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soulmate-game · 4 years

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New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

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For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little�� but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

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Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

#maribat #bio!dad au #bio!dad bruce wayne #platonic daminette #platonic jasonette #platonic dickinette #platonic timinette #platonic timari #mlb x dc #ml x dc #maribat fic #platonic brucinette #older sister Marinette

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bloodycassian · 3 years

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Coffee date - reader x Cassian

The pounding on your bedroom door came much too early. You groaned and rolled over in bed, hoping the waiting Illyrian outside would go away. The knock came again, even louder than last time. You cracked open an eye and glanced to the balcony. Still dark out. Not a hint of dawn rising soon.

"Five minutes or I'm coming in after you." Cassian's voice rumbled. You groaned yet again, and you could have swore you hear a soft chuckle as he walked away from the door.

He didn't want to be up either, but he reminded himself to stay strong against the temptation of going back to bed. To resist the temptation of allowing you to stay so catatonic. He tried not to pace in the dining room while he waited. He didn't want to look ruffled by you. He had to remain professional.

The soft scuff of a boot on the hard marble floor drew a smile from him. "That was eight minutes."

"So?" You muttered, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

He waved you over to the balcony, preparing to depart. You could tell the day would be cold, just from the slight haze over the setting moon. "That means you get to do some extra pushups to start the day." He encouraged, wrapping an arm around your middle before you could protest. He took off with a gentleness he graced you with every morning. It was considerate of him.

He tried not to lean into the warmth of your body, tried not to think of the sweet scent of your hair. He couldn't deny he enjoyed the closeness of your body though. He just tried not to let it show. Especially when he saw you in the tight leathers that you'd grown into better since you started training.

"straighten your back more." He instructed, then demonstrated himself the proper position for the pushup. You watched, trying not to pant from the exertion. His hair kissed the ground with each lift and fall of his body. His siphons glowed happily in the darkness.

The soft lights around the training ring cast his hair and wings in a perfect shade of black. His breathing became more labored, slipping into a pattern he was used to after so many centuries of training and battle. His grunt when he sat back up made your cheeks redden.

He pushed his hair back and gave you a nod. You continue with improved form, and tried not to slack for the session.

By the time he was done with the two hour session, you were sweating through your tunic in the morning sunlight. You had taken off the leathers when the sun had risen, welcoming the cool kiss of the dewey fog against your skin while he worked with you.

He had only removed his once you moved on to the last part of the training session. Hand to hand combat. It always made you the most nervous, but you knew he would never actually follow through with anything that may hurt you.

Still, you pulled your punches when you aimed at him with more critical moves. He gave you a warning glare but continued with you, moving together like a violent dance of hands and feet and grunting.

"Let me take you to get a coffee."

"I drink tea-

"Tea then." He blocked your punch and held your fist in his calloused yet soft hand. He squeezed slightly, and gave you a wolfish grin. You swooped your leg out to take down his legs, but his other hand caught your calf easily. He knew your moves, that was true.

He pulled you towards him slightly, forcing you to hop forward on one foot. He laughed and released you, and you found you were just a slight amount too close. You could feel the heat and energy radiating from him. It was easy touching distance to be able to wrap yourself around him if you wanted.

"Why would I go to tea with you?" You crossed your arms over your chest and stepped back before the thoughts of him could take over.

"Because I want to. And maybe it'll get your next lesson time reduced." He waggled his eyebrows at you.

"When?" You relented.

"Now?" He asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise at your lack of argument.

"I can't, I'm working in the library after this."

"Tomorrow. No training, we'll go to that shop down the street from Rita's."

Damn him. You couldn't give up the chance at skipping training for a day. You gave him a nod, which he returned with a bright smile.

You nervously picked your outfit. Not too dressy, not too casual though. He showed up early and you threw on a billowing top that accentuated your collarbones.

And his breath left him when he saw you. The slight amount of styling, that still looked natural on you. The way you still moved with the grace of a warrior well trained could have sent him into a frenzy. He held back though, keeping those primal urges at bay. Instead, he offered his hand in a low bow, and when you placed yours in his… he kissed it with the softest lips you’d ever felt.

A thrill ran through you, and you tried not to look at him while he rose again. Towering above you, not in a threatening way, but in a protective way that made you feel safe around him. He offered his arm, and led you to the balcony.

The cafe was nearly empty when you arrived. And it smelled delicious.

“I thought you only drank tea.”

“I made an exception for you.” you took a slow sip of the steaming cup and nearly moaned at the long forgotten taste of it. The hints of chocolate and nutty tones. Cassian knew he was staring, but mother above how could he not? The sound you’d made alone nearly got him half hard under the table. He clutched his own cup for dear life, fighting every urge thata screamed at him to take you away with him that instant.

After a moment of enjoying the soft background noises and the wonderful sunrise together, you had to break the illusion that this was anything more than a friendly breakfast. “What are we here for, Cas?” You sighed.

He knew what you meant. He’d prepared for this question. And he still didn’t know what to say, despite his hours deliberating in his head. “I just… wanted to spend more time with you.”

“Why?”

Because you’re the one person that’s made him feel the most alive in five centuries. You’re the one that he pictured holding his children at night. The one that made him suffer every day of doubt and worry wondering if you felt that connection too. “Because I think you’re interesting.” He said with a sly eyeroll.

You stirred your drink slowly, watching the swirling milk and froth mix together in harmony. “What if I said I’m not?” You asked, not looking up to him yet. You didn’t want to see the reaction there.

“I’d call you a liar. And a bad one.” He sipped his drink when you scowled at him. Before he could make the situation more complicated you had to end it. You had to keep him at bay. If he were to solidify this bond you felt deep inside your soul... you knew he would die defending you from the ones that hunted you.

It was exactly why he’d insisted on training you.

“Cass- we can’t do this. We cant be seen like this… People will get ideas and-”

“Like what? Two friends having coffee?”

The words stung, and that was the moment you knew you wanted whatever this was. Whatever that bond was with him...you wanted it to yourself. You wanted to embrace it and hold it close, hold him close. Your foot tapped impatiently on the floor, nerves kicking up.

“It’s not smart to pursue this… there’s a kill order for me, and Tamlin has made sure that all courts know. It’s not safe..”

“Screw Tamlin, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” His voice raised an octave, and his hands clenched on the table. He struggled not to grip yours. He bit back on his temper at the mention of the male’s name. As if he didn’t have reason enough already to kill him. Putting the hit out for you was a petty blow, and every court knew it.

You couldn’t argue with his words. You were safe in Velaris, you knew that. But the paranoia still lingered. You sighed and looked out the large window. Several fae of different colors and features bustled by. They seemed happy. Sure, some seemed rushed to get to one place or another, but… they were all seemingly content.

“Forget about all of it, okay? If you’re not safe then I’m not either.” He defiantly pushed out his chest a bit, making you smile.

“Are you saying you’re my bodyguard now?”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.” His voice dropped low, and his wink made your cheeks red.

#reader x cassian #cassian x reader #acotar fic #acotar #cassian

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jerryb2 · 3 years

Photo

I mean….you all knew this was coming ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ : the Star Wars Art of one Mr. Drew Struzan.

And look, the man has done so much and has such a diverse portfolio that Star Wars is only one very small part of his career. If you want to explore some of his other works, then might I suggest that you check out his website.

As for me here, we’ll be sticking strictly to his SW art. Now, with that out of the way, here we go…

*cracks knuckles*

I have to admit that before I really started to dig into this, I didn’t realize just how many Bantam Era (and beyond) Star Wars books this man has illustrated. Nearly 50 titles, ranging from novels to comics, short stories & even an RPG supplement. 🤯

And so, after much consideration, I decided to just pull all the titles that feature his art off my bookshelf and take a few pics for you guys:

First off, I just want to point out that I don’t have every book he’s ever illustrated. Some of them are just harder than hard to find, are hilariously expensive, or I just don’t have an edition that features his art prominently - you’ll see what I mean. Right off the bat though, you can see that he was really hitting his stride in the mid-90′s, with all but a handful of these coming out between ‘94 & ‘99. One of the highlights from this time for me, is The Callista Trilogy.

I just want to stress that The Callista Trilogy is a highlight for me only because of its gorgeous cover art. 🤣 Other than that, this book series needs to go lay down.

Anyway, the designs are all really striking and even after all these years, absolutely iconic. And you can really see Struzan’s distinct visual style at play here; not a painting in the same vein as something from Dave Doorman, and not a simple trace. Rather, something that is stylized in a very particular, very subtle way, almost to the point where it appears photo-realistic at first glance. Beautiful.

Next up is this trio of trilogies (good use of words, me), collected in these Science Fiction Book Club (SFBC) hardcovers:

Once again, these covers are just striking, particularly The Black Fleet Crisis. This is actually what I was referring to when I said that I don’t always have the best editions for a Drew Struzan appreciation post. 😅

Because these are hardcover collections of paperback books, we actually miss out on a good bit of the art. For these SFBC special editions, the publisher just took all three and basically photoshopped the best bits of each one together. The one that suffers the most here is obviously The Corellian Trilogy, where they didn’t even try to blend everything together, and instead just separated everything into columns. I don’t personally mind it (and I do love having the hardcover editions of these books) but if you want to see the covers as they were originally intended, just pickup those mass market paperbacks. 🙂

There’s a lot more to get through, so I’ll just hit the highlights here; even though he didn’t illustrate The Thrawn Trilogy (that was Tom Jung, who I personally think did an okay-ish job at best), he did an absolutely amazing job with the follow-up, The Hand of Thrawn Duology in ‘98 & ‘99:

I’ve always loved these covers. And narratively speaking, they really do serve as one last hurrah on the Bantam Era. Oh, and also please note, Mara Jade on the cover of Vision of the Future, just as Zahn originally described her. ❤❤❤

If you step back and look at Struzan’s work as a whole, it’s all incredibly unified. I bring this up here because even though some of these are books relatively ‘meh’ worthy, Struzan maintained a level of quality that belied the mediocrity contained within. And also to say that he was definitely busy, particularly in 1994:

That’s right - all of these released in ‘94, within a few months of one another. These covers man… *chef’s kiss*

And look I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself: The Crystal Star was a hilarious joke until we all realized they were serious about it. 😳

Alright, that’s a little on the harsh side; it’s not nearly as bad as most make it out to be, and Waru as a source for unlimited power (citation needed 👀😉) isn’t any more ridiculous than the 50 other post-Palpy, hair-brained Imperial schemes that everybody else cooked up, so I guess it fits. And besides, I really wanna be nice to Vonda McIntyre here, but this book was just so so boring. 😴

*clears throat* Moving on, here we have a couple Barnes & Noble hardcover collections of The Jedi Prince Series:

The same thing applies here; cover art photoshopped from across 6 different YA novels to get these. They don’t look bad, far from it. But rather this series has some things that people would rather forget about, namely a supposed son of Palpatine (spoiler: he wasn’t) named Triclops who had - wait for it - 3 eyes.

Like Tien. From DBZ. Yep. 🤦‍♂️

Moving further down the list, we have yet another pair of iconic cover designs, being I, Jedi (the only Star Wars novel written in the first person, and an appropriate riff on Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot - yes ladies & gentlemen, that is as clever as Star Wars gets) and The New Rebellion.

Classics, no doubt….but for reals, did anybody else ever wonder why the X-Wing on the cover of I, Jedi is missing an S-Foil? Or how that one slipped through??? 👀

Ah, at last we arrive at what is arguably Struzan’s most famous work; the covers for Shadows of the Empire & The Star Wars Trilogy: Special Edition.

It’s hard to overstate just how important Shadows of the Empire really was for Star Wars as a brand. In an era where SW books were already extremely popular, the Shadows of the Empire Multimedia Project basically served as a breakout hit and reignited interest in SW media across the board. This was in no small part due to the striking imagery captured on its cover - are you seeing a pattern here?

This success actually renewed Lucas’ interest in a theatrical re-release of the OT in 1997….which of course, feature more beautiful art from Drew Struzan:

These are my OG Special Edition VHS tapes from back in the day. I watched these so damn much as a kid. In fact, they’re basically the whole reason that I’m here, annoying the shit out of everybody today. 😁

After the Bantam Era concluded & the Star Wars publishing license went to Del Rey, Struzan did progressively fewer pieces for SW media. Here we see his contribution for the latter half of the Last of the Jedi YA series, and his kick-ass cover art for the Darth Maul comic:

And when I say that Struzan did progressively fewer pieces for Star Wars, I am of course omitting his turn as the poster artist for the freaking Prequel Trilogy:

Say what you will about the films, but these poster designs are nothing short of genius.

Look guys, it would be pretty easy for me to downplay Struzan’s Star Wars portfolio as just one small part of his incredible career. But my dudes, this is literally just the tip of the iceberg. The man has been a professional illustrator for over 50 years, and his art has delighted and inspired generations. From Star Wars to Indian Jones, and from Back to the Future to Blade Runner - Drew Struzan has played an integral part in shaping popular culture.

Here’s to you, sir. 🍻

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valwrite · 4 years

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empty lighter; daveed diggs

masterlist

summary: it’s fascinating, the things people leave behind in our lives. memories, possessions, scars, emotions. over the course of his life, daveed had collected so much from people who he’d left behind. but all he has left of her is a lighter and a broken heart.

warnings: angst, fluff, suggestive content, way too many cigarettes.

fic style: oneshot.

word count: 11.4k

author’s note: ah! it’s finally here! my first ever oneshot on this blog. hopefully, you guys enjoy reading it. is it the best writing in the world? no. but it doesn’t matter, i’m so proud of myself for actually getting back into writing, to the point where i was able to start and finish an 11k word fic. i’ve edited this over 10 times, so if there’s still an error in it, i’m going to cry. feedback, likes and reblogs are 100% appreciated!

December, 2015

Sweat was in the air and, with it, a scent one would hardly call enjoyable. With his behind comfortably sat in a cushioned bar stool, the man done his best to ignore the scenery of the busy club: the ever moving mass of bodies on the dance floor; the headache inducing remix of California Girls, which the evening's DJ was playing for what felt like the millionth time that night; the sight of his best friend hitting on some poor unsuspecting girl just trying to order drinks for herself and her friends. Instead, he focused on the drops of condensation and the pattern they left behind as they dripped down the side of his glass.

