and their source of power, floating around them in non-space until the mage calls upon it to be fulfilled.

The exception to this are oracles, whom are directly invested with a reserve of divine power, and the exact nature of their various spells and divine magics are shaped by the nature of what sort of divinities granted them power as well as what sort of miracles they wish to unleash into the world. In this way, they are very much like sorcerers.

Speaking of which, sorcerers are very interesting as well. Whether the power has a biological component or their metaphysical self was imbued with this power, sorcerers don’t have the raw study and intellectual understanding that other casters do. Certainly, they and bloodragers can study magic in order to better understand it and help shape the spells they develop, but for them, the act of casting magic is less invoking memorized power and more flexing a metaphysical muscle that they’ve developed into a proper spell through their understanding of how magic works on a reflexive, instinctual level. Sure, they may still utter incantations and make gestures to invoke the power, but it’s more that they know that they work rather than necessarily understanding their greater meaning, not without training.

And then of course we have the full suite of occult casters, who also have spontaneous magic, but being more directly tied to their emotions and thoughts than even sorcerers and bloodragers. Indeed, whether they’re evoking them from their own or from the resonance of emotionally-charged objects, one could argue that the power of these mages IS their thoughts and emotions themselves, harnessed and refined with practice. Occult magic is after all the discipline of connection and association, after all, so understanding how your emotions and thoughts are connected to the world around them is kinda their deal.

All of those previous spellcasters essentially “record” their magic in their knowledge of what they need to do to get them working, rather than a full intellectual understanding of the “language” or inner workings of magical theory, though those certainly help.

However, there are two classes that blur that line by having their spells stored separately, but not being akin to wizards. I speak of course of shaman and witches, whose spells are both stored in a familiar. In both cases, the spells take the form of whispered secrets from a remote patron that are stored in the familiar to recite them in the case of witches, and in similar secrets but also pacts and agreements of aid in the case of shamans. Either way, the mind and body of the familiar serves as the vessel for this knowledge and power.

Of course, I would be remiss to not mention spell-like and supernatural abilites, which are often innate to various ancestries and species, like the power of sorcery or oracular power, but very specific and without cultivation and refinement, more akin to an adaptation like a limb or sensory organs than studied magic.

As we can see, while magic can be inscribed in books and scrolls, it is also infused into the very being of other spellcasters, making for a form of magic that is evoked in very personal ways instead of following proscribed guidelines, further lending to the idea that magic is not some easily explained and codified thing like a law of physics.

In any case, that’s it for today, but tomorrow we’ll jump several millennia into the future to talk about how folks in Starfinder handle their magic.

[normalbrothers]

when you think about tommy and arthur as a ship do you envision that they have actual sex, or is it more like an emotional thing? if they do have sex, when/how do you usually imagine it started?

oh, thank you for that one, love the question!!

i mean as far as it goes it's an emotional thing point blank, already within canon, to me. they are irretrievably enmeshed as is, and i don't necessarily think it's a leap to see arthur's letter to tommy - the wish to commit suicide once tommy's dead - as a deeply romantic gesture (and then again, arthur is a deeply romantic character Capital R), or see a specific kind of intent in how tommy and linda are regularly paralleled (or how arthur is the point of this triangle in the first place). there are a lot of lines being blurred there, even as they are brothers first and foremost. some interactions between them could be read as a sort of physical attraction, too, but that's neither here nor there lol i'm not insisting on it, but i do like how they behave with each other, towards each other, etc it's neat and very attractive to me

there's a lot of variation in what i think works in terms of them having sex (or sex at all): to me it always exists in that continuum of (implied) (incestuous) sexual abuse, you can't really have it without that i think, even though i don't think within that it's a violent or abusive thing per se (they do have their issues, though). so there's some mileage, but i'm very sticky on the idea that whatever goes on between them developed before the war, when they were young. anything from it staying in the realm of plausible deniability to actually had sex is possible to me, and i do think they were relatively young either way. not like, perilously so, but tommy having been around 13 or 14 would probably work (the sexual abuse started earlier tbh).

it stopped sometime before the war, and definitely completely after they returned home; there's a lot of tension and estrangement between them right from the start (while you get the distinct sense it wasn't always like that; they know *know* each other) and we can watch how their dynamic shifts and transforms over the show; always a yearning for closeness and mostly frustrated with and missing each other but finding the other again (and then losing each other again :-/). there's tommy's cutting himself off from the family and the family cutting him off initially and then some attempts at repair but it's an uphill battle, nevertheless season 3 stands out, because no matter how you slice it, he does regard linda with a certain amount of jealousy, and it's the most conflict-laden relationship he has with any of his in-laws (barring freddie, but that's due to them being bitter exes lolol), and it's obvious that he's reconsidering his and arthur's relationship a lot, even though there aren't really any good answers yet. after s3 there's a momentary relief where both tommy and arthur kind of become ... reacquainted again, after grace and john's deaths respectively, and they are on some equal footing during s4 and the beginnings of s5 where i could see them nose-dive into a grief-stricken affair of questionable comfort.

if nothing happens during the course of the show, my absolute favourite thing is really the post canon leaving on the january together scenario which is also the ending of my heart, even though i have resigned myself to the fact that it won't happen </3 but i truly like it so much: the disturbed melancholy of reentering this trauma-bearing domain of their childhood as battered middle-aged adults with nowhere else to go, but it is still an express choice gladly made, relearning to touch and face and love each other again, beyond redemption or forgiveness, because - and this is the ultimate act of selfishness they grant themselves - they can't give each other either these things, are not owed them from the other, they are not within their power and right to give, but what they have is complete perfect acceptance and understanding and recognition of and unity with the other at last. the branches have regrown inward, deep into the ground, where they can finally rest, entwined again as they used to be, etc etc you get the picture

[magnolia-sunrise]

i totally get if it was done for Artistic Effect and whatnot, but your last series got me wondering: does wolfgang's skin have "seams" for ease of peeling it back in certain areas, or do the usual surgical-type incisions need to be made? also now that i'm thinking of android skin apparently, is the inclusion of their skin a cosmetic thing to liken them more to humans, or does it serve a more functional purpose? how operable is an android if they lose a significant amount of skin? (body horror brain go brrrrr)

ohoho thank you once again for a treat of a question!! im hoping to pick up these rambles and put them into a more digestible, comprehensible bite sized pieces of illustrated lore but for now-

so, in older conceptual designs i was playing with idea of sort of "plating" or like, accessible panels and seams. but that proved to be too sterile and not perverted enough for what i wanted to do with this world and story and so - their skin is trying to imitate the look and function of human skin.

to get inside - incisions have to be made, or the skin can be torn into, and ideally sealed back up with tiny dissolving stitches or special glue, to prevent scarring. the skin is the one part of android bodies that is somewhat more easily reproducible and replacable (it can still be very expensive depending on the damage). it has basic self healing functions, most of them helped by the substance that passes as their blood. they're also made in a way that allows them to bruise, bleed and blush (not sweat though). Wolf makes it look nonchalant, but they are under a certain amount of pain and discomfort when they're "peeled", cutting into the skin and removing it is painful - but they are a freak so don't take their example as the norm.

(the artistic element tends to be whether i add the blood coming from the wounds or not, and it fully depends on how stylized and removed from reality im making a specific piece. blood has two unfortunate elements which is it would cover up the artificial muscle thats such a pain to draw, and also it tends to remind people of the horror of the body. i tend to forego it when its more anatomical style illustration or showing off the body, and include it the most when its either serving its body horror purpose, or -my favorite - when its a complement and contrast to romantic feelings or gestures on display :") )

how much skin can they lose before they become inoperable? its similar to blood loss, or any other more serious injury - while the body is technically okay to continue functioning for as long as the main processing unit is not completely separated or its energy sources are not drained, the brain will send a signal to shut down as soon as it perceives the damage to be too much. meaning a normal android would go into shock and shut down mode if they take too much damage and pain too quickly. depending on their situation*, their body can then send a gps retrieval signal as basically a call for help. (but this is not something everyone is equipped with or authorities would necessarily respond to. ) (* more on that later)

and then theres Wolfgang, who we have established is a freak in more ways than one. they have a lot of trust issues about anyone being in their head, and they stay up conscious through surgery. they can also withstand a lot more pain, bloodloss and injury than an "average" android. the" why" is twofold; partially they were literally built different for the work they did before becoming bonafide social reject and private investigator/vigilante, partially the event that ended that line of work (and had them trapped and tortured for a decade until their escape) included the persons responsible fumbling in their brain and 'settings' to make sure they would withstand those years of torture wide awake. this is a roundabout way of saying i think Wolf could go at it skinless if they really had to, they've been through worse :" ) (and to put it plainly, these days, after being able to physically transition and change their body - displaying parts of it, having them be touched or seen consensually by someone they trust brings them pleasure also through the feeling of reclamation of the ownership of their self and body)

[batsplat]

follow up to this post that provides the context of the donington 2008 race, and also some photos with more than three pixels of valentino and casey with their arms around each other

so. *cracks knuckles*. let's talk about jorge and valentino. if you want to understand the texture of the early years of that dynamic, there are worse places to start than checking out the bit of jorge's biography where he talks about valentino attempting to calm down the crowd at misano 2009

the post about that rivalry linked to above doesn't go into much detail about this passage, mainly because that thing was quite frankly getting long enough as it is. but the passage really does capture some key elements that give you a sense of what the vibe was like back then - including jorge loving the donkey ears and needing the world to know how much he loved the donkey ears. you've got jorge's desire to learn from valentino, acknowledging the skill with which valentino bounced back from a disastrous weekend, talking about how he can orchestrate a crowd. jorge's professed belief that there is nothing wrong with the crowd reaction as they are simply backing one of their own. this intense preoccupation with public personas, with fan perception, with what constitutes acceptable standards of conduct within a rivalry, how to engage in honourable combat, man to man and all of that... the air of pompousness, of earnestness verging on self-seriousness that is so central to young jorge's whole deal. and on valentino's end, it is important to pay attention to how he is willing to make gestures in the name of keeping the rivalry civil. in truth, he knows that he can still rely on the public sphere to make jorge's life rough. let's not forget, after all, that the way-too-online jorge was far more affected by spaniards talking shit about him on the internet on valentino's behalf - italians just don't matter as much because their partisanship is essentially already factored in. unlike at certain other stages of his career, however, valentino can throw in these little symbolic acts to calm the waters, to show he doesn't actually want to be jorge's enemy. they're just rivals, after all; they can behave respectfully towards each other. below all the sturm and drang and drama, valentino's approach to managing rivalries in that era involves a general reticence to allow things to get too nasty between himself and his new rivals. that will not always mean that the non-valentino side of those rivalries perceived valentino's behaviour that way - but obviously they are not applying the same standards. valentino's points of comparison are fist fights and curses. what feels excessive to him is rather radically different to where some of his younger rivals would draw the line

while jorge will at least outwardly claim he takes no issue with the hostility of the fans, casey takes a rather different approach. it is one of the biggest themes of his rivalry with valentino: casey having an awful time with the public and resenting valentino for it. valentino will not have been the only reason for how poorly the fans received casey - there are elements of casey's personality that would probably have always made him a tricky sell to the fanbase. still, the extent to which the public adored valentino and wished him to win above all others obviously and undeniably contributed heavily to the vitriol with which casey was met. (to return to jorge, he is the more clear cut example where his lack of popularity was a combination of different factors - plenty of fans already hated him for his antics in 250cc well before he was anything approaching a threat to valentino.) abusive fan mail, fans physically assaulting him when he was riding around on scooters, booing... the main country casey associates with that hostility is england. italians specifically don't actually ever really come up - probably in large part because there were plenty of ducati fans in italy who supported him even when fighting valentino. but the english fans? no such conflicting loyalties whatsoever. obviously, they loved valentino - and the sports culture in that country being what it was... well, that love could easily get ugly for anyone who posed too great a threat. (not to get into the ins and outs of british vs european identity but it is funny sometimes how casey talks about english speakers in the paddock As Good - "I only speak to english-speaking riders" he says in 2009 - and also european fans As Bad, but then the only specific european fanbase he ever properly complains about is the english. casey radically pro-european in essentially separating out the concept of 'english-speaking' from The English and also then treating The English as like... quintessentially european. anyways.) and for whatever reason, they had it in for casey in a way they never quite seemed to for any of valentino's other rivals. there's obviously also the deeply personal element where he has family in england, he moved there directly from australia as a teenager... on paper, this should have been a country that offered him support, or at the very least didn't actively hate him. it felt more like a betrayal - it's a similar dynamic to why jorge was particularly frustrated by the spanish fans not backing him. the english fans being so unkind to casey was a particularly bitter pill to swallow because he never would have expected it from them