The speakers began to play yet another remix. Daveed rolled his eyes and welcomed another sip of his drink, this time not returning the glass to the counter top until the caramel liquor was all gone. The burning feeling was familiar and anchored him down in reality, a bitter yet accepted reminder that, once again, he found himself in the same situation he'd been in for over a year: alone, while being surrounded by sweating bodies. Sat at a bar, his friend off chasing some nameless girl and nothing but his loneliness, which only grew with each breath he drew, to keep him company.

His friend, Rafael, made eye contact with him and beckoned him over. So he stood but made no attempt to approach and discover whatever plan Rafa had in store for him. He knew the blonde haired man just a little too well at that point. He knew that the man was desperate to get his friend back to the state he'd been in four months prior, where every night was a thrill and an opportunity to get tangled up in some sheets with a pretty stranger and some pain numbing lust. In Rafa's weak defense, he had no idea what had switched in his friend to revert him back into a self pitying mess. He hadn't bore witness to the scene Daveed had stumbled upon all those months ago, a scene which sent him rapidly spiraling back to the rut he'd been stuck in the first two months after the break up.

Daveed shook his head, his wilder than usual curls bouncing from side to side as he focused on getting his mind off of the break up, off of the ring store, off of her. He couldn't afford another night of wasted tears. He headed in the opposite direction of Rafa and found himself breathing fresh air for the first time in hours as he stepped out on to the busy New York street. A car honked in the near distance and the street lights just about matched the neon lights which had lit up the club but Daveed felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his chest. Clubs had always been a part of his social and professional life yet recent events had left him feeling claustrophobic inside them. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't like that this was his social life again. Nights spent in clubs, mornings spent with uncaring strangers, afternoons spent in regret and nausea. Where had the nights of home cooked meals gone? The mornings he'd spent shielding his beloved from the harsh light of the rising sun? The afternoons where it didn't matter what wasted the time away, all that mattered was the hand clasped tightly in his and the woman it belonged to? He wanted them back.

Daveed wanted her back.

He'd been so consumed in his own thoughts that, when he finally focused in on his surroundings again, he was only a block away from his apartment and the club was long behind him. He figured he could text Rafa once he got inside, he'd understand why Daveed walked out. He probably already knew. A shy voice calling out his name caught his immediate attention and Daveed paused mid step. The voice seemed familiar, comforting, adoring. His breath caught in his throat and he swore he was dreaming. It took a moment or two for him to turn around and face his pursuer.

Disappointment burst forth inside him but he had to conceal the drop in his smile, especially when he noticed the young girl who was smiling at him with a gleam of excitement in her eyes and a familiar logo printed on her black t-shirt. He hadn't been dreaming, just delusional.

The fan was kind enough. She'd shyly asked him for a picture before gushing over how excited she'd been at one of last week's shows at the theater. Her brief mentioning of clipping. had meant more to Daveed than anything else she'd said, which he knew was a little selfish of him but he couldn't help it. Clipping., unlike the current Broadway show he was a part of, was truly something that was his to own. Sure, there were two other guys involved along with him, but the words he spat and the emotions and meanings laced within them were all Daveed's. To have it gain praise was a direct boost to his ego.

With a happier feeling installed in him, Daveed found himself unlocking the door to his apartment. He didn't bother untying his laces, his shoes simply being kicked off and left near the front door as he made his way into the familiar apartment. He ignored the state the place was in and dropped down on to the comfort of the leathered loveseat, finding some form of tranquility in the disorganization of his own belongings. It somehow made the place feel closer to home. Despite the fact he'd been staying there since pre-production of Hamilton, Daveed still felt disconnected. Not just to the apartment but the whole city. Perhaps, he felt too loyal to the Bay area to allow himself to get too comfortable with living on the east coast. More likely, it had to do with the fact she wasn't there with him, like she was supposed to be, like they'd both agreed.

Engraved in his mind was the memory of Y/N 's face, lit up with glee as she strolled in and out of the different rooms of the place, her voice rising in volume as she ranted and raved about all the ways they could set up the apartment- their apartment, a first of many homes together; god, just thinking of it brought a smile to his face and a dizzy feeling to his head-, and her list of all the ways they could spend any free time they could get: the little cafes they could visit, the monuments they could see, the streets they could walk. He could so vividly remember pulling her into his arms, his lips confidently claiming her own against them. He held her there for their own little infinity, one hand fisted in her hair, the other splayed out against her lower back as her own softly grabbed at his jumper and held him down to her, as if he'd ever dream of leaving her. Her soft laughter had echoed off the walls as she pulled away. He couldn't stand having his mouth off of her and settled with peppering kisses down her exposed neck whilst she jokingly accused him of just wanting her to shut up. He didn't even know how to begin to explain how far from the truth that was. That, in reality, he'd just felt such a desperate need to have her against him because he wasn't entirely sure if she was real or if the life and relationship they'd built together had been nothing but a cruel dream of his. She was too good, her love was too good and he, a man who's career was built off of his eloquence and mastering of word play, was at a complete loss for words when it came to loving her. Heavy breathing and discarded clothing was the way he'd chosen to express his love that evening, breaking in their new apartment. The very same apartment where their relationship would come to an abrupt end no more than two weeks later.

There was a pain growing in Daveed's chest, which he could only imagine was a side effect of his shattered heart attempting to continue beating. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He already knew it was Rafa before he even looked at the screen and answered the call.

“Hey man!” Rafa's cheery voice burst through the speaker and Daveed pulled the phone back from his ear, not having expected the volume of his friend’s voice or the questionable Cotton Eyed Joe remix in the background. “Where'd you go? I got a couple girls here that were looking forward to meeting you!”

“Yeah, I... I'm meeting Oak early tomorrow, got some magazine the cast is doing a shoot for.” In his own defense, Daveed wasn't lying. There was a photo shoot and he was meeting Oak in the morning but that wasn't the reason he'd left.

If Rafa knew his friend was evading the truth, he thankfully kept it to himself. “Ah, so the princess needs her beauty sleep? Your loss, man.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop wasting your time on me and go enjoy yourself.”

“Have fun with your face masks and beauty creams! Oh, and Daveed?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't try shaving yourself tomorrow, leave it to the professionals. Don't want any nasty cuts on that precious face.”

Having hung up, Daveed carelessly flung his phone down on to the couch and watched it bounce once before laying flat on it's screen. The walls of the apartment were beginning to suffocate him, so much unfilled and unused space now suddenly feeling like it was caging him in, mocking him, taunting him with every echo of his own breathing that bounced off the walls. There was an itching in his lungs and his fingers had began to fiddle with themselves.

Daveed wasn't a particularly anxious person. Yet, anxiety was swelling in his throat and he ashamedly knew why. With his head hung low, Daveed blindly reached for the square packet and the cylinder lighter and headed straight for the balcony door. Opening it, he allowed the outside world to infiltrate his senses once more and it stole away some of his loneliness. The noise and lights and traffic were all a sign of life beyond his own, evidence that he wasn't truly alone in the world. Any loneliness he faced was product of his own creation, an isolation he'd comfortably settled with.

He hadn't put his whole life on pause. No, Daveed wasn't that careless. He woke up every morning and walked out the front door, prepared to face the day with as earnest of a smile as possible. He'd laugh with friends, speak with fans, give his all in his performances. But the feeling of longing would never truly leave him. Rafa could see it, most of the Hamilton cast too. They all knew there was an unspoken part of Daveed that was in denial of her absence. They could see it in the way his eyes never lingered much on beautiful women; in the way he kept her picture in his dressing room; in the way he still carried his part of their matching keyrings. But, what else could they do other than be there for him? She'd walked out with his lifeline and had left nothing but a Daveed shaped shell, hollow and devoid of life, just waiting for the day she walked back into his arms. He was pathetic. Foolish. Selfdestructive.

And so painfully in love with Y/N, even though it no longer seemed fair to feel that way.

The metal handrail was cold to the touch as he let his hands run over it, his eyes gazing down at the active nightlife below. His hands robotically opened the packet and out of it he pulled a cigarette. The nicotine stick found itself resting between his plush lips. The lighter was sparked up, the cigarette set a light and an inhalation of sweet smoke was taken. He'd always felt smoking alone was one of the most solemn of experiences. A couple more drags were taken before he became fixated with the lighter in his hand. He lit it up just to watch the flame dance, not a care in the world for the wasted lighter fluid. It didn't take much longer for his treacherous mind to drift towards the empty lighter inside his sock drawer and, most importantly, the memories attached to it.

A younger Daveed, freshly off stage and with sweat drying into his skin, had pushed past the drunken messes and the grinding pairs to escape for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. Standing up in front of a crowd was a thrill, truly, but Daveed was still shy at his core and the hyperawareness of his own performance brought on a stress only nicotine could soothe.

The exit had taken him out into a back alley. The bass of whatever song was playing indoors could still be felt but the street was thankfully pretty calm, no one else there but another smoker and a couple making out further down from the door. A few steps out into the alley and he stopped, bending his right leg at the knee to perch his foot back against the brick wall as his hands occupied themselves fishing out a cigarette.

“Shit.” A curse escaped him as the realization hit that he'd forgotten to bring a lighter with him. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and huffed, a hand running through his curls. Maybe he wouldn't be getting that stress reliever that evening after all.

“Need a light?” Daveed nearly jumped at the unexpected voice, his foot slipping off of the wall and his back straightening. When his eyes landed on a girl, who was wrapped up in an oversized jacket and had her arm outstretched with a blue lighter dangling between her fingers, he was certain she hadn't been there when he'd stepped outside. Egotistically, he wondered if she'd perhaps followed him. Stupidly, he wished she had.

Daveed caught himself before he could stare at her for too long, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from her face down to the lighter she was still offering. With gratitude, he took it from her grasp and put it to good use. Seconds later, his lungs were filling with poison and his face with relief. Turning his attention back to her, he found the girl already staring at him. Unlike most, she didn't avert her gaze in shame of being caught. She only focused more intently on him, a ghost of a smile presenting itself on her features. “Thanks, uh, pretty lucky you came out here.”

“If you want to label me following you as luck, then sure.” The calmness of her voice, the way she shrugged so nonchalantly, the way her side was resting up against the wall and her eyes were shamelessly trailing over him were a hypnotic mixture strong enough for Daveed to nearly miss the words she'd spoke. Had he missheard or had she actually followed him? Freaked out would be the normal response. Flattery is what took it's place in Daveed, though. “That was quite a performance, very... lively.”

“Yeah,” A chuckle escaped him and his free hand shot up to rub the back of his neck. “that was one of our tamer crowds, believe it or not. Glad you enjoyed it.”

“I never said I enjoyed it.” The smile had slipped from her face, visually punctuating her words. Then, much to Daveed's relief, she broke out in a fit of giggles and the friendliness in her voice had returned. “I'm only messing! You were amazing but, honestly, the other two of your group are the unsung heroes. They really held it down.”

Daveed wasn't about to deny her statement, knowing fine well just how vital the two men were to him. If he were the ink, they were the paper he wrote on and the pen that encapsulated him. Her praise for them only made Daveed enjoy her company more.

From there, the two continued to partake in casual conversation: her asking about how long clipping. had been a thing, him asking her about her studies and the cold air of the night slowly urging the two to stand closer and closer and closer. There was laughter in the air and comfort in their bones, almost as if the two had been lifelong friends catching up and not two strangers meeting in a back alley. Daveed had long finished his cigarette and he knew his friends would be wondering where he'd disappeared to but he wasn't ready to walk away from the conversation, from her, and so out he pulled another, perching it between his lips. He hadn't had the chance to ask for her lighter, she'd beat him to it and sparked it up. He bent at the knee a little as he leaned down, both of them sharing eye contact whilst she held the flame to it. This time around, Daveed offered the cigarette packet out to her, hoping to repay her in some way.

“I don't smoke, but thanks.”

“You don't smoke, but you carry around a lighter?” His head tilted off to the side and a cheeky grin overtook his face. “You're kinda weird.”

“And you're a charmer, aren't you?” She rebutted, though no offence was really taken. “You're not the only smoker who forgets to bring a lighter. My boyfriend has a habit of doing it, so I carry one around for him.”

The window of hope inside of his mind was shattered by one simple word. Boyfriend. Of course she was taken. She was the kind of girl who you met in the morning and were in love with come the evening.

“Anyways,” Her voice interrupted his disappointment. “you distracted me from the reason I followed you out here!”

“Yeah? And what reason was that?”

“My friend thinks you're hot. Well, no, actually, I believe the exact words she used were "If he can rap that fast, I wonder what else he can do with his tongue. I don't usually climb trees but I could make an exception if the tree looks like him."” She'd used air quotes to signal just what her friend had said and, for the first time since the two had met, Daveed felt bashful. He hadn't expected her to say such a thing, even if it was just mimicking her friend.

“And you wouldn't happen to be this friend?” Daveed teased.

“I prefer my men on the shorter side, thank you very much." Her tongue darted out at him and he laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone stick their tongue out as an insult. Maybe in third grade? "My friend wants your number, though. And also wanted me to subtly convince you to invite us to come sit at your table but I'm really too tired to be subtle so, please just invite us.”

They'd returned inside not too long after, together, and off she'd gone to grab her friend to drag her over to Daveed's table. And while her friend was beautiful and flirting with Daveed the whole night, he found himself staring over at the girl from the alley every chance he got. He'd watched her do shots with Jonathan, watched as she and Rafa competed in a thumb war, watched as she'd knocked back a shot as her forfeit for losing. At some point in the night, Daveed had asked for her name and, at another point, she'd told him it was Y/N. And when he finally stumbled back into his own bed that night, his eyes staring up at his ceiling as he flipped the blue lighter in his hand, he thought of her.