casey obviously feels quite strongly that valentino should have done something about this behaviour and didn't. depending on how much stock you put into certain write-ups of races in britain over the years, it is at least possible that valentino quite deliberately made casey's life more unpleasant in britain. all of which would make it particularly interesting if valentino did go for a little bit of a symbolic gesture with casey too, like he did with jorge. during the race weekend of donington 2008, casey was having a rough time of it (well, outside of the actual racing, where he was slaughtering the field lol) and was as ever outspoken in his irritation. he tended to have plenty of complaints about donington whenever he went - not just with the fans but also the track and just, like, the vibe being off, wasn't really ever enthusiastic about the place. none of this stopped him from winning the race by a country mile, of course. back then there were still track invasions after races, which is a safety nightmare at the best of times - but it was worse for casey, who talks afterwards about the "abuse" he got from the crowd on that lap. which does make you pay closer attention to how valentino catches up, darts ahead of casey, and basically leads him quite closely through the worst bit of the crowd to parc fermé; it's something that is remarked on in the commentary, how valentino has essentially gotten casey to follow him on their 'shaky' cooldown lap

here you have the traditional post-race thumbs up and shake of hand

and then a few moments later, the densest part of the crowd

deliberate gesture to ward off the worst of it by essentially providing a line to follow to casey, or just a coincidence?

then you have the podium, where... well, you can barely ever actually hear booing on the broadcast for any race lol, dismal sound quality, casey definitely complained about it after the race so we know it happened. but having turned up the volume all the way, in the process permanently damaging my hearing - I'm fairly confident I can hear something that sounds vaguely like jeering and boos turn into what is definitely louder cheers when valentino puts his arm around casey, as depicted at the top of this post. I have watched way too many valentino podiums over the years, and I will say that a full arm around the shoulder isn't exactly common from him. amateur body language analysis corner, but there's something interesting in how valentino doesn't actually meet casey's eyes while he's doing it, looks straight ahead at the crowd while putting his arm around casey - there is obviously something quite performative about it, something quite pointed, something the crowd immediately picks up on and responds to... hold, hold, hold as they get the photos done, pat pat on the back, and then valentino lets his arm drop. casey of course reciprocated with his own arm vaguely around valentino, and he does also bust out the full grin right at valentino at the end there (you can see it if you lean really close to your screen). which the amateur body language analysts might conclude indicates appreciation for the gesture

now, look, I have fuck all reporting and only a few forum posts to back up what essentially amounts to squinting at footage of a race you've watched for the nth time in order to induce motorcycle racer-themed hallucinations. I'm about 50/50 on the cooldown lap, that might just be reading too much into it, but the podium does feel a lot more clear cut - and the combination of the two (plus jorge's testimony establishing that this sort of behaviour might be something valentino is vaguely inclined to do during this specific time period) is JUST enough to make me buy there's something deliberate there. your mileage may vary. also important to note that valentino's actual response in 2008 to casey's english fan situation was a big old shrug - aka some talk about how casey did complain rather a lot about everything to do with this race and also rumination about the ancient hatreds still raging between the anglo nations of the world to this day. he certainly was not willing to go on the record and admit to any responsibility for the animosity. given that valentino is not an idiot, he did obviously know that partisanship in his favour was in large part to blame for casey's reception in britain - not something, at the end of the day, he's going to be losing too much sleep over. still, he's aware of it, which is why the arm around the shoulder works the way it does, right? because he knew the crowd would respond to it. and it's just... these little symbolic touches that do matter when establishing the tone in 2008. valentino was willing to use pretty much the whole toolkit against casey to crack the toughest of nuts - hell, give him two more races and he'd bust out a hithertofore unseen couple of tools - but it was not quite the ugly fervour of past feuds at their peaks. instead, here we have someone simply playing the game and trying to judge how far to push things at any given moment, when it made sense to twist the knife and when it was better to play nice. valentino didn't actually want casey to hate him. given what valentino was willing to do to win motorcycling competitions (including not stepping in more firmly against his own fanbase, yes), casey coming to hate valentino was very much the end result of valentino's actions in those few years. which still does not mean that this was the intent behind valentino's actions; there are feuds of his where he is actively attempting to provoke his rivals, but this was not one of them (during the years where they were meaningful on-track rivals, which is just a blanket caveat I'm applying to the rest of this post). if casey came to hate him, then of course that was a price worth paying - but given a choice, valentino would generally opt for the cordial approach

this preference is reflected in the way he generally talked pretty positively about his dynamic with dani and casey in 2008, e.g. "the relationship between me, casey and dani is more normal, whereas biaggi was always saying bullshit". it's there in the descriptions of valentino using charm with his rivals, being free in his compliments ("when rossi gets beaten he makes sure to praise whoever has defeated him"). and, look: valentino was skilled at being a gracious loser, he did tend to throw some pretty effusive compliments especially in casey's direction when he lost to him, always preferring to bite his opponents harder from a position of strength etc etc. (still fond of this line from the guardian article about catalunya 2007: '"truly, casey is riding like a god," said the italian, who is rarely guilty of making an understatement.' please allow him. also, what if casey is just riding so well that this actually IS an understatement, what then.) yes, casey felt like valentino wasn't being particularly complimentary, that the compliments had dried up by the end of 2007. that's the thing about this rivalry, right, like you do have to remember that casey obviously isn't able to perfectly read valentino's intentions lol. valentino did still lob plenty of compliments casey's way - and actually said in 2009 that casey had started criticising valentino more when casey started winning after having been more complimentary before that, which is such a lovely example of both of them just being so fundamentally at odds that their grievances perfectly mirror each other. but the problem is that even if valentino was still saying nice things about casey, 1) it's human nature to pay more attention to one insult than nine compliments - and casey is particularly susceptible to this, and 2) what valentino considers 'keeping a rivalry civil' looks completely different from casey's understanding of that concept. (at times casey would probably be better served applying a generational lens than a cultural one lol - there's a reason why some retired racers found it remarkable how nice valentino was about his opposition.) valentino cools off towards casey interpersonally as part of his working process in title fights, doesn't go out of his way to provoke casey but does want to apply pressure wherever possible using all the little tricks he can along the way. which is understandably received as active hostility by casey (who is also still extremely young at this point) - but that doesn't necessarily mean this was actually the intent. when valentino wants to make an enemy out of you, typically you do notice it pretty quickly

see too how both of them are willing to engage in the song and dance of calling a truce at brno 2008, with only a couple of barbed comments attached from both sides. casey had given valentino grounds to escalate the conflict in the aftermath of laguna (including obviously the 'I'm faster than him and he knows it' thing), but valentino more or less refrains from doing so. an arm around the shoulder to get the crowd to give it a rest, accepting an apology without too much fuss... smiles and jokes and plenty of civility in-person... there have been valentino feuds that are considerably easier to spot at a distance, such is the interpersonal rancidity. all this while valentino is concurrently stepping up the on-track intimidation, but to him there is no contradiction there. valentino wasn't provoking casey for shits and giggles - he believed he had to do something not to lose the title that year. and... well, you can find his actions morally questionable, but it's a bit tougher to argue with the actual logic underlying valentino's behaviour. laguna 2008 isn't a case of valentino's need to create enemies expressing itself in attacks on his rivals for no good reason - it's a case of valentino being willing to do whatever it takes to win, even if it ends up making a new enemy. again: valentino is certainly using his entire playbook to exert pressure on casey - but at the same time, casey is not being treated like an actual enemy. at times, casey will have read a little too much outright animosity into valentino's approach... even though by his standards, valentino was trying to keep things reasonably cordial. it's just that he had a comically different understanding of what that looked like from casey. to understand that rivalry, you do have to get that a part of valentino's toolkit in those years was the interpersonal friendliness - a public willingness to perform civility. all you need to do is compare how the pair of them act around each other in the aftermath of that rivalry's biggest flashpoint (aka laguna '08) to how things play out in literally every single other valentino feud. (I know I started this post off talking about jorge and broadly speaking valentino does adhere to the same approach in 2009. but, 1) his relationship with jorge was a lot icier than his relationship with casey right from the start, partly because valentino just flat out disliked jorge, and 2) 2009 might star that rivalry's best duel but does not feature its major flashpoints, cf motegi 2010 and *checks smeared notes* something about a spanish conspiracy? - so it's not quite as notable jorge and valentino keep it vaguely polite.) from valentino's perspective, he escalates only as far as he has to. he's not emotionally invested enough to be all that offended by casey's response to laguna 2008, if anything can derive additional satisfaction from it... the race did what it was supposed to - he'll gladly accept a handshake of apology in its aftermath

sometimes, hygienic rivalry management involves giving off some mixed signals to confuse the opposition, to keep them guessing. it's a more uncertain situation than being outright enemies, one that makes it a little trickier for the opposition to parse how to approach that rivalry going forward, how nasty to be in response... valentino is happy enough to play this game when it comes to casey. the compliments, the public cordiality, the little gestures when he's feeling like it... charming off the track and vicious on it - all while dripping a steady dose of poison into the public discourse, attempting to make casey's life as difficult as possible. casey is the worst victim out of any of valentino's rivals of this two-faced approach, this disconnect between person and character casey himself is well aware of. even when the feud on paper should have been at its worst, valentino does not feel the need to cut casey off entirely. usually valentino does skew more clearly one direction or the other at any given time - usually he's at least a little more willing to show his hand, not mix pleasantries with cruelty quite so liberally. but he does not want casey to be his enemy. what a nuisance, right... can't like him can't loathe him certainly can't get rid of him

[stephofromcabin12]

Any art tips for artists just starting out? I’m struggling big time to find my style 😀

Sure.

It got kinda long. Bc when have I ever been a person of few words?

There is no trick to finding your style other than drawing a lot, and setting a, more or less, loose goal. When I was young it was old school Disney and Don Bluth. That was my holy grail, ideal style. But it evolved to be something else, because that's how style works. You'll put your own twist on things, in time. But first focus on practicing and don't narrow yourself down to just one thing. You'll also probably develop multiple styles out of convenience. Sometimes I prefer the cartoony, simpified stuff. Sometimes I'm more into fully rendered pieces.

Experiment. Make bad art a lot. The more you expose yourself to the inherent let-down of sucking at something, the less it stings. The key is asking yourself why something didn't turn out right.

You can't get good at All Art at once. Start with something you're most interested in learning. Maybe it's anatomy, or gestures, or expressions, or colors. Start with that one thing and practice is with a specific goal in mind. Fx: "I want to get better at drawing faces and expressions, so I'm going to do an expression sheet of a character once a week, and do a little practice every day if I can" – That sorta thing. Everyone is different, though. My old music teacher used to say 30 minutes a day. If we couldn't do 30; 15 mins. So on. As long as you do a lil doodling every day that's still progress.

Learning art is sometimes frustratingly non-linear. Somedays I still 'forget' how to draw a certain thing I've had down since I was 14. Other days I bang out something I've always struggled with on the first try, then fail the next day. It's not a linear progression, it's a damn roller coaster. Best you can do is throw your hands up and try to enjoy the ride. The pipe line for me is usually: First attempt (sucks ass but I've learned to laugh at this stage, just throw ideas at the wall) -> getting comfortable (this is where you think to yourself you have a concept down but you really don't) -> Getting good (you start to draw with more ease, you're not having to 'remember' how you wanted something to look, it's just muscle memory by now) -> Actually having it down (and still having more growth to go. But this is where you get to look back on the comfortable phase and go: 'wow I really had a long way to go')

In fact, having fun is by far the thing that's made me progress. More than tutorials, more than fancy equipment. If I'm not having fun, I have no motivation to keep going. If it's not fun, try and make it so.

Get into the habit of stepping back (whether physically or more metaphorically) and really looking at your art often while you draw. When you add a line, or color, or background element etc. Ask yourself "Does this work?" And adjust accordingly. It seems like a lot of work at first, but eventually it becomes a natural part of the process. I don't really realise I'm doing it but most of the patreon screen recordings I have show the way I zoom in and out of the canvas constantly lol.