Wetness dropped onto his hand and tore Daveed away from the memory playing on repeat in his mind. A single tear sat atop his hand and, in the other, a finished cigarette. Stubbing it out, he dropped the bud into a nearby ashtray and centered himself. Tears stung at his eyes and his breath was shaky but he was determined to push through and talk himself out of a full on breakdown.

Hours later, when sleep was finally coming for him and the warmth of his duvets embraced him instead of her arms, his wandering hands reached deep inside his drawer and pulled out the blue lighter as his eyes slipped shut and his mind drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

A blaring song and a loud buzzing noise woke Daveed up in a startle. He sat up, eyes still half shut and the duvet slipping down his naked chest. The noise persisted and he realized it was his own ringtone, playing from the pocket of his discarded jeans. He cursed under his breath when he stepped out of the bed, his foot landing on something uncomfortable before eventually meeting the soft carpet and giving him the leverage to reach the bottom of his trousers, dragging them over to find his phone screen lit up with Oak's name painted across the screen.

“What do you want?” Daveed was never a morning person and had no shame in this, especially when his sleep was interrupted.

“Good morning Oak! How are you? Oh I'm fine Daveed, how are you?” The overly chipper voice of Okieriete birthed a groan out of Daveed as he dropped back onto the bed behind him.

“It's too early for this, dude.”

“It's ten minutes away from being noon!”

“I rest my case.”

“C'mon man, we were supposed to be catching a ride together to head to the shoot. Now our car is ten minutes away and I arrive at your doorstep to find you're not even awake, never mind ready.” Oak's words were followed by a series of knocks, which Daveed could hear through the phone but also coming faintly from outside his bedroom.

“Shit.” Realizing that, amidst the flurry of pity and nicotine, he'd forgotten to set his alarm, Daveed begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed, tired legs with muscles stiff from sleep carrying him all the way over to the front door of his apartment, all the while Oak berated him over the phone and knocked away at the wood. Twisting the keys, Daveed pulled the door open at last and found Oak stood there, fist raised in mid knock.

“You look like shit.” Oak proceeded to brush past him and, after closing his front door again, Daveed followed the man to find him with his hand knuckle deep in a tub of peanut butter.

“Please, make yourself at home.” It was no more than a mutter under his breath but Oak had heard it and responded with a peanut butter coated middle finger.

The crappy coffee maker was switched on and Daveed went back into the messy bedroom. He'd just pulled some sweatpants over his legs when he heard Oak calling out to him from the kitchen. Slipping one of his t-shirts on, from his ever growing collection of Oakland attire, he made his way back over to the man and the freshly brewed coffee- which, without a doubt, was not going to be warm enough nor sweet enough- only to find his friend had abandoned the jar of peanut spread and instead was flicking through his mail. Despite this, a sip of underwhelming caffeine was more of a priority than questioning Oak.

“Who's Raquel and why is she inviting you to her wedding?” Now that, that was certainly more important than coffee.

Dropping his mug back onto the counter with almost enough force to shatter it, Daveed dove forward and ripped the envelope out of Oak's hands. Just like he'd said, inside of it was a wedding invitation from one Raquel Castro. The very same girl who'd once sent her friend to ask for his number. The very same girl who'd helped him plan out his first date with her best friend. The very same girl who'd been sneakily finding out what Y/N's ring size was only two months before his world came crashing down.

Given the memories he'd recalled the night before, part of Daveed couldn't help but think this invitation was more than a simple coincidence. A week after the break up, Raquel had called him. She'd been angry and accusatory with her words but it stemmed from her own confusion and inability to comprehend why things had ended so hastily between him and Y/N. Daveed couldn't understand it himself either. The call had ended up being the first thing to make him smile in his new found singleness. The two had maintained frequent contact from there on out, casual texts sent between them both just around once every month, Raquel had even taken a trip into New York with her fiancé and stopped by one of the Hamilton performances. But this invite, it had to be some sort of sign from the universe, a sign involving Y/N. Unfortunately, Daveed had not a single clue how to interpret this sign.

It took him a total of nine days to RSVP for the ceremony, playing out the pros and cons of his attendance. The fact Y/N would likely be there was the only pro that was also a con, and vice versa. Maybe he'd find some closure or, at the very least, answers to the questions he'd had on his mind since the day she'd slammed the door shut on their love. More likely, he'd spend the whole night alone at the singles table, nursing some old whiskey and watching her dance the night away in another man's arms.

January, 2016

This time, the DJ seemed to be enamored with some niche European techno music and Lin, a sweating mess on the relatively small dance floor, had become his number one fan. Next to the dancing maniac were the so called Schuyler Sisters, Jasmine and Reneé were busy taking turns dancing with the long haired man whilst Phillipa was losing herself in laughter between videoing the lot of them. Scattered along the club were the rest of the cast and crew. In fact, most of the people Daveed held closest to him were there, all banding together to celebrate something they had in common: him.

For them, it was the celebration of his 34th birthday. For him, it was a pity party for his 2nd birthday in a row without Y/N by his side.

He'd made a vow to not be bitter that night and focus on being grateful for what and who he did have in his life. Thus far, he'd done a good job. For the first night out in months, Daveed hadn't spent the night sat at the bar alone. He'd danced with friends and done shots with strangers and flirted with beautiful women. But it was hard to ignore the elephant in the room. All of his friends were there with their significant others whilst he was there with his bottle of champagne.

Tilting the bottle back, Daveed welcomed the bubbled drink in and gulped several times before dropping it back onto one of the many tables they'd all occupied. Just as he made the decision to stop thinking about her, destiny or the universe or whatever higher being was out there decided it was time for his birthday present.

He could hear the group of girls long before he could see them. A ruckus of screeching and slurred words was approaching and, from the neon bracelets and the sashes draped across scantily clad chests, it was clear as day to him that a bridal party had just entered the building, and they were far from subtle.

His curious eyes found themselves scanning over each girl of the bridal party as they filtered their way over to the other side of the VIP lounge. They were a sea of nameless faces, hooting and cheering like a bunch of frat guys on a night out and, as easy as it would be to find them irritating, Daveed couldn't help but chuckle and enjoy the fact that other people were having a great night. Until his eyes drifted to the back of the group.

At first, it just felt like a coincidence. A dress, laced with familiarity and the color red, which he was sure he'd seen before. But, then again, there were tons of red dresses in the world. Then, the girl looked up from her phone and Daveed felt the wind get knocked out from beneath his feet. Clinging to the table in front of him for support, he watched her smile at her friend.

It was the kind of smile he used to pull from her, whilst they were both spread out on each end of the sofa and a terribly romantic movie playing in the background of their happiness. He'd cheesily recite lines from the movie to her and revel in the way he could still make her blush, even if she hid it with a cringe. And when he'd agree to stop, he'd always tell her he loved her. No cheesy lines, no big words or unrealistic speeches that took place in airports. Just a flat out, honest, sincere “I love you”. Y/N would just smile and he'd already know she loved him back, no words needed.

“Wow buddy, you alright there?” The distinguishable voice of Anthony Ramos cut through Daveed's reminiscing yet his eyes never left her. He was frozen in time, hyper focused on each gesture she made. Most of all, he was desperately trying to spot the ring on her finger. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Daveed bit back a comment about the ghost being from his past, of a life he could have had. Grabbing a half filled shot glass, he threw it’s contents down his throat, not even grimacing as the liquor stung his nerves. “I'm great. Just tired. S'been a long day, y'know?” His words were a little more unsteady and slurred than he would have preferred but Daveed was sure he'd sounded convincing enough.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Anthony chanted enthusiastically over the music, gaining a few glares and side-eye glances from surrounding tables. He truly was the human equivalent of a beagle: energetic, kinda short, great with kids. “Let's go do some! Shots always work great if you're feeling tired.”

“How 'bout you go order us some then, Ant?” Daveed said, at last tearing his eyes away from Y/N and her red dress. “I'm just... Gonna go to the bathroom real quick.”

Daveed would have felt bad for lying to Anthony, he really would have, but he just needed a breath of fresh air. And maybe a dose of poison in his lungs. Out of everyday in which he could have ended up in the same city, in the same club, in the same section as Y/N, of course it had to be the night he'd sworn off thinking about her. How cruel fate seemed to him, not allowing him a break from sorrow.

The January air had a chill to it when it embraced Daveed as he stepped out on to the small balcony, which was really just a metal enclosure that looked as if it was violating some kind of health and safety code. The club music was still audible but it was playing in sync with noise of the city. A siren was ringing in some distance. He placed his vice between his lips, ready to light it up when-

“What's the birthday boy doing out here all alone? Not throwing a pity party, I hope.”

Daveed jolted and watched as the cigarette, now having slipped out of his mouth, fell to the balcony floor and dropped through the metal caging. Biting back a curse, he finally noticed the black satin and a familiar head of blonde hair. She hadn't changed much since the last time he'd seen her. Yet again, it hadn't been long since she'd come to see Hamilton. “Raquel!” His enthusiasm was honest, as was the care he put into the hug he pulled her into.

“If only everyone was this excited to see me, the world would be a better place.” Raquel exclaimed, drawing back from his embrace and cautiously leaning against the handrail, tilting her head down as she looked over the edge. “Didn't mean to startle you, sorry.” A sheepish smile appeared. “But, hey, at least Y/N can no longer claim that I enable your smoking!”

Daveed realized then and there that it was no coincidence that Raquel had come up to him. Sure, it was his birthday, and sure, they were friends. But Daveed had been blatantly staring at his ex, her best friend, and clearly he'd been caught. If if weren't for the calming nature of her voice or the way she looked at him with equal amounts of kindness and pity, Daveed would have walked away from the conversation before it could even begin. But, it was too late now.

“Remember that trip we all took to Cancún? Where she threw the cigarettes you bought me in the bin?” For the first time, Daveed was sharing memories of her with someone else. For months, his reminiscing had been silent, not unnoticed but not shared either. It was almost like he'd been in mourning for so long and, now, he was finally ready to start celebrating the life he'd lost.

“How could I forget? She still owes me ten dollars.” Raquel laughed and he followed, even if he didn't find any humor in their conversation. His was an empty laugh. “Oh! Right! I actually needed to talk to you about something!”

“I'm all ears.”

“It's about the catering at the wedding. I know you're Jewish but I can't remember if you're kosher. Just in case you want us to mark anything non-kosher at the reception.”

“Ah,” Daveed nodded, silently appreciating that she'd even taking the time to ask him. “Don't worry, I'm not that strict about it. Honestly. Thanks for asking though.” By then he'd drawn and lit a cigarette, this time managing to not drop it. He let his eyes scan over her and he found himself unable to stop the small smile which took over his face at the sight of her bridal party wear. “The wedding isn't until August, isn't it a bit early to start up the bachelorette party?”

“This isn't my party, Diggs.” She rebutted, bumping his shoulder with her own as she stole a sip from her champagne flute. “It's a friend of mine's. That's actually why we're in New York.”

They didn't need to define who we was referring to, Daveed knew it was Y/N. If it were even possible, his heart stuttered over a beat. The question was at the tip of his tongue, longing for him to just get it over with. Rip the band-aid off, open up his wound and let it bleed out. Is it her wedding? Somehow, the answer seemed scarier than the question. “Seems everyone's getting married off then, huh?” Like a coward, he never asked.

“What about you, mister Broadway? Any lucky lady in your life?” Surely she knew the answer, considering he hadn't added a plus one on to his wedding reservation.

“No, uh, been too busy. Shows 'n stuff, y'know?” He said, not even convincing himself of his own excuses. And, from the pitiful look she was giving him and the hand she'd placed on his forearm, Raquel wasn't believing him either.

“Have you talked to her, at all? Since things ended between you guys...” She paused, as if searching for the right way to word things. “I just think you guys at least deserve some closure. Your relationship didn't even properly come to an end. One day, you guys were together, the next, well, you were over. Two years of building a life together can't just stop all of a sudden.” Daveed remained silent and Raquel took this as a sign to keep talking. “Sorry if you think it's not my place to say all this. I've been trying to tell her for months now to talk to you but she just won't listen. Not even when we came to your show.”

That had spiked his attention and his eyes widened. His show. The theater. Hamilton. She'd been there, somewhere in the mass of the audience. In anger, he wished he'd spotted her. In pain, he wished she'd have let him know. Now here was their friend, her friend, asking him to talk to her and get closure for them both. Even if it hurt him to think that Y/N was suffering, it hurt him more to think of them truly being over. And that's exactly what closure meant. The end of things. Daveed wasn't ready for her to become a part of his past yet. Besides, last time he'd seen her, Y/N seemed to be doing just fine, with or without closure.

Both of his hands were full from the tray of beverages in to-go cups he'd been sent to purchase for the cast, meaning Daveed had to shoulder his way out of the corner cafe, all the while cursing the fact he'd ever agreed to take part in the childish game of rock, paper, scissors. He'd drawn rock and wound up losing to the rest of the cast's papers. Laughter had echoed as he walked out the theater with a list of everyone's order.

A frustrated sigh escaped Daveed as he lowered the trays onto an outdoor table. Sitting unevenly on the pavement, the table wobbled. Those short three seconds had Daveed near crippled in panic as he watched the drinks shake, some almost toppling over completely. Luckily, they all stayed up right and he wasn't about to find himself buying a whole new order.

“C'mon, c'mon, hurry up.” He muttered under his breath, fingers drumming against the side of his legs, eyes staring down the street with a desperation to spot the familiar face of a fellow Hamilton cast member. He'd texted the group-chat just about ten minutes ago, someone should have been on their way to help him carry the order back.

The blaring of a horn had Daveed looking up from his phone screen. An elderly man was cursing out some taxi driver as he crossed the road, stick waving in the air as unfiltered words fell from his lips. Maybe, if Daveed hadn't stared at the scene before him for so long, he would have never noticed the jewelers directly across the street from him.