Make the things you want to make. Even the most self-indulgent stuff. We have a million artists already doing their thing, but we don't have you yet. Show us what you got! There's room for everything.

Get used to people expressing mild envy/annoyance when you're drawing near them. I've gotten the 'wow I wish I could draw, I can't even do a stick figure!' comment from waitresses, cabin crews, classmates I'd previously never spoken to, teachers, strangers on trainstations, etc etc etc. But! Learn to say 'Thank you' when people compliment your art.

Don't ask for critique if you don't really want it. Don't let people critique you if you didn't ask for it.

You! Don't! Need! Fancy! Equipment! Save your money and get the version of a medium that's affordable and comfortable for you. Look at Stardew Valley's creator's old setup. It's really not about how the tools are set up or the price of them. It's how you make use of them. Didn't FNAF's creator build the models in a moving car on a laptop?

Art takes time. There is no short cut to make it take less time. But the more fun you have the more it'll feel like it's faster. If you're miserable the time will drag on and on and on.

Look at a lot of art. Take in and analyse. I wish I could go back a few years and tell myself to analyse paintings I liked, rather than just going "Oh I like that! Nice!" and then moving on. Why is it good? Why does it move you? What captured your attention? Be the person at a museum leaning forwards to see the paintstrokes, you learn more that way.

Don't feel ashamed if you want to take inspiration from others. Everyone takes inspiration from somewhere. If you see something cool another artist is doing with their rendering or lighting or whatever, try and do a drawing or two emulating it! Maybe you'll discover a new favorite technique, or you'll not really jam with it. Either is good. Both teach you something.

You'll go through more eras than Taylor Swift. Sometimes you gotta do a lil Eras Tour of your own and go back through the catalogue. I'm currently working on reviving several projects I made when I was 13-14. Keep everything. Don't delete; archive.

Get good storage. Like, seriously, wish for a harddrive your next birthday or christmas or whatever. If you're working traditionally wish for some good ringbinders and the good plastic sleeves. Much nicer than running out of storage and having to delete things. Never delete!

You are already an artist. You became one the second you picked up a pen and put it to paper, and then decided to keep going with that. So don't compare yourself. When you find yourself jealous of someone, it's because they have something you want. Figure out what it is, and make it for yourself.

Deadass? Tracing helps so much with learning forms. But it's only helpful when you also practice drawing the same things freehand.

The trick to coloring is just that everything looks good shaded with purple set to multiply, and that if you're ever in doubt go in an L shape on color wheel. Down in brightness, inwards in saturation.

People who say you can never use white or black in drawings are jerks and you should not listen to them. You can do literally everything you want. Sure, experiment with other ways of using white and black. But art advice is just that: It's an option, not gospel. As a wise prophet of our time, Justin Bieber, once said: Never say never.

People will say you should be your own biggest critic. But fuck that. Be your own biggest cheerleader. Love what you make, even when you hate it, find something that works. That stepping back I mentioned in point 6? Sometimes that's zooming out and saying "Damn! That looks really good!" – People will often make art out to be something that should be suffering and painstaking. It's not though. In my honest experience, I've made just as much good art when I was happy and content, as I did when I had severe depression and anxiety and burnout. You're not an artist because you suffer. You're an artist because you can't just sit in that suffering all the time. You know there's beauty besides your pain, and so you'll remind yourself in the act of creation that there is always something more.

Once you realise you have the power to draw truly anything, you'll start having a lot more fun. "Oh but I've never done it before" or "Oh I tried and it just didn't work" Okay. So?

In case of frustration to the point of throwing your art supplies out the window: Take a breath. Go for a walk. Sometimes it's just not your day. Sometimes the rollercoaster gets stuck in the middle of a loop or right at the top of a hill. Wait it out. Try again.

You have absolutely got this. Let me know if there's anything else I can help with.

[iamacolor]

At the end of the day this was an epic love story and I genuinely believed that these two people would and did do anything for each other however I still felt the show focused a lot more on sunjae being in love/romantic than sol, they gave him all the clinginess (that's not a word lol)/whipped "looser" in love behavior , all the sweeping romantic speeches and declarations (just in the last 2 eps he had at least 3 and we didn't get that from Sol) and I wanted more of that more Sol because sometimes it felt like it was 80% more focused on what he was doing in that regard. Their actions were offset by each other, she traveled time to save him and he loved her for decades and died for her multiple times but otherwise I wanted her to talk about her time spanning epic love for him like he did, I wanted her to be as clingy as him and as prone to dramatics sometimes when it came to their relationship, I wanted them to give her as much as they gave him.

hi anon! that's a really good point actually and i do think some of it is in part due to this specific story (which i liked) but some of it is also due to the genre (romance/kdrama) that has its limitation in how it portrays the dynamics between men and women and often has this imbalance between the leads (that often annoys me).

kdramas often tend to portray men as more proactive in their declaration while the women (who are often supposed to be more emotional because well...they're women :))) ) are reacting to these declarations or grand gestures - it might be because romance as a genre still mostly cater to a female audience and they're trying to make it "dreamier" for the women by having men saying swoony lines etc (which is a shame because as a viewer i love seeing a woman actively in love, loud about it and proactive, it's fun, it's touching. I support women being stupid in love. and being in love isn't just about having someone tell you romantic stuffs and kiss you in the rain it's also about feeling in love and getting to share that and to love someone anyway i'm getting sidetracked) and it might also be because a lot of the times women are "used" as a plot tool to chanel a man's journey and emotions. (same with "skinship" for which a similar dynamic is mixed with how korea seems to value a certain idea of modesty for women and how most of the time the man is the one initiating it no matter who fell first and the women tend to shy away from it in a lot of dramas and don't really get to show that they're excited about it...).