Maybe he would have never noticed a man and woman inside the store. Him, with his arm around her shoulder, and her, with her eyes fixated on the display of rings in front of her, and both with smiles brighter than any collapsing star. He watched, throat dry and limbs heavy, as the attendant in the store helped the woman slide on the ring. The engagement ring. She nodded, just one nod, and that's all it took for Daveed's world to implode. Of course, the couple were completely unaware of the heartbreak they were causing as they waited for the ring to be wrapped and bagged. The man had eagerly pulled out his credit card, as if he couldn't wait a second longer to purchase it, and the woman welcomed the bag into her waiting hands, like she was desperate to return the ring to it's rightful home: her left ring finger.

It was selfish, Daveed knew that, but he'd been hoping Y/N was just as torn up by their break up as he still was.

Instead, she was engaged. To another man, another future.

“There you are! God, this place was further than I expected.” Daveed turned his head to see one of the ensemble members, Ariana, approaching him. She smiled and he done his best to return the gesture. “Alright, what ones am I carrying?”

“Oh. Uh,” He blindly grabbed two of the sets of drinks, offering them to her. “these ones. I got the rest.”

“Okay! Let's go, pretty sure poor Leslie is gonna pass out from exhaustion if he doesn't get his dose of coffee soon.” Daveed hesitated following her and, instead, stared back over at the other side of the street. He found the store was now empty of customers and Y/N was no longer there. “Hello? Earth to Daveed!”

“Huh?”

“You okay there? You were just staring off into space for like, 2 minutes.”

“Yeah. Yes.” He swallowed the ball of emotion pent up in his throat and walked over to her, ignoring the little voice in his head telling him to look back. It just wanted to torture him some more. “Just,” He sighed. “thought I saw someone.”

“If she doesn't want to talk, then there's no reason for me to do it. Maybe it's just better for us both if we keep to ourselves.” The reality was that Daveed didn't think he'd be able to get through talking to her even if she did want to speak about it. Not when he'd spend the whole time staring at her hands, at the rock resting on her finger, at the pledge of love and fidelity she'd given to someone else. “So, how's wedding planning been treating you? You excited to just get it over with?”

“A hundred percent!” Raquel laughed and he relaxed, thankful for the fact she'd let him change the topic of conversation. “Don't get me wrong, some of the planning has been fun. Cake tasting? I highly recommend it. And I've got her learning salsa for our first dance. But, yeah, venue planning and the cost of it all has been a bit of a bummer. I'll be glad to never have to do that again.”

“Salsa? Great choice, bring a little flavor into the whole traditional wedding dancing.”

“Yeah! Fuck swaying side to side awkwardly, I'm putting on a performance! It's been a messy journey, planning everything. Even just something as simple as seating arrangements, who the hell knew it was such a process to organize all that crap?” She threw her hands up, the remainder of her champagne sloshing inside of the glass. “But it'll be worth it when I walk down the aisle with her. We're gonna put all other brides to shame in our dresses. Shit, sorry, all I talk about recently is the wedding! You can tell me to stop if you want.”

“It's fine, no worries. You're happy, it's nice.” He felt a tug at his heartstrings all of a sudden, very aware of the fact of how much had changed since the two had first met. It really did fill him with joy to see her so happy. “You deserve it, Kelly.”

“You know I hate being called that, David.” The two old friends laughed in unison after she lightly kicked him with her heeled foot, not even hard enough to leave a scuff on his jeans. “It's crazy, you know, that just about four years ago I was trying to get in your pants. And now I'm a few months away from getting married! To the love of my life! I mean, she's honestly the best thing that's ever happened to me, D, you have no idea.”

He had an idea and it was somewhere else inside the busy club, wrapped in red and the familiar scent of coconut- it had always been her favorite - but he wasn't sure he was allowed to speak about her like Raquel spoke about her fiancé. That was reserved for someone else now. He also held back on pointing out the pitiful fact that it seemed people who pursued him would wind up engaged afterwards.

At some point, they both went their separate ways, back to their respective groups. Daveed eventually threw caution to the wind, a fresh wound on his soul after having seen Y/N urging him on. Every drink he was handed ended up down his throat and, somehow, Lin managed to rope him into dancing to the shitty music with him. They all danced, cramped together in the limited space like canned tuna. When the last song was played, when the last drink had been poured, when the last cab had been hailed, a very intoxicated Daveed found himself stumbling into the apartment of a stranger wrapped in red. The fact she smelt like sweat and lavender was the only downside.

If he hadn't drank so much or gotten so reckless and careless, perhaps his phone wouldn't have been left abandoned among glitter and emptied glasses in the deserted club, it's screen lit up with two notifications:

00:49 am (+81) 03-3***-****: happy birthday, d. i'm glad to see you're having a fun night!

02:18 am (+81) 03-3***-****: you're wearing my favorite shirt of yours.

August, 2016

The sun setting over the horizon burned at Daveed's tired eyes as he stepped off the plane, thankful to be home yet dreading the next day. The whole flight over he'd practically gone through the works of all possible emotions he could feel towards his impending future. Excited, saddened, nervous, happy, frustrated, nervous again. Every possible scenario had played through his mind, ones where the two did not speak, others were they done nothing but speak and one, shamefully, where they done something but it was not speaking.

The wedding was one sleep away and he was no more prepared to be in such close proximity of Y/N than he had been the night of the club or the day on the sidewalk.

His dad had picked him up from the airport, lending him a hand with his limited luggage and pulling his cherished son into a warm hug. The whole drive back to his father's home had been filled with playing catch up, Daveed sharing stories of his cast mates and his father telling him about his new hobby of coaching a local junior basketball team. Daveed was grateful for his dad not asking about Y/N. If it had been his mother, all intentions pure and caring, she would have began to question him on the matter the second he was strapped in to his seat and unable to escape.

His parents had always liked Y/N, that was for sure. And, while it had been a blessing during their relationship to see his mother dote over her like she were her own daughter or to witness her beat his dad at guitar hero, it had become a curse when things had ended. The way things ended did not make matters any better. His own mother had given Daveed the silent treatment for a whole two days after he explained to her how things had gone down.

He fell asleep that night, his bag opened yet not unpacked, in the guest bedroom of his father's home. A belly full of pizza and beer, mind full of worry and doubt.

Hours later, after a shower, a shave and a shit ton of stressing as he pulled on his suit, Daveed found himself parked outside the venue. Finding a parking space had been stressful enough but it was nothing compared to the on-going battle between him and his crooked tie. It had only hit him that morning just how long it had been since he'd had to tie his own tie, too accustomed to his new normal of having a stylist dress him for most formal occasions. Before that, he'd had Y/N.

A few months into their relationship, when he finally felt confident enough to meet her parents, she'd went out of her way to learn exactly how to tie a tie and she'd wordlessly done it for him that evening, his hands too shaky and his nerves too on edge. From there onward, he'd purposefully mess up only to have her stand so close, where he could comfortably lay his hand to rest on her lower back as she worked away at sorting the piece of cloth around his neck.

“That's as good as it's gonna get.” The quiet of his car was filled with his disappointed voice as the less crooked tie stared back at him through the rear view mirror. Despite his words, he gave it one last tug and stepped out of the car.

He hadn't expected to be recognized by so many familiar faces. He probably should have expected some though, these were people who'd been friends to him once upon a time ago. To add tension to an already tense situation, everyone that felt the need to come up to him was dancing around the fact things had ended between him and Y/N and that was why they'd stopped talking to him.

“It's been so long since I've seen you! I've just been swamped with work, you know? And, New York! You were on Broadway. How's Broadway? Must be exciting to be on Broadway!” They'd all have the same excuses to avoid the obvious: they were Y/N's friends first and they'd be hers till the end.

Daveed wished he believed it when he told himself he didn't mind that.

The venue of the ceremony was breathtakingly beautiful and, now sat among (luckily) unfamiliar faces, Daveed took the chance to fully appreciate the scenery.

It was being held within a greenhouse, and in almost every inch of the place there was a strike of greenery. The surrounding walls were made up solely of glass windows, serving as a source of natural light. At the end of the aisle, where the exchanging of vows, crying of happy tears and giving of rings would be taking place, was a beautiful water display, with water so fresh looking it appeared drinkable. And the air? It was smothered in the scent of life: blossoming buds and flourishing flowers and ripening fruits. Splashes of red and yellow, of blue and lilac, of pink and orange effortlessly added more class and detail into the green venue.

If the venue was breathtaking, the ceremony was heartbreakingly tender.

The two teary eyed brides had walked down the aisle with the person they'd chosen to give them away and, by the time they were both facing each other at the makeshift altar, Daveed could already see a stray tear falling down Raquel's cheek. At that, he smiled. And stayed smiling throughout the whole ceremony. Until it came to Raquel's vows. At some point in her big proclamation of love, she began speaking about how her and her bride had first met, about how she hadn't even realized she was being hit on by her and how, when she was asked for her number, Raquel thought she'd just wanted to be friends. She spoke of how two dear friends of her's told her she was being asked out on a date, not just to hang out as friends.

For the first time during the ceremony, Daveed finally looked directly at where Y/N stood in front of the other bridesmaids. He watched as a stray tear slid down her cheek, one she quickly tried to brush away, and her hands tightened around the bouquet they were wrapped around. His own eyes were welling up with tears in just a few seconds. While they weren't the only two in the room carrying tears in their eyes, they were the only two who's tears were made up of missed chances and broken promises and pure, untamed sadness. After all, they’d been there to witness the first meeting of the brides. They’d been together then and now, they were further apart than the stars above.

He'd told himself he'd just steal one last glance at her, remember her as she was next to the altar, all dressed up and looking beautiful albeit sad. His eyes lifted. And there was Y/N staring right back at him, a couple more tears already having fallen from her eyes. The eye contact never wavered between them both and, for the first time in a while, Daveed felt like he was actually being seen for who he really was. And when she smiled, he fell apart.

A tear finally escaped it's cage but Daveed made no attempt to wipe it away.

One luxurious meal later, and quite a few drinks from the open bar, Daveed sat in the very same situation he'd predicted. At the singles table- which was pretty depressing given who his company for the evening was -, with some girl he'd met about an hour ago talking his ears off about her job which he hadn't even asked about, a drink he’d been nursing for half an hour in his hand and his eyes hyper-focused on the dance floor. Taking another sip, he drowned out the stranger’s voice and watched how Y/N laughed at something her dance partner had whispered in her ear.

This was how Daveed had chosen to enjoy the reception: playing a game of “Guess Who’s Marrying The Love Of Your Life?” with every man who so much as approached her. He was thankful her duties as maid of honor kept her so busy, she’d yet to have the chance to notice his incessant watching.

Deciding he’d spotted the fiancé of his kryptonite- the man she’d been dancing with for just over twenty minutes, who she’d been sat next to during the meal, who seemed to make her laugh just as hard as Daveed once had - he pushed back his chair, straightened out the jacket of his suit and headed for his destination.

Heavy footsteps, fists clenched, breathing erratic, Daveed stepped out into the fresh air and made his way over to the concrete railing of the balcony, a balcony far more sturdy and well designed than the one he’d stumbled onto back in January.

The silence and lonesomeness wrapped themselves around Daveed like the softest, warmest blanket on a winter's eve. For the first time since he'd arrived at the wedding celebrations, he'd found a window of peace for himself to take a moment and breathe. Recalling the conversation he'd shared with Rafa before he left for the airport- in which Rafa had been hyping him up and reassuring him he'd enjoy more than regret attending -, Daveed had to admit to himself that he was proud of how he'd done so far. Maybe not in the past hour of self pity with a side of substance abuse, but other than that he'd held himself together pretty well. He'd congratulated Raquel and her official wife, even sharing a dance with both of the women; he'd rekindled friendships, once he and they managed to push past the original discomfort of not having spoken in so long; he'd met some interesting strangers with fascinating stories; he'd ate some of the most lucrative meals he'd ever tasted and bore witness to a demonstration of pure love.

He was enjoying himself.

The only thing that made the evening unpleasant was when he'd finally zeroed in on Y/N and her smile; and the way the lights were making her eyes sparkle; and the way her dress was draped over her skin effortlessly.

The alcohol was beginning to take an effect on him, his mind becoming a little resentful towards Y/N. He'd never once hated her, even if it had been she who'd called quits on them, but he couldn't help blame her now for his situation. How was it fair that she got to move on with her life while he still could barely sit in the same room as her and keep his eyes from watching her every move, her every gesture?

“Shit.” Daveed huffed out over the sound of crickets and the muffled sound of the celebratory music, just as his lighter gave up on him and decided it would not be lighting up the cigarette for him this evening.

“We need to stop meeting this way.” He hated the way the resentment left him with as little as seven words. “People are going to start calling us predictable.”

Sure enough, when Daveed spun on his heel to face the balcony doors, there she was in all her glory, arm stretched out and lighter in hand. He wondered if she carried it around for her new man. Out here, her eyes were a lot less sparkling, her dress a lot less light, her smile a lot less wide but Daveed didn't find her any less ethereal. He never did.

“Uh,” She'd cleared her throat and Daveed felt embarrassment creep in. Here she was, perfectly composed and unaffected by him, whilst he was just as nervous as the day they had their first date; the day he'd first told her he loved her; the day he asked her to move to New York. “thank you.” He plucked the lighter from her and hit the clipper.

“No problem.” She took a sip of the glass in her hand and approached him more, till they were stood in parallel, shoulders an inch away from brushing, staring off into the dark abyss of the night that lay past the grounds of the vibrant wedding. “I see you got stuck sitting next to cousin Delia. On a score of one to ten, how bad is your headache?” Why was it so easy for her to joke around with him?

“Probably a solid seven. She talks a lot but at least there's never time for awkward silence with her.” He pulled in a drag and held back a groan when not even the nicotine could untense his muscles. “The ceremony was beautiful, you must be so happy for Raquel.”

“Yeah.” She sighed dreamily, head turning back to look at the balcony door, as if she were remembering just how beautiful indoors was. “I'm so glad everything went smoothly, they were both so stressed during the planning but it turned out exactly how they wanted.”

“They're lucky to have each other.” Why couldn't he see her engagement ring? Was she hiding it from him, out of pity? Did she know he was hung up on her? Daveed had spent so many months missing her only to resent the time he was spending with her. Stood on that balcony, hardly any space between them, Y/N had never felt further away. “So, how've you been? Like, work and shit.”