in regard to that i felt that lovely runner kind of was a nice change because although you can see these patterns of writing and storytelling in it like you said and how sunjae is definitely written to be dreamy and make people go "omg what an ideal bf who wouldn't want a man who's so devoted and so overwhelmed by his feelings he acts stupid", sol gets to be a very romantic lead with her own version of several grand gestures, her own sacrifice for the good of the man she loves, her love for him is driving the plot, she defends him from bullies directly and killers more indirectly, she has much more agency than a lot of female leads from the beginning to the end (a lot of the time the female lead's storyline just gets sidetracked or forgotten around ep12 lol), she literally writes an entire movie about him and once she's free from the fear of driving sunjae to his death she is actually much more like him in her behaviour (and also more proactive with physical touches!!). and the moments when sol is like that are some of my faves! i was watching ep16 like omg i love this sol so much why didn't we get more and well the answer is because before she thought if she did something as simple as talk to him he'd die so that kind of dampens the mood.

but then i would say there is an imbalance inherent to this very specific story that i don't mind since it makes up for more angst - and i love that - because a) sol was just his fan at first so it took a while for her to even get in that mindset while he was already crushing on her hard - like when he tried to confess when inhyuk threw the petals and she was like ok maybe we can't be fan and athlete anymore but we can be friends! because in her mind she was thinking about how to stay close to him so she could save him for sure while he was like sol please be my gf b) and then sol was never free from the burden of what she saw as her duty (ie. saving him) the whole time they interacted until ep16 and so she never could let herself be too clingy (clinginess is a word i think btw and if it's not it should be!) or super romantic (although she did allow herself some very cheesy puns) because most of the time she was either trying to make big changes in his life or trying to stay away from him as much as possible and so she had to show restraint constantly (and that's actually a very common trait in a male character in romance - not just kdramas but also like romance novels which i read a lot of lol - they're always like no i have to stay away because i could bring danger to my loved one, because i have a dark past or i'm not good enough for them, too dangerous or tainted to say i love you and to shackle them to me and my fate etc gosh life is so hard when you're a romance lead) while sunjae was literally just a guy standing in front of a girl he liked and trying to make it happen most of the time, he didn't really see anything else at stake lol and even once he did you could tell he was just a 19 yo trying to cheer his girlfriend up knowing she's also trying to save him and he kind of walks into his big gesture without really planning it.

and that to me is what truly created this imbalance because she did her sacrifice but unlike his that was very visible (he literally got stabbed in front of her and still made sure to not let go until she was safe) her own sacrifice was to make sure he never saw her (which obviously plays into the less proactive type of representation because her grand gesture is to walk away but also that makes it all so tragic because she choses to endure her pain knowing it's going to last rather than risk death which stops everything ). And all of that meant also she could only say she liked him - either "too late" (but thankfully not really because he still liked her) when they were already adults or "before it's too late" when she prepares to say goodbye to him at the seaside and she doesn't want him to feel too entangled with her, she doesn't want him to be too sad this time - or when she made speeches about her love for him, how big and strong it was, how steadfast she stood in her desire to see him safe before anything else, how much she loved him...(and especially in those last 2 eps - and to me that cound as declarations) but she had to say them indirectly by pretending she was either talking about her character or someone else because she couldn't tell the truth directly to sunjae. so technically sunjae heard her say (and also read her) that she loves him very much, that she's ready to sacrifice her own hapiness for his live etc but it was all retroactively which is quite bittersweet. i do wish we could've had her say these things directly to him but at the same time i understand that once he remembers everything and understands she was talking about him and they can finally be together, they prefer to focus on their future rather than on their multiple pasts.

also i like that by the end they both waited so many years before reuniting - because when it was just sunjae who had done the yearning from afar and who still had feelings it made him stand out in a way because wow look at the sheer size of his feelings no wonder he gets a little stupid when she comes back into his life and clearly he's the big romantic once between them. and now they both did the waiting, the yearning, the let me sacrifice my life (or at least life as we know it) for you, the "omg what do i do now that they're back!!!!" and that kind of eases the differences between them.

all this to say i mostly agree but also if it brings more romantic angst i quite like it dghjdfgqsjk

[ziggysgender]

Me searching sam beckett autism in AO3 and Tumblr pulls a frightening zero amount of content talk to me here

its genuinely upsetting Yes............. ik one of my mutuals is working on a sam autism fic im not too sure when thats dropping. BUT. in the meantime,, lets discuss

long post beware 👇👇👇

extracted from the DSM-5 autistic criteria.

> Persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction across multiple contexts, as manifested by the following, currently or by history

1. Deficits in social-emotional reciprocity, ranging, for example, from abnormal social approach and failure of normal back-and-forth conversation; to reduced sharing of interests, emotions, or affect; to failure to initiate or respond to social interactions. 

2. Deficits in nonverbal communicative behaviors used for social interaction, ranging, for example, from poorly integrated verbal and nonverbal communication; to abnormalities in eye contact and body language or deficits in understanding and use of gestures; to a total lack of facial expressions and nonverbal communication.

3. Deficits in developing, maintaining, and understand relationships, ranging, for example, from difficulties adjusting behavior to suit various social contexts; to difficulties in sharing imaginative play or in making friends; to absence of interest in peers.

sam does indeed struggle with social cues and communication. he does blend in, but not entirely well. his constant attempting to adapt to different people and personalities, both in his leaping, and also in his canon backstory, is noticeably lacking. that being said, he is VERY empathetic. people are very drawn to him. more often than not either in a "what the fuck is wrong with you" way. or a "hey lets have sex" (he does not want to have sex) way. he is also frequently fixated on learning languages outside of english. not that he plans to communicate in these languages, he simply wants a base connection to other people and this is how he does it. learning is his love language.

> Restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities, as manifested by at least two of the following, currently or by history.

1. Stereotyped or repetitive motor movements, use of objects, or speech (e.g., simple motor stereotypes, lining up toys or flipping objects, echolalia, idiosyncratic phrases).

2. Insistence on sameness, inflexible adherence to routines, or ritualized patterns of verbal or nonverbal behavior (e.g., extreme distress at small changes, difficulties with transitions, rigid thinking patterns, greeting rituals, need to take same route or eat same food every day).

3. Highly restricted, fixated interests that are abnormal in intensity or focus (e.g., strong attachment to or preoccupation with unusual objects, excessively circumscribed or perseverative interests).