“I've been... good. Yeah, good.” There was a pause and they stood in silence, her staring off into space, him staring at her face. “I took the job, in the end, so there's that. Moved to Japan, got to have some new experiences and make new friends. Tried Sashimi, realized I do not like Sashimi. Oh! I got to watch cherry blossoms bloom. Just, yeah, I've been good.” She didn't tell him what he'd wanted to hear about. “How about you?”

“I've been great. Honestly. Work has been on the up and up since the show opened on Broadway, I’ve got some acting jobs lined up. Done some photo-shoots, made more music. Every night, there was another celebrity in the crowd. I mean, the President invited us to perform in the white house. I've been great in other parts of my life too, made some incredibly interesting friends.” Is everything Daveed wishes he said.

Instead, he said this: “Awful. I've been doing shit, for a while now.”

“D.” He couldn't help but hate the fact she called him by that. “I don't think we should get into this at Raquel's weddi-”

“Then when, Y/N?” Oh, he had not meant to sound so confrontational. Unfortunately, the little voice in his head that made up his ego was enticing him to keep going. “Ten years from now? Fifty? Oh, or should we do it at your wedding? I can't put this off any longer, alright? I'm miserable and,” He tried to compose himself, eyes squeezed shut and hands shoved in pockets. “and it's your fault. So no, we're having this conversation. You don't get to just meet someone new and act like what happened between us meant nothing, whilst I'm left frozen in a time where a reality TV star isn't our President and you're mine. Ok? I need to move on but I can't if we don't get closure.”

“It's my fault? Meet someone new!?” She was using the same tone of voice she'd used that night, when the fight to end it all first broke out. “Daveed, you ended things between us, not me. Or did you forget?”

“Weird, I don't remember breaking up with a guy named Daveed and slamming the door shut on my way out.” He stepped back, dropping the wasted cigarette into an ashtray. “But I remember you doing something along those lines.”

“Well, do you remember the part where your girlfriend told you she'd just been offered her dream job and all you had to say was that you two needed to break up?”

“The job was in Tokyo!”

“Oh! So, it was okay when I made the sacrifice of moving to New York with you but you couldn't just deal with some long-distance dating?”

“What did you want me to say, Y/N?” Up until then, their voices had been rising in volume but this time Daveed was softly spoken. “I was happy for you. But I also realized how much things wouldn't work between us. Between Broadway and you being all the way in Japan and the time difference, when would there be time for us?”

“If you really want something, there's always a way.” Y/N said, resting her back against the balcony ledge. “Maybe you just didn't want us, enough.”

“You didn't have to leave though.” He followed suit, back against ledge and feet crossed. “Yeah, I messed up and said something I didn't mean out of fear of losing you, but you didn't have to take my advice and actually walk out the door.”

“How was I supposed to stay after that? It stung, D. I thought you had more faith in us. But you weren't wrong, I guess hearing you say we'd have to break up made me realize just how much the job change would really effect us both. I think we both played our part in ending things- Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” One second, Daveed had been quietly reflecting on her every word. The next, spilled champagne was seeping through his white shirt.

“It's, uh, fine. No worries. I'll just go try get this off me.”

“Let me help!”

As a man, Daveed was shocked to see just how perfectly clean and nice smelling the female restroom was. Everything seemed to sparkle in the light. He had traded leaning his back against the balcony banister for leaning it against the counter top of the sinks, his own hands wiping at his shirt with paper towels Y/N was handing him. She'd quickly and carefully dragged him into the toilets and stripped him of his suit jacket, all the while apologizing again and again for having soaked him.

Surprisingly, he didn't care.

“You can be honest with me, you know.” He glanced at her before refocusing on his shirt. They'd been talking lightly, of things that held no real value but were preferred over the discussion on the balcony. “You can tell me if you found someone new.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing, really. I just, I saw you. A few months ago. You were getting fitted for an engagement ring with some man at your side.”

“Do you mean my cousin? Who was planning a proposal for his girlfriend?” He could see the amusement on her lips as she handed him another paper towel. He felt his heart rate pick up. “My turn. Why didn't you answer my text? If you were doing so bad, wouldn't you want to talk it out as soon as possible?”

“Text? What text?”

“The one I sent you on your birthday? We were in the same club but, I don't think you saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I think you were all I saw that night.” He instantly regretted what he said. “I mean, I lost my phone that night. Haven't seen it since.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Silence kept them apart for the rest of the time. Eventually, Daveed decided his shirt was as dry as it was going to get. Then, he felt it. Y/N, without missing a beat, reached up and adjusted his tie. Both their breaths caught in their throats. The silence between them became tension. In a matter of seconds, everything was turned around, literally. She was hoisted up on the counter and he was stood between her spread legs, his hands on her hips and hers going back and forth between running through his hair and gripping on to his damp shirt. They were doing their best to keep quiet, swapping moaning out for heavy breathing.

Daveed was struggling to think straight, between the familiarity of her skin and the scent of coconut, it was as if they'd spent no time apart. Suddenly, anyone else he'd slept with between their break up and now hadn't really counted and this was the first time he was being touched in years.

When it was over, he was speechless and she was incapable of not speaking.

“Okay, so, um, I'll sneak out first and then you just, wait in here for five minutes. Then slip out. That way, no one has to see us both exit the bathroom together. Okay, great catching up, see you when I see you. Bye!”

By the time he came back to his senses, he was stood alone in the female bathroom, the top button of his shirt undone and his tie discarded on the floor. He shoved it into his back pocket and slipped on the jacket of his suit, not bothering to even discreetly leave the toilets. Luckily, no one noticed him.

Returning to the event hall, he instantly began his search for Y/N but he failed to spot any sign of her. Had she vanished into thin air? Had she even been there?

“If you're looking for Y/N, she just bolted out of here like the floor was on fire. Pretty sure she called a cab but you didn't hear that from me.” He turned to find Raquel staring at him, a smile on her face. “Stop wasting time on staring at me and go get her, lover boy.”

Daveed did not need to be told twice, his history with running track kicking in as he raced out of the hall. He sped down the corridor, dodging any oncoming guests before he burst out of the doors, stepping out into the fresh air. He could see her in the distance, standing with her arms around herself as she shifted from side to side.

“Y/N!” Daveed yelled out as he ran over to her. When she made no attempt to move away from him, he felt hope begin to rise in his soul. “Why'd you leave?”

“Daveed, we don't have to do this. In fact, we shouldn't do this.”

“Have coffee with me.”

“D, I don't-”

“One coffee, that's it. You can even get it in a to-go cup. Y/N, it's just coffee, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage.” He loved the way she was struggling to hold back a smile. “So, what do you say?”

August, 2020

The world from his garden felt calm, peaceful, as if everything wasn't falling to shit in the midst of all kinds of disasters.

It was the middle of the night and, no matter how hard he tried, Daveed couldn't sleep. Even after having more or less quit a few years back, he could tell there was only one thing that was going to calm his nerves. So, creeping out of bed cautiously, he'd reached into his bedside drawer and grabbed the little packet he kept hidden beneath his socks. Maybe it was just the recent times taking a toll on him, quarantine beginning to exhaust him, but Daveed had been feeling more stressed out than ever.

He sighed, one hand rubbing at the sleep in his eye and the other trying to light up his cigarette. Then, he noticed the blue plastic and a whispered “Fuck.” escaped from him. If he'd considered heading back indoors to find his functioning lighter instead of the empty one, it didn't matter because the cigarette and it's packet were plucked away from him by smaller hands.

“You shouldn't be smoking, D.”

“I know, I know, it's bad for my health. Just, a little stressed.” He welcomed the way she wrapped her arms around his waist, molding herself into his side as he wrapped his own arm around her shoulder. “Better now that you're here.”

“Hmm.” She hummed sleepily, squeezing her arms around him some more. “You're so warm. Like, a human hot-water bottle.”

“Just say I'm hot, I already know you're thinking it.” His lips rested on her forehead and the scent of coconut consumed him.

“Why did I agree to marry a man with an ego the size of the Statue Of Liberty?”

“Because that man's love for you is the size of Mount Everest.” He soothingly rubbed her back, feeling himself finally wanting to fall asleep. “Plus, he has really good hair.”

When he fell asleep that night, it was in the same way he'd fallen asleep for the past few years, and how he wanted to fall asleep every night that remained in his time alive: with her between his arms. He'd gone from being as useless, soulless as an empty lighter without her by his side to now, where he never had to worry about not being able to spark up again. He had Y/N and he wouldn't let anything change that. Not distance, time, health, anything.

#daveed diggs #daveed diggs x reader #daveed diggs drabble #daveed diggs fanfiction #daveed diggs oneshot #daveed diggs imagine #daveed diggs scenario #daveed diggs fluff #daveed diggs hamilton #daveed diggs clipping.#valwrite #daveed diggs x y/n #daveed x reader

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padfootagain · 4 years

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A Very Rose Mistake (VII)

Part 7: How A Mistake Was Made

Here we go for a new chapter!! You're finally going to understand where the title of this series comes from!!

I warn you, this is angsty. The flashback is angsty. Sorry… you'd better get some tissue before diving into this!

I hope you like it all the same! Lots of explanation here again thanks to the flashback! The next chapter will be more about the present days again.

I hope you like this! Don't forget to tell me what you think about it, I most definitely need a little help to write these days!

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Word Count: 5951 (sorry it's a bit long)

Holmes Chapel, 2011

It was Valentine's Day. He was 17 and his world was changing at a speed he couldn't comprehend.

It was great, for the most part. It was completely crazy, actually: he was making an album. He was going to sing and travel around the world. How mad was that?

When he had left Holmes Chapel, he thought he would be back in a week. Maybe two. It would be a fun thing to discuss with you. How mad it was. How weird the whole experience had been, but let's be honest, he was only 16 and he wasn't mature enough for anything as big as this. He would slip back under his covers in his bedroom, and you would cuddle together while watching stupid videos on youtube that made you have this loud and uncontrollable laughter, and you would hide the bag of chocolates you had smuggled into his room when Anne would climb up the stairs.

But he didn't come home at all.

Instead, he went through the whole show, and after the X-factor was done, he was pushed into London City. It had been almost a year, and you had barely seen him.

It was strange to walk the same streets without him. It was strange to not have him sitting next to you in class anymore. It was strange to not go to his house after school every night and eat with him and Gemma while watching some dumb show on TV. It was strange not having him pushing you around on the way to school whenever you weren't quite awake yet.

And the truth was, it was unbearable almost, the way you missed him.

The hurricane he had been caught into was just as strange for him than it was for you, and he missed you just as much as you missed him.

And this shift in your relationship that had appeared right before he would leave had been on hold ever since.

You had almost kissed that evening. If Anne had not opened the front door right at that moment, you would have kissed. And as he was to leave the next day, he didn't bring the moment you had shared again. He reckoned that he ought to tell you how he felt face to face.

He wasn't quite sure what it meant yet being in love with someone, but he reckoned that if he had to give a definition, he would have given your name as an answer.

He was a little lost, and he wasn't sure of how he felt exactly, because he had never experienced anything like it before, but what he was certain about was that he wanted to explore whatever this was. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to cuddle with you and hold you tight and peck your nose. He wanted to be close to you all the time, it drove him insane.

And when he had been given the opportunity to go home for Valentine's day, he believed in a sign.

You couldn't come to celebrate his birthday in London, so you had promised to spend the weekend with him whenever he would come. And it started tonight.

Harry checked his reflection in the mirror of his old bedroom one last time, straightening the collar of his white shirt under his jersey. A red rose was resting on his bed, and he checked once again that the leaves had not suffered from the lack of water during the past 15 minutes. But they were not wilted, and he looked with satisfaction at the flower.

Romantic. Perfect. Because tonight was the night when he would ask you to be his girlfriend.

And if he were honest, he found that this prospect was scarier than walking on that stage for the first time and sing before a jury.

What if you said no?

But he pushed the thought away. Because that night, a year ago, you had almost kissed him too.

But a year had passed...

Yes, a year had passed, but he was certain that you didn't have a boyfriend. You hadn't mentioned anything to him or to Gemma, and that meant that you were single. He wasn't in Holmes Chapel anymore, but he was still your best friend.

Hopefully, that would change tonight though.

He walked down the stairs with his rose in his shaky hand. Anne eyed him from the living room, pretending to watch TV. When he struggled to arrange the collar of his black winter coat though, his mother couldn't help but walk over to him. She gently pushed his hands away and fumbled with the soft material until it was folded just the right way. She gave her son an encouraging smile and pinched his cheek affectionately.

"Good luck."

"I think I'm gonna throw up," he admitted, before turning to the door.

"It's only Y/N. It'll be fine," Anne encouraged him.

She crossed her fingers for him and he reciprocated the gesture before walking out of the house and into the cold air.

The wind bit down on his cheeks, making them flushed and painful. He ignored the sensation though, and hurried down the path and towards your house.

How many times had he walked this same path leading to your house? Thousands and thousands of times, without a doubt...

It was the evening already, and February coming with its shorter days, it was already pitch-black outside. It had snowed that morning, and the grass and pavement all around the street were covered with half-melted ice. The rooftops were of an immaculate white, although the lampposts scattered down the lane were barely enough to show them. The clouds of the morning had cleared through the afternoon, and the night sky was stained with pale stars. The moon though was nowhere to be seen.

And for the first time in twelve years, he was nervous as he knocked on your front door, the same red paint that had always been there, chipped at the corners and a little diluted by the sun.

You were quick to open the door, and Harry could have sworn that he was having a heart-attack as he saw you again.

You were wearing a simple pair of blue jeans and a warm sweater. Simple. Comfy. The most adorable sight he had ever seen

You were even more beautiful than the last time he had seen you for real... how were you even human at this point?

"Hi, Y/N..."

But he was cut short as you threw yourself at him, sure that he would catch you. And he did, he always did.

You both laughed, your nerves slowly dissolving as you held each other tight.

"Harry!"

"It's me," he nodded, chuckling some more.

"I've missed you so much... I can't believe you're here!"

"I've missed you too. So much!"

"You have so much stuff to tell me. And I have too. You'll never guess who Jeremy ended up with."

"Jeremy? With Ashley?"

"With Leila."

"What?! No way!" He exclaimed, pulling away just enough to look up at you as he was still carrying you, your legs now wrapped around him like a koala.

You nodded with shock all over your features.

"You'll tell me everything. I need to know what kind of drama could have unfolded to lead to these two getting together."

He pressed his face into your neck again, right where it belonged, and you closed your eyes as his warm breath hit your skin softly, a vivid contrast with the cold air of the early evening.

Finally, he gently put you back down, feeling that you were starting to shiver in the cold weather.

And at last, you noticed that he was holding a rose in his hand. You looked up at him questioningly, and Harry was certain that he was going to either throw up or pass out then.

He opened his mouth to offer to go inside to talk because it was awfully cold outside, when someone new appeared on the threshold.

And Harry froze.

It was a boy. Around your age. He had never seen him before.

Who…? What…?

"Oh, Harry, this is Joel! Jo, this is Harry!"

Jo?!

"Hi, man!" Joel shook Harry's hand.

"Hi."

Who was that guy, and what was he doing here? It was the evening, and it was Valentine's Day, and it was the day Harry finally came home to Holmes Chapel and…

Oh…

You had a boyfriend…

"Why don't you come in, Harry?" you offered, but your best friend was still staring at Joel.

You… you had a boyfriend?

"Harry?"

You tilted your head to the side, frowning at him. You were shivering in the cold now, your teeth chattering before you would clench your jaw to stop the shaking. Your breath drew patterns in the light coming from your house behind you. And you were breathtaking, as always. You were absolutely perfect.

You had a boyfriend.

Harry tightened his hold on the rose without noticing, until a thorn was piercing the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

"Uhm… Actually, I was just saying hello, but I got to go."

"Oh, okay…" you nodded, although you were clearly disappointed.

"Yeah, I… I've got to go."

"Still busy because of the band?"

"Uhm… No, I… I've got something to do."

You looked at the rose again, and then at his eyes, your gaze travelling back and forth a few times.

Of course, you were wondering what he was doing with this flower in his hand.

And he could have given it to you. Given you the benefit of the doubt. Gone forth with his plan anyway. Asked about your boyfriend.

But it seemed wrong and mean and all in all, useless. You had found someone else, and on one hand he was the one to blame. A year had passed since that moment you had shared in his house, and so much was different now. He should have asked you about all this before, instead of waiting for you to be gone. He was too late, that was all.

And maybe he had given the moment too much meaning. Maybe you didn't mean much by it. Maybe you had forgotten about it altogether.

And there he was with a rose for you after spending months building his hopes up. What a fool he was… What an absolute idiot…

"Hmm… yeah, I… I've got to go see Melanie."

"Melanie?"

"Yeah, I… I have a date."

Your expression remained unreadable, although he saw the way your jaw clenched. But he attributed the symptom to the fact that he had promised to spend some time with you tonight, and your best friend was bailing out on you.

Yes, that was why you seemed confused, and a little sad.

"Oh," was your only answer.

He nodded, taking a step back.

"Will you still be here tomorrow?" you asked, following him one step further, chasing after him even if for a single step, the way you always had and always would.

"Yeah, I'm leaving in a week."

"Can you… Maybe we could go to the cinema tomorrow or… just… chill and catch up?"

"I… I don't know, Gemma's back too to see me so…"

"Oh, okay…"

"And I want to spend some time with my mum too, so..."

"Of course, you… you don't see her that much either."

"Yeah."

"Well, just… tell me when you're free, okay? I… I've really missed you and I… I really want to catch up with you."

"Okay. Goodnight, Y/N."

"Good night, Harry."

Before you could say anything else, Harry had turned on his heels and was hurrying down the street. He turned left to cross through the gardens and come back to his house discretely. When he knocked at the kitchen door, Anne welcomed him back inside with a deep frown.

"Already? What happened? And why are you coming back from there… we have a front door, you know?"

But he didn't answer and merely rushed inside, throwing the rose in the sink. He was taking off his coat when Anne realized what it all meant.

"Oh… darling, I'm sorry."

She wrapped her arms around her son, but Harry didn't reciprocate the gesture.

"I need to be alone right now," he whispered, but Anne tightened her hold on him.

"Are you sure? You don't want to tell me what happened?"

He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, his voice made hoarse by pain.

"She… she has a boyfriend," he simply answered, and Anne heaved a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, darling."

"It's alright. It was a long shot anyway."

"Did you ask her about this boyfriend of hers? Maybe it isn't that serious."

"No, I didn't. I just… I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"I need to be alone right now, mum."

"I'm here if you need anything, okay?"

Harry merely nodded, giving his mother a small smile as he finally broke away from her embrace. He hurried upstairs, while Anne looked at him with a pained expression on her face, but there wasn't much that she could do to help.

He walked in his bedroom and closed the door behind him, not bothering in turning on the light, and when he remembered his lie about Melanie, he decided to remain in the dark for a while longer. This same bedroom in which the two of you had spent countless hours laughing and joking around and doing your homework and reading and watching stupid videos of cats on his computer. You had fallen asleep together in his bed during sleepovers. You had broken his shelf while trying to imitate some martial art. You had broken your toe against his bed simply because you were so damn clumsy sometimes. You had played video games together through sleepless nights. You had read your favourite books to him out loud. He still had that sheet of paper upon which you had learned how to write his name in one of his drawers.

His life was so full of you.

He let himself slip down the length of the door until he was sitting on the wooden floor. When had the tears started to flow? He wasn't sure, but they were there nonetheless.

He looked up to his window, through which he could get a glimpse at your bedroom. Your light was on, and through the think curtains, he could guess your shadow moving on the other side of the windowpane. There was another shadow with you, a little taller, and he didn't need much effort to guess that it was Joel. He watched the two shadows moving closer to meld into one broader shape instead. He kicked the foot of his bed as he imagined the two of you kissing. And if he wasn't sure of what his feelings for you meant, he was absolutely certain that the cause behind his pain now was heartbreak.

He tried to look away, focus onto anything but you and Joel wrapped in each other's arms in your bedroom.

Because indeed, you were in Joel's arms at that moment. With your own arms around his neck and your head resting against his shoulder. And it felt nice. You felt better like this, being held.

You reckoned that you were lucky to have your cousin by your side. You were lucky that he had managed to travel for your mother's birthday and stayed for a few extra days. You were lucky that he was there now, with you, to cradle your head in his hand while you cried harder than you had ever cried before.

Because you had waited for a year for Harry to come back. Because you had imagined thousands of times how you would talk about that interrupted moment in his kitchen. Because you dreamt of being held by him instead, and you wondered what it felt like to be kissed by him. And when he had been standing there with that rose, for a moment, you had hoped that maybe the flower was for you. That perhaps he felt the same, had the same anticipation as you did at the thought of the two of you spending some quality time together again, and the same apprehension at the idea of talking about the almost-kiss from the previous year. But then, he had told you the rose was for Melanie, and not for you. It was Valentine's Day and he was going to give Melanie a red rose, the message was loud and clear.

Maybe he had even forgotten about that moment in his kitchen, it was the most painful thought that kept on twirling around in your mind.

Yes, you were glad your cousin Joel was there to hold you while you cried over your first heartbreak.

Loch Lomond, 2020

Now that you were up and eating your breakfast, your hair still damped from your morning shower, you noticed how sore your legs were after the hike of the day before. If you didn't regret at all your long walk in the mountains, as the view from the top was most definitely worth a few cramps now, you still wished you could go back in bed and lay there all day.

But your plans for a restful day didn't match the schedule your cousin had prepared for the week, and there was no way you could refuse Cassie anything the week before her wedding. Which was why you found yourself walking towards the loch with the rest of the guests, chatting with Patrick and your parents. Harry was a few steps behind, lost in a conversation of his own, even though he was sometimes distracted from the words spoken to him because he kept a careful eye on Patrick all the way from the lodge to the shore of the loch, cautious at being as discreet in his surveillance as he could.

Cassie had planned an outing across the loch. She had rented some rowboats for the day, that were merely ten minutes away from the lodge. The idea was to cross the loch with the boats, have lunch on the other side, and explore the forest a little maybe, and then coming back to the lodge for the early evening.

The weather was merciful, the day a little warmer than the previous one, and the sun was bright now that it was high enough in the blue sky. There were barely any lazy clouds to cover the light, and the waters of the loch reflected the clear sky like an azure mirror. The shores were not too muddy thanks to the sunny weather, although the layers of multicoloured skeleton leaves that covered the ground had a tendency to trap the morning dew for a little longer than usual, making the earth still a little wetter than what it should have been. It made your footsteps loud in the quiet morning.

Cassie insisted for you to join her and her fiancée in their boat, so you complied, leaving Harry to share a rowboat with other guests.

It didn't really surprise you to have Cassie insisting on you joining her. You had not seen each other in a very long time because of your studies, and you had lots of things to catch up on. Besides, you were expecting to be questioned about your 'relationship' with Harry.

And indeed, you were not disappointed.

Five minutes into the trip, as soon as you were a few meters away from the other boats, Cassie was more or less abandoning the oar she was in charge of to lean towards you instead, an excited glimmer in her eyes.

"So… you and Harry? I want to hear everything!"

You laughed, shaking your head.

"There's not so much to say about it," you rolled your eyes, diverting your attention from her eager eyes by shaking your drying locks, as if trying to make your hair dry faster.

"Not much to tell about it?! Are you kidding me?! After all these years of the two of you being oblivious morons, you finally are together!"

"We didn't spend years being oblivious morons, thank you very much!" you defended yourself, but your cousin was far from convinced.

"Yes, you did!"

"Honey, you need to help me control the boat," Cassie's fiancée blurted out, struggling with her own oar, but your cousin was too busy with you to care about where the boat was heading.

"How did you two finally come to your senses?" she asked.

"We… had a little bit too much to drink one evening, at a party," you explained, hoping she wouldn't notice that you were lying. "And we ended up… saying things that we wouldn't have admitted while sobber, I guess. And we… kissed. Then, the next day, we talked about it and came to the conclusion that it was for the better that we got it out in the open. And we decided to take the risk and try a relationship."

She let out an excited shriek, letting go of the oar completely, making Amy roll her eyes at her and giving up her own oar as well. She knew your cousin enough to be aware that she wouldn’t be focused on anything but you as long as her curiosity for gossips wasn't satisfied.

"I can't believe it took you guys this long to finally agree to be together!" she swatted your leg playfully. "But then, you both are stubborn and a little stupid, so… not so surprising."

"Thanks for the compliment," you answered with irony, making both the women in front of you laugh.

"And so far, how is it going?"

"Good. It's… it's going great."

"What about the distance?"

"Huh… so far we haven't had to deal with that too much but… we're used to not being around each other constantly so I'm not too worried."

"Yeah, but… it's different between friends and between lovers," Amy replied.

"Uhm… yeah, I guess," you tried to escape her question.

"Has he written songs about you?" Cassie asked, a softness spreading across her features, and both you and Amy chuckled at the sight of the desperate romantic your cousin sometimes was.

"No, he hasn't!" you replied.

"None that you know of, at least!" Cassie replied with a snort. "He was already writing songs about you before you two got together, so he's obviously writing some now too!"

"No, he wasn't!" you shook your head, frowning.

"Huh… yes, he was."

"Of course not!"

"He was! You have to be blind to not realize that yet! He's been head over heels for you for years!"

You rolled your eyes, hoping the gesture would be enough of an answer, because you weren't sure how to respond to her without betraying the truth.

After all, she would know he had never felt this way for you if you told her that he had never, for certain, written any songs about you. Because for all these years, he had never seen anything but a friend in you. There had been one moment when you were sixteen… but then time had passed and had turned the instant in a fading memory. And there was nothing else to be said about it all. He went on to have other relationships, and you did the same, and he fell in love and wrote songs about other people, and never about you. And you were fine with that.

But you couldn’t sell Cassie the story of shared feelings with Harry if you told her that he had never seen anything in you but a friend.

Luckily for you, she dropped that particular subject, to come to another, just as personal and problematic for you to answer.

"And… when did he first say that he loves you, then?"

You scoffed, faking to be a little embarrassed.

"That is none of your business!"

"But he said it then!" Cassie let out another excited shriek. "Knowing him, it must have been awfully romantic," she went on with a dreamy sigh.

By her side, Amy rolled her eyes at her, an amused smile on her lips.

The other boats of the party were drifting across the loch as well, a few meters away and, hopefully, out of earshot. But you were too busy trying to make your way through Cassie's sudden interview to pay much attention to the rest of the guests.

"Anyway, it ought to be more romantic than when Amy told me she loved me for the first time," she threw a knowing glance at her fiancée, who frowned at her in response.

"It was kind of romantic, when you think of it!" Amy defended herself.

"I was sick! I was throwing up in your toilets!"

"I was holding your hair!"

"I WAS PUKING!" Cassie fought back.

"When you think of it, it was kind of cute," you defended Amy with a chuckle. "It meant that she loved you even if she was seeing you being disgusting."

"Exactly!" Amy agreed.

Cassie laughed, before leaning to kiss the fresh pout away from her fiancée's lips.

"You're right. It was kind of cute. Memorable, if anything else."

It was Amy's time to laugh, before leaning for another peck.

And seeing the couple together like this, you had to admit that you were a little jealous. If you weren't complaining about being single, you still had to admit that, looking at these two being adorable together, you wanted that too, one day.

You didn't even notice your eyes drifting away and settling on a colourful jumper in another of the boats, your brain refusing to register the interruption in the movement of your eyes, or who the jumper and the mess of brown curls belonged to.

"Anyway, next question I have to ask," Cassie brought you back to the present, and you settled your attention on her again. "How is the sex?"

You chocked on your own breath.