4. Hyper- or hyporeactivity to sensory input or unusual interest in sensory aspects of the environment (e.g. apparent indifference to pain/temperature, adverse response to specific sounds or textures, excessive smelling or touching of objects, visual fascination with lights or movement).

i mean. any episode can show you easily sam stims OFTEN. usually due to negative input, he will make certain gestures with his hands or entire body. you've got al frequently reminding sam to calm down. sam's reaction to being overwhelmed is usually either to become angry and lash out (emotionally or physically) or to shut down completely. he has had entire meltdowns such as going quiet and running away to cry. this didnt make al bat an eye, then knew exactly how to correct it. if you wanna talk about fixated interests, man has 7phd's...

ALSO. JIMMY.

jimmy is the one leapee sam has encountered the MOST. he leaped into him twice (not encludinb shock theater), met his older brother three times. he connected the MOST deeply to him. he even made an appearance in the last episode. and every time he has encountered jimmy, he instantly became ecstatic; running to wordlessly hug anyone he knew he could trust with his disabilities.

in the actual episode "jimmy" sam has a meltdown over how he is treated. he cries to al about how different he's acting in this body. to which al responds he is actually acting exactly the same as normal. sam doesnt understand completely, but the conversation progresses to al's sister.

sam is also embodying jimmy in "shock theater", yknow, when his mind is slipping away and his most important past leaps take over. yeah that one.

jump to "runaway". sam has a longwinded conversation with his leap's mother about how he feels like a "non-person". how he doesnt feel real or connected to anyone.

now jumping to the NOVELS. theres several examples here but specifically Prelude. where we get this insane page of text:

um. anyways. sam beckett is autistic ;P

[vacantgodling]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMON !! What about Ghost, Hunt, Torture, and Wound 👀👀 ?

THANKUUUUUU!!!!! AMON DAY!!!!!!!!1!1!1!1!

ghost: Who or what haunts your OC? What happened? How do they live with their ghosts?

honestly, there aren’t many Specific People who haunt amon because he is such a “the dead are buried guy” — even in his quest for revenge against what happened to him; his mother died on that day too (she was killed, he was very lucky to be alive) but he doesn’t really mourn her at all; he doesn’t have much attachment to her or anything like that even though generally speaking he knows it’s fucked up. he’s more concerned with how it fucked HIM SPECIFICIALLY up, if you know what i mean. so in that vein i guess the only ghost that truly haunts him is the child he used to be. and he’s made it his life’s mission to avenge that child so 🤪

hunt: Who or what is your OC hunted by? A person, a feeling, a past mistake? Is your OC able to let their guard down, or are they constantly alert?

amon thinks of himself more as the hunter than the hunted. even if someone were to try and hunt him (such as a rival gang or smthn, even the keeper), he twists his narrative around it; you can’t hunt someone who’s trying to meet you out on the battlefield; that WANTS to be found. now, what does pose an issue is when he starts to care about hya, and it becomes clear that the keeper wants to do harm to hya and not him (only him by proxy because he’s potentially in the way Of harming hya). it terrifies him once he learns this, and he not only doesn’t let his guard down but he starts trying to get more and more into the line of fire to protect hya;;;;

torture: Has your OC ever been tortured? Would your OC ever torture someone else?

yes and yes. gang rivalries before the locks fully took over halifax were a bit wild (so his late teens and early twenties). and he’s definitely never above doing what he has to to make someone talk, keys or other gangs alike. his favorite torture method is always finger breaking because a little freak.

wound: How does your OC handle being wounded? Are their wounds mostly physical? Mental? Emotional? What's the worst wound your OC has ever experienced?

worst physical wound: *gestures to the scars i won’t shut up about for obvious reasons* — i also remind you that amon was like 12 when this happened to him so….

worst mental wound: hahahahahah hya did it :) (it may be silly but hya rejecting him does crazy shit to amon’s psyche)

in general amon takes physical punishment like a pro; he’s literally gotten to the point where he can find pleasure and sexual gratification in it to certain extents. outside of hya’s narration, he’s constantly compared to a “mad dog” or a “tiger” or anything like that because he’s just like. not hinged. and i would say that it’s a 50-50 split between his wounds being emotional or physical, but he does handle emotional/mental wounds worse ;;

[whitehotharlots]

Free Kareem

Kareem Hunt was probably the shittiest MeToo incident of the sports world. It happened over 4 years ago, which is an eternity by the standards of the today’s discourse, so let me recap what happened:

In February of 2018, two of Hunt’s friends went to a club while he stayed behind with his girlfriend in their hotel suite. The friends returned around 3 AM, and they had two very drunk and underage girls with them. Hunt did the correct thing: he told the girls to leave and had them escorted out of his suite.

The girls refused to leave. They stood outside Hunt’s suite for a half hour, screaming, failing, and pounding on the door. We know for certain this happened, because it was all captured on a security camera (full footage of this does exist, I’ve seen it, but Google has a way of burying primary evidence that contradicts popular narratives).

After approximately 20 minutes of screaming, Hunt’s girlfriend comes out of the suite to tell the girls to leave. This only intensifies the screaming and flailing. After a minute or so, one of the girls can be seen shoving Hunt’s girlfriend, who maintains her composure and goes back into the suite.

A few more minutes pass. The girls continue to pound and scream. Hunt himself comes out of the suite. He gestures toward the exit. The girls keep screaming. The same one who shoved his girlfriend now shoves Hunt. Again, he points toward the exit. The girl shoves him again, and he shoves her back, knocking her to the ground.

At this point, all but the most brain-damaged of feminists would agree that Hunt has done nothing wrong. But then he crosses a line: he raises his leg, hesitates, and gives the girl a kick, as if to accentuate that she needed to get her ass up and out of his hallway.

Now, yes, he should not have done the kick. Fine. But if you watch full video, it’s clear that he did not kick with anywhere near full force. It was more of a gesture than anything else. And, well, if an NFL running back were to kick a small woman with anything close full strength, that woman would not be able to get up and walk away.

I hold the retrograde opinions that men should be afforded some degree of dignity, and that random white women are not legally or morally entitled to enter the dwellings of black celebrities without permission. If I were the one to adjudicate this incident, I would have told the girl to go fuck herself. There’s really nothing Hunt could have done in this situation that would have escaped scrutiny. It was clear that the girl was unhinged and fully aware that she could manipulate MeToo discourse to force the black man to bend to her will: “Kareem Hunt Caught With Underage Girls Drunk in His Hotel Room” is also a bad headline, after all.