"What?! What kind of question is that?!" you protested, but Cassie merely shrugged while Amy was exploding with laughter at your reaction.

"Sex can be important in a relationship! Depends on the relationship, of course. Some people don't need that. But Harry is obviously very touchy and horny, like… that's just who he is. So I assume sex is gonna be a part of the relationship that… counts at least. How is it going?"

"Cassie!"

"What? We're all grown-ups! Don't act all shy now!

"I… It's going perfectly fine, thank you for your concern," you answered, clearly embarrassed.

"Good… you won't give me any more details on what's going on down there…?"

"CASSIE!"

"Okay, okay! I was just curious!"

You buried your face in both your hands, groaning in embarrassment.

"Besides, I'm asking cause… I'm a bit worried for you two, if I'm honest."

At that comment though, you looked up at Cassie again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, it's just…" she shrugged, trying to find the right words. "You and Harry don't seem so… different around each other than you were… before. You know?"

It was your turn to shrug.

"We've always been kind of close. And Harry isn't so much in PDA anyway."

"Hmm…" your cousin nodded, but was clearly unconvinced. "I don't know, I just… feel like maybe you're not putting enough… tenderness into it. Okay, he held your hand a couple of times but… you're not kissing, or stealing many glances or… I mean, no more than usual. I don't know, just… I'm worried about you two. A relationship can't work if you don't put efforts into it, and you don't seem to put too much effort into it for now."

You were near panicking by now.

Had you and Harry done such a bad job at selling the whole fake relationship? Even your cousin was doubting you. You reckoned that a conversation with Harry was needed.

But right now, you needed to find an explanation, and fast.

You heaved a sigh.

"It's just… it's a bit weird being together around my parents and the whole family, you know?" you lied, hoping with all your might that Cassie would bite into the bait. "I'd love to be a bit more obvious about it, but then I notice my parents are around, and I feel like a teenager about to get caught snogging her boyfriend in her bedroom by her dad… you know what I mean? And I think Harry kinda feel the same."

Cassie nodded knowingly, before leaning forward and taking your hand.

"I get it. It must be weird to change your relationship with Harry and suddenly come forth with it in front of everyone. Especially when Harry has been your friend and a part of this family for so long now. But… you need to relax. Everyone around here loves Harry, and more importantly, everyone simply wants you to be happy. And it's obvious that your happiness lays with Harry, it's always been obvious. So… relax. Enjoy your relationship and stop caring so much about everybody else. Can you do that for me? Consider it my wedding gift."

You were strangely touched by her caring words, and you found yourself fighting tears for some reason. Maybe it was because Cassie was so genuinely concerned for you and only wanted the brightest happiness for you, it was obvious in her tone and her words alike. Maybe it was because of what she said about Harry and you. It was hard to tell.

But you nodded anyway, choosing to joke to relieve the emotion that filled the air above the loch all of a sudden.

"I'll try, thank you for your advice. But… I've already bought you one of the things on your stupid wedding list, so… that would make too many gifts."

She laughed with you, finally pulling away, and taking back her oar. But she didn't start manoeuvring the boat before one last word was spoken through a tender smile.

"I'm really happy for you, Y/N. He'll make you happy, I know it. He'll love you the way you deserve to be adored. He always has, even when you didn't know he did."

You weren't surprised to find Harry playing with the two young children that were part of the guests. Amy's nephews and nieces were, after all, some of the cutest children you had ever met, and Harry was known for his love for children. So, when you went looking for him to talk about what your cousin had confessed in the boat about her doubts about the two of you, and found your best friend giggling in the most adorable way, chasing after Amy's eight-year-old nephew, in this ridiculous way he had to run sometimes, you couldn't refrain a grin. None of them seemed to notice you as you approached them, they were too busy playing on the shore of the loch. The rest of the two families were setting down blankets and the food needed for the picnic a few meters away, the boats safely dragged up the shore when you arrived to the other side of the loch. And you thought you could use this amount of time when everyone else was busy to have a quick conversation with Harry. But then, you were met with this adorable scene that now unfolded before you, and really, you couldn't interrupt them.

It was as if you were held back by an invisible force, really. All of a sudden, your feet were planted in the ground, and there was no willpower to summon in yourself to make your body move forward. Instead, you remained motionless under the autumnal sun, the wind making the colourful leaves whisper above you, and stared at your best friend being the softest ray of sunshine you had ever seen.

And there it was again. This warm feeling invading your whole chest that you had spent so long trying to banish from your heart. No need to put a name on it. No need to make it harder and more painful than it already was.

Why did he have to be like this all the time? He made it so hard to forget him. And he was so oblivious to it all that you couldn't even be mad at him for it.

Really sometimes, you hated him a little because of it. And as you watched him run around after the child, purposefully missing as he extended his arms to grab the boy, a ridiculous expression on his face as he laughed under the sun, wearing that stupid oversized jumper stained with bright colours of his, his unruly hair a mess of curls shaken by the wind, you did hate him a little. You hated him for making you feel the way you did now.

It took him a couple of minutes to notice that you were there, leaning against the trunk of an evergreen pine tree. Once he spotted you, he shot you a bright smile, before making a silly face that made you laugh despite yourself. It wasn't your fault, after all. He was so goofy sometimes, how were you supposed to resist him?

You shook your head at him, before nodding towards the trees that climbed up the shores, all the way up the slopes of the mountains around the lochs. Harry seemed to catch what you meant, as he sent the children back to their parents, and followed you as discreetly as he could further in the forest.

There were bushes filled with thorns that you almost tore your jeans onto. Only a few meters away, a small clearing filled with purple heather and tall green ferns was splayed in sunshine. Pine trees left their needles everywhere, making a brownish blanket upon the earth. A few colourful deciduous trees finished to paint the scene with touches of brighter colours to stain the blank blue sky. You figured the clearing was far enough to not be heard.

"Everything alright?" Harry asked with a concerned frown when you stopped walking and turned to him with worry painted all across your features.

"I had a talk with Amy in the boat."

"And?"

"And… we're not doing so good."

"What do you mean? Do you mean she's… suspicious about us being together?"

"Kind of. I mean… no, she didn't go this far," you reassured him. "But she asked if everything was alright between us because she thought we weren't… uhm… showing our feelings enough."

Harry heaved a sigh, pinching his lower lip between his fingers, clear sign that he was thinking and worried.

"I told you it was a bad idea."

"Look, we just need to up our game a little. I thought my family would be more easily convinced, but as they clearly don't seem to be buying it, I reckon that we simply have to… put a little more effort pretending."

"So… what do you propose we do?"

"Just… more PDA, I guess."

Harry's cheeks and ears turned crimson, and there was nowhere for him to hide this time.

"Alright. I can do that."

"Let's just… full on pretend we're together, okay? Holding hands, and hugs or whatever… you would do with your girlfriend in public... I mean… with people you know around."

"Okay."

"We can do this, H."

"We don't exactly have a choice at this point, do we?"

You didn't answer, and instead, walked back towards your family to join them for lunch, leaving Harry to meditate on your words on his own.

But then, he reckoned he didn't have a choice. If you wanted him to fully lean in the pretend, then he'd do it. No matter how dangerous that behaviour could end up being.

*****************************************************************

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theonlinemuse · 4 years

Text

And me and @freckledpianoman are back with more Beth Chapel content! Continuing from this post, here’s even more headcanons about our favourite Dr Mid-Nite:

Beth is nearsighted and started wearing glasses when she was three and a half. Bridget started noticing that her daughter kept squinting all the time and eventually took her to an eye doctor, attributing Beth needing glasses so early to all the times that she hid under the covers with a flashlight and read late into the night instead of sleeping

Her prescription is really strong and while her glasses correct most of her vision, she still needs accommodations like enlarged and high contrast texts and other visual aids

Chuck eventually becomes another accommodation since he acts as a cross between telescopic and magnifying glasses and a talking watch

She’s fluent in French thanks to her grandma Beatrice’s influence and she can carry a conversation in Spanish (she picked it up from Bridget, who often talks with her patients in Spanish) and Norwegian. That last language throws people off when they first hear about it, but it comes in handy when four-year-old Pieter Cross and his family (who don’t speak much English) move to Blue Valley from Trondheim, Norway

Yolanda grumbles about not being able to talk to Beth in Spanish class whenever she’s home sick from school because she's the one decent conversation partner she has in that class

Rick often practices translating for his French class with Beth. Once he goofed and said “madame le docteur”. And poor Beth was close to shaking him and going, “Rick, that's wrong on so many levels”

He knows by the incredulous look on her face that he’s all sorts of wrong and he blushes all embarrassed. But later he mistranslates on purpose just to see her adorable reactions

She wants to pick up more languages eventually (she’s deciding if she wants to take both Mandarin and Arabic in college like her dad did) and is currently learning ASL

Beth is a Star Trek fan thanks to her dad’s influence. She and James would watch reruns of Deep Space Nine while she was growing up and it was their way of bonding. While that tradition didn’t happen as often when Beth started high school, she and Yolanda (who had watched Voyager with her brother and cousins) eventually start a tradition of watching Star Trek Discovery

Beth and Yolanda’s love for Star Trek is often a point of contention with Rick and Courtney, who are both Star Wars fans. It’s been the subject of a lot of arguments about what to watch for JSA marathons. Pat is usually the tie breaker

Beth learned how to garden from her grandma Beatrice, who raises African violets in her rooftop garden. Beth’s backyard isn’t big enough for a garden so instead she keeps all sorts of plants in her room, including little teacup succulents on her bedroom windowsill and in honeycomb shelves

While her backyard’s too small for a garden, there’s a pink dogwood tree and she loves reading and having picnics under it when it’s in bloom. In the summer Beth makes her own butterfly feeders and hang them from the tree and watch the butterflies gather

She grew up listening to Schoolhouse Rock thanks to her dad, who would play their songs in the kitchen whenever he made breakfast on Saturday mornings while she was growing up. Even now, Beth sings along to them whenever she hears them and Chuck starting adding them to karaoke mode, including her favourites “Three is a Magic Number”, “The Tale of Mr Morton”, and “The Energy Blues”

When she was in middle school, she started using the melody of Schoolhouse Rock songs to memorize things like country names and the periodic table. She used the latter to help Rick memorize different elements for his chem class. Yolanda actually caught Rick softly singing to himself at his locker when he was searching for his notes for one last read through

“Beth got you to sing? Willingly?” “I wasn't singing, you’re hearing things.”

Courtney is weirded out by the fact that Beths texts with Mike of all people, but it's mostly through gifs, emojis, and random memes. She has no idea what they even talk about, saying that Beth texts with Mike more often than she does with Rick, much to the latter’s annoyance. In reality Beth and Mike talk about robotics competitions, the latest episode of whatever they were binging (this week was Julie and the Phantoms), and their ongoing bet on when Courtney and Yolanda will finally get together

If Beth wins, Mike has to help upgrade her costume and if he wins, she owes him an ice cream cake

“It's like their own little nerd language, it makes no sense.”

Her style icon when she was little was Ms Frizzle. Beth thought that Ms Frizzle’s themed dresses and jewellery were so cool and she wanted to dress up like her. She still loves Ms Frizzle’s style and you can see the influence it has on Beth’s fashion from bright colours, unique patterns, and quirky jewellery

Beth has a special section in her closet for Ms Frizzle like outfits that she wears to the children’s library she volunteers at. It makes her very popular with the kids there

She actually dressed up as Ms Frizzle for Halloween in seventh grade

Despite being on opposite sides, Beth and Cindy have a begrudging respect for each other similar to Betty and Wilhelmina’s relationship on Ugly Betty, Beth being the JSA member that Cindy tolerates the most

Cindy begrudgingly thinks that she does know a thing or two about fashion because she often upcycles clothes. Courtney’s surprised that Beth’s still alive after she said that Cindy dresses like an evil PTA mom within earshot, though she did kidnap Beth a few times for a shopping spree

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping!” “Did you just quote Mean Girls?”

The first time they had a standoff, Cindy went “please, I’m Japanese, you’re Black, we’re not talking around this thing like a couple of dull white people”

Cindy once called Rick a feral raccoon and smirked when it made Beth accidentally burst out laughing

While Beth is more than confident with her personal style, but she’s still very new to makeup in general. Yolanda and Artemis (even Cindy much to everyone’s shock) have taken it upon themselves to help experiment with makeup and find out what she likes. Beth immediately knows that she doesn’t like mascara, even as Yolanda scolds her to stay still while she’s trying to put mascara on her

“You’re making it seem like I’m torturing you.” “Your superhero costume has claws, that doesn’t exactly scream safe.” “I’ll have you know I’m very practiced with my claws, now stay still!”

Beth likes the lipsticks and glosses much better, she likes the different colours and how it feels on her lips

She has to get used to the feeling of makeup on her face in general, but she doesn’t mind it and she’s shocked when she looks in the mirror. It’s still very much her, but it's like she’s glowing. She can’t stop smiling and the girls all look at her fondly

And they also exchange knowing looks, knowing that Rick is going to lose his mind

She did a history report on Bessie Coleman in middle school and she eventually drew inspiration for her Dr Mid-Nite costume from looking at photos of Bessie’s pilot outfit

Beth and her mom often did ceramics classes when she was a kid. They weren’t very good at it at first, but the little lopsided knick knacks they made always made them laugh. Beth and Bridget got better over the years with Beth painting colours and patterns on whatever her mom helped her make before they went into the kiln. She thought they would be plain otherwise and Bridget agreed with her

While ceramics classes have since stopped, they still use the honeycomb mugs and planters that they made and painted when Beth was in middle school. Bridget uses one for the aloe vera plant she keeps in her office at the hospital

Beth is allergic to pineapple. She found out during a school trip in third grade when Henry offered some of his fruit salad and she ended up with a swollen face and tongue, which really freaked Artemis and Cindy out. Yolanda and the villain kids ended up taking care of her until the ambulance came and Beth jokes that it was the one time the JSA and ISA kids worked together on something

She now carries an epipen in her backpack and Rick has taken to carrying a backup one in his jacket in case Beth can’t get to her backpack in time

She had a stargazing phase that she never grew out of. Her parents got her a mini telescope for her fifth birthday and Bridget started teaching her about the solar system before Beth started learning about constellations on her own. Bridget jokes that if her daughter hadn’t been set on becoming a doctor, she would’ve gone into astrophysics

Beth still has a telescope set up by her bedroom window. Sometimes when she has trouble sleeping and she’s not in the mood to read, she’ll look for constellations through the telescope while Chuck chimes in with little known star facts

She also has a starry globe nightlight and a constellation globe

She and Rick sometimes have stargazing “dates” out on her back porch. They curl up together in a patio chair with midnight snacks while they watch meteor showers. Sometimes Yolanda and Courtney will join them, curled up together in the other patio chair

Beth and Courtney often have karaoke nights at the Pit Stop after Pat souped up Barbara’s old karaoke machine. The usual playlist includes fun 80s and 90s jams as well as modern songs like Bruno Mars, Lizzo, and Janelle Monae. Yolanda often joins them for girl group songs (Little Mix is a favourite), even though she protests that she’s not much of a singer when she’s not singing Selena songs

Rick gets roped into doing a song too, much to his dismay. Courtney pouts and complains that he has to because there’s an unspoken rule that everyone has to sing

“I don't sing, dammit.” “Oh really, are you forgetting about that little ditty you were singing before your chem test?”