But, no, the headlines that were printed did not mention the girls’ intrusion, their initiation of physical contact with both Hunt and his girlfriend, or their statements to hotel staff about planning to exaggerate their claims so as to ruin Hunt’s career. 

9 months later, when TMZ released a very selectively edited expert of the footage, the headline read KC CHIEFS RUNNING BACK KAREEM HUNT BRUTALIZES AND KICKS WOMAN IN HOTEL VIDEO. At this point, his goose was cooked. The Chiefs threw him under the bus with alacrity, saying they weren’t going to bother digging into the specifics of the incident because they had already been contacted and Hunt (very, very understandably and justifiably) lied and said he never left the hotel room. This technicality was enough to end his tenure on the team. He was consigned to the living hell of the Cleveland Browns organization, and suspended for the first half of the following season. 

The average career in the NFL lasts just over three seasons. Running backs play the most physically taxing position in all of professional sports. The loss of a half season of pay is a massive, massive fine. But, still, that wasn’t good enough. The Root (a black-focused, Gawker-affiliated website that would have the exact same editorial content if it were owned by the KKK) ran the following headline “Cleveland Browns Sign Kareem Hunt Despite Video of Him Assaulting Woman. Kaepernick Still Banned for Kneeling.” From Vice we got “Kareem Hunt and a Sports World that Ignores Domestic Violence Victims:” a headline confirming the girls’ entitlement to a space in Hunt’s living area, regardless of not being invited and also being repeatedly told to leave. From Yahoo Sports “NFL should leave you feeling sick after recent revelations involving Kareem Hunt, Reuben Foster,” comparing Hunt to a man who appears to have actually committed domestic violence on multiple occasions. When Hunt was eventually signed by the Browns--which, again, is a punishment in and of itself--the President of the National Organization of Women used the occasion to claim that “women do not matter to the NFL,” and once more repeated the bizarre claim that he had committed “intimate partner violence” by shoving and kicking a stranger who had shoved him first. 

This, dear reader, is Intersectionality as it actually exists. It is not liberation. It is not leftist. It does not even provide protection to the groups who supposedly fall under its purview. The only goal of this wretched political movement is to divorce a person’s actions from the judgments of outsiders, to establish a hierarchy of NGO-defined victimhood statuses and provide hack journalists with a simple and unchallenagable means of sorting out the good guys from the bad guys. 

It’s not justice. It’s not an improvement over old systems. It’s a new way of being broken. It is, in short, the entirety of the modern American left.

[neverlearnedtoread]

The Dragon Republic

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐; rin making bad decisions like they’re going on sale at the market, arms full of regrets, guilt, mistakes, and self-destructive coping mechanisms: i can fit in one more

Oh?? 👌😉😏

rf kuang gave us an unflinching exploration on the cycles of violence and oppression, dissected the ever-escalating chain of vengeance, and the good good of eastern-inspired mythology?? like ma’am.....the good food im eating at your feast.....ive been so hungry

the lore deserves its own point. it was so effortlessly woven into the story, especially the way it tied into certain characters’ backstories. i can’t say much more because spoilers but if you like integrated worldbuilding and you like chinese-inspired magic systems get over here!!

the friendships. namely rin 🤝 kitay. miss kuang you know what really matters, and its not 10398 handsome men, its one ride-or-die bff holding you back or yeeting you into the midst of battle as needed

grimdark, but not oppressively depressing? im not sure how to describe it..the story gives you enough adrenaline to power through with the sheer speed of reading to find out what happens next, but doesn’t pull its punches. i think its partly that rin herself ploughs through the narrative like she’s trying to outrun the events, giving the reader the momentum to move with her

No.. ❌🤢🤮

i took a screenshot when my friend and i were planning to do a buddy read together. the trigger warnings took up an entire page. do not screw around with this. there’s no shame in tapping out for any book, but especially this one

some characters die, and i specifically blame rin for it. i mean there were a lot of other factors, but in the spirit of the phoenix herself i am choosing to close my eyes to the rationality of working through my feelings of grief in a healthy way and plunge straight into being pissed off about it, forever. *wipes tear* just like rin taught me

did suffer from a bit of middle book syndrome, at least to me. i mean, i finished an 800~ page book in 8 hours of reading time, so maybe don’t believe me, but the first half of the book dragged more than i remember the poppy war did. i will admit a lot of that was because rin was in no position to be a rational, active protagonist. the narrative needed her to flounder, and she did.

Summary: Rin goes unhinged 2: water dragon boogaloo (ive tried and tried to write an actual summary for this book but i don’t think i can top this throwaway line i wrote as a placeholder)

Concept: 💭💭💭💭💭 Where to start? There are historical influences, commentary on social issues and the impact of violence on communities both physical and otherwise, the slow and terrible descent of a beaten-down protagonist. Basically a checklist of stuff I like exploring in high fantasy settings!

This is the second book in a trilogy - spoilers ahead!

Execution: 💥💥💥💥 Rin doesn’t like politics, and I think that made the narrative drag a lot initially as the moving parts tried to be interesting but through Rin’s jaded lens were stripped of their veneer. Kuang was more than ambitious with her sophomore book, and I know that she was open about struggling with the pacing of TDR while she was writing it - still, I think there’s more than something to be said about shooting for the stars! I didn’t think any part of the book dropped the ball, but the nature of all the heavy topics it was trying to handle became a hefty meal to swallow

Personal Enjoyment: ❤❤❤❤ Like I said, I read this book over 3-ish days in 8 hours. The library copy I had said it was 800 pages. I felt as powerful as Rin when I finished. The first half was a little dead in the water (which is a pun, yes, how many damn times did someone fall into the water and nearly drown in this book?? smh) but nothing I couldn’t handle with a little exasperation at Rin’s...*gestures* mental landscape. But when we reached the lore about Su Daji, and the Trifecta, and their chosen gods....i broke into a flat-out sprint. I was naruto-running through the plot.

Favourite Moment: it’s a battle to the death between the scenes with the trifecta backstories and the rin 🤝 kitay scenes

Favourite Character: chaghan, because i loved his backstory so, so, so much....also I didn’t know that handholding scene in the mountains was like. canon. and not fanon. rin really looked homosexuality in the eye and said ‘huh?’ with her whole chest.