Beth sees how nervous Rick is and decides to go easy on him, finding a slow, bluesy song that he can keep up with and assuring him that even if he can’t croon those long deep notes, everyone will cheer him on. He ends up giving the best performance of the night, shocking the girls and impressing them all

He blushes when he sees Beth looking at him all starry eyed

When Beth was growing up, her family would have game night every Thursday and they were always old fashioned board games like Clue, Scrabble, and Pictionary. Whenever they would play Clue, Beth would always choose to be Miss Scarlett while her dad would switch between Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard. Beth could never beat her mom at Scrabble and it often ended up with Beth’s chemistry words versus Bridget’s medical terms

While game nights have since stopped, James will sometimes have Beth join him for a card game at three or four in the morning after he comes back from a business trip. He taught her how to play games like crazy eights, gin rummy, and cribbage when she was in middle school and it’s now their way of catching up after he comes back from travelling

Both her parents are only children. James’ family was originally from California before he moved to Nebraska for work while Bridget’s family are of Louisiana Creole descent and hail from Omaha. Beth is quite close to Bridget’s side of the family, especially with her second cousin Delphine’s family. Beth sometimes helps look after Delphine’s daughter Eliana whenever she and her husband are in town

Rick once mistook Eliana for Beth’s baby, hilarity ensued

Beth has a love for animals and since the fandom has collectively decided that Beth is a Disney Princess, she has a particular talent for being an accidental animal tamer. During a mission, three of the ISA’s attack dogs made a beeline for her and attacked her with doggie kisses instead of doing their job

The ISA are torn between being pissed (“when the hell did Mid-Nite become an animal tamer?”) and confused. Sportsmaster is vaguely impressed and takes it as a challenge

Later they tried scaring Beth with a python, which only really worked on Yolanda (“oh my god, what is that?”) while Beth just boops the snake on its snout. The snake swooned. So did Rick

After Rick and Yolanda recover from the shock, they look at the trio of attack dogs follow Beth all the way to the Pit Stop and go “we’re not keeping you”. Rick just hopes that the trio are the only attack dogs that follow her back home. He wishes that he had been more specific because he was not expecting an actual maned wolf suddenly coming up and sniffing all over Beth during a visit to the Dugan-Whitmores’ cabin

“What the fuck, where did that come from and why is it all over Beth?!”

It turns out that Beth didn’t realize that she had a cookie in one of her pockets and the maned wolf caught a whiff of it and was now trying to find it. The way it sniffs her is ticklish and she’s laughing the entire time

Once the maned wolf brought over a friend to see Beth and Courtney goes, “aww, he met another–oh my god, that’s a panther!” The panther also wanted one of Beth’s treats and it swooped in between her and Rick and started pawing at her like a spoiled kitten

Rick picked Beth up and carried her inside because “we can’t trust her outside anymore”

#Stargirl #Beth Chapel #Rick Tyler #Hournite #ship it

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allsassnoclass · 4 years

Note

Prompt: 28, 10 and Lashton

You said lashton in an art gallery. I said Off-Screen circa 2017 (aka Luke’s Utah Era). this might feel a little out of context, because it is. the theoretical prequel that I'm writing would explain more of the surrounding circumstance, but the most important thing to note is that Luke moved in with Ashton in Utah after the end of the SLFL tour. This takes place in January of 2017.

lashton: “Where are all of my hoodies? Did you borrow literally every single one of my hoodies?” + art gallery

The last guest has left when Luke arrives, the gallery technically beginning to close for the night. Ashton is tired, all of the frantic energy from the past few months building up to this evening of schmoozing and revealing the deepest parts of his soul to be judged by the art community, and he feels empty now that it has passed. There’s a glass of some sort of fancy alcohol in his hand, but he hasn’t had the chance to drink it all night, and his suit feels like it doesn’t fit his shoulders correctly. It’s been bothering him, but he’s been too focused on smiling genially and making nice with every single person who passed through the doors to look at his art to do anything about it.

The sound of the main doors opening is loud in the quiet of the space, and Ashton tenses where he’s talking to the owner of the gallery. He relaxes once he sees that it’s not another art snob or a random person who got lost, but Luke. He stands at the threshold awkwardly, fiddling with the hem of one of Ashton’s college hoodies, beanie stuffed unceremoniously over his hair. It’s getting longer, and he’s been letting it curl more instead of spending hours styling it and trying to get it to sit right.

He looks just as breathtaking as ever, and Ashton is almost overwhelmed with how lucky he feels to be one of the only people to see famous rockstar Luke Hemmings with his guard completely down.

“Luke,” he sighs, relief too obvious. Luke just smiles and wanders, stopping short when something in a painting catches his eye.

“Friend of yours?” the gallery owner asks, and Ashton turns his attention back to her. It’s too easy to forget that anyone else exists the moment Luke enters a room. Ashton needs to get a grip.

“Yeah, that’s my housemate. Do you mind if we look around for a bit? He couldn’t make the normal gallery times.”

He logistically could have, because Luke doesn’t have responsibilities here in Utah, but Ashton knows that the idea of him having to look nice, be in a crowd of people, and possibly be recognized almost sent him into a panic attack.

“Sure. I’m locking up by 10, though, so be out before then.”

Ashton thanks her profusely, and the look she gives him is a bit too knowing for his taste. Still, she heads towards the back with an artistic grace, and Ashton joins Luke where he’s staring at one of Ashton’s paintings.

“Hi,” he says quietly. Luke leans into him in a practiced move, shoulders brushing together. Luke has always been familiar and comfortable, despite how little they see each other.

Ashton knows he should feel bad that Luke felt so lost in LA that he had to come all the way to Utah and Ashton to try and find himself, but selfishly he’s glad. For a few months, he gets Luke to himself, curled up on his couch and eating at his kitchen island instead of off traveling the world and meeting adoring fans. Besides, having Luke here helps. Ashton can’t take care of another person if he’s drunk every night, and meals are easier to prepare when there are two people to eat them. It’s easier to fall asleep if someone else is breathing slowly next to him. It’s easier to keep the loneliness at bay with Luke stepping into the gaps in his life.

“Was it a good showing?” Luke asks.

“It was,” he replies, resisting the urge to do something inappropriate like pull Luke closer and tuck his face into his neck just to breathe him in. “I even sold a few paintings.”

“You did?” Luke lights up. “Ashton, that’s amazing! Which ones? Wait, I want to see them all anyway. Walk me through them as we go.”

Ashton does, trying his best to remember the thought process and inspiration behind each of the paintings hanging in the gallery. For the earlier works it’s easier, because objects inside are more defined and they have clearer stories. For recent creations featuring bold strokes and swirls of color and more ambiguous shapes, the inspirations shift towards ideas. Some of them he created while drunk, and he has to check the title cards to figure out what he was going for, because while drunk Ashton isn’t good for much, he at least always writes titles in his notes app when he paints.

His professors made him include some of those works, saying that a few are profound and mesmerizing and probably your best work. It makes Ashton feel like he can’t create anything if he doesn’t have a few drinks in him. It’s a mindset he’s trying to move away from, but it’s hard. At least he has endless inspiration with Luke in the house.

Luke looks at a piece entitled Longing for a few minutes, and Ashton prays that he doesn’t ask who or what he was longing for while painting it.

“Come on,” he says when the swirl of blues and purples (with just that shimmer of gold to represent the person of desire, possibly forming a hazy constellation of Luke to anyone who knows what to look for) becomes too much. “I want to show you the synesthesia section.”

“Section” is a generous term, because it’s actually just four paintings on the same wall. He has many more paintings for various songs and albums back home, most of them on smaller canvases he can get from the craft store, but there are a few songs that evoke such strong, beautiful visuals that he had to paint them properly.

The first painting has a primarily blue background, mixing with black in short strokes by the edges. Traveling diagonally across the canvas are an assortment of other colors, mostly yellows and reds until they meet strokes of white in the middle. The paint is thick, creating textured mountains where the colors meet, and that’s Ashton’s favorite part about painting, really. He’s not very good at 3D forms, but paint never lays completely flat. He likes how dynamic it is because of it.

“Gravity,” Luke croons as he looks, “is working against me.”

Ashton loves hearing him sing. He was worried for those first few weeks Luke came to him, because he rarely heard it, but now he can count on random melodies filling the house at all hours.

“John Mayer makes nice songs to look at,” he says. Luke smiles at him, then they move on to the next one.

This painting has a bit more variety in color. Ashton remembers mixing them on his pallet, unbothered by the streaks it caused in the brush strokes, knowing that it was necessary to capture what the song makes him see. A dark background gives way to a curve of reds, purples, pinks, blues, ending in some greens and yellows and a hint of orange. He splattered white and black on afterwards, just a little bit near the middle of the curve, and Luke leans forward to see all the small dots.

“This one really does look like ‘Karma Police,’” Luke says. “Even I can see it.” He straightens and gives Ashton another grin, and he knows that he can’t capture that smile in a painting (he’s tried, so many times), but he still wants to attempt it again.

“I can’t believe how talented you are,” Luke says. “It’s almost unfair.”

“Thanks,” he says, ducking his head. Luke nudges him with his elbow and moves on to the next painting. This one follows a similar pattern to the other two, a dark background with color in the middle, but it’s messier. Blue and purple feature the most, but there are hints of orange and yellow, and white overtakes the painting in peaked chunks and thin streaks.

“You’d think that for a Prince song, there’d be a bit more purple,” Luke says, tilting his head.

“Maybe he should have written more purple songs, then,” Ashton shrugs. “‘Joy in Repetition’ has more blue.”

“Wait, is “Purple Rain” even purple?” Luke asks, alarmed.

“Yes, that one fits the title.” Luke looks reassured at that, and they continue to the last painting. Ashton feels nerves clench in his stomach.

He didn’t submit any of his photographs or colored pencil sketches of Luke, not even the really good one of Luke sleeping in his bed with an arm over his face that Ashton drew one night when the insomnia was hitting him hard, but this painting could be just as damning. It’s different from the other three because it’s slightly bigger and oriented differently, vertical instead of horizontal. The background is also based in white instead of black, primarily creating a pale blue to match the cautious optimism of the song. More blue meets with seafoam green, peach, and white in the middle, dripping down the canvas until all the colors fade into just the green. The lines of this one are smoother, blended together evenly, but there are bursts of gold in the middle and near a few edges that he bought a specific brand of metallic paint for. Ashton watches as Luke’s eyes trace the painting before he turns to the name card.

“Luke?” he asks when a few moments have gone by with him completely frozen.

“Really?” Luke asks, voice cracking. “This is what you see?”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. He knew he was going to end up painting the song as soon as he first heard Luke’s voice singing about tasting the ocean. “It’s mostly “Outer Space,” but I incorporated some of what I saw for “Carry On” at the bottom.”

“Oh,” Luke says, then turns and tucks himself into a hug, squeezing Ashton tight enough that he feels short of breath. Ashton wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and letting Luke cuddle into him in a way that he’s almost getting too big for.

“I take it you like it?” he asks, just to be sure. Luke nods, and when he does finally pull away he swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of Ashton’s sweatshirt.

“Can I buy it?” he asks.

“Luke, you can have it for free.” Luke shakes his head vigorously.

“No, you’ve already given me too much. I want to buy it from you. You should be paid for your art.”

“Okay,” Ashton says quietly. Luke’s eyes are still fixed on the painting, and Ashton comes back to slide a hand around his waist again. “We can negotiate a price later.” He presses a kiss to Luke’s temple, because that’s something he can get away with still.

“Don’t try to give me a discount. I’ve already stolen your food and half your clothes.”

“Speaking of,” Ashon says, “I’m absolutely positive that this hoodie was the last one in my closet. Where are all my hoodies? Did you borrow literally every single one of my hoodies?”

“Yeah,” Luke says sheepishly. “They’re comfortable. They smell like you.”

Luke is going to kill him like this. Ashton can’t even be upset, because what a way to go, but things like that are not helping him keep a lid on how absolutely head-over-heels he is.

“I’d be more upset if you didn’t look so good in them,” Ashton says before he can stop himself. Luke’s breathing stutters, but he doesn’t do anything besides lean a little closer. Ashton’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

“Come on,” Luke says. “I still want to see the rest of your pieces, then we can go home.”

Home, Ashton repeats to himself. Luke thinks of your house as his home.

They wander their way through the last few canvases, then stop briefly in the photograph and colored pencil room before stepping out onto the street. Their hands brush as they walk, and Ashton wonders if he can get away with grabbing Luke’s. This night feels significant in so many ways. Something has shifted, and he’s not sure if it has to do with his art career or the man beside him. He wants it to be both so badly he aches with it.

When they have two more blocks to go before reaching the house, Luke reaches over and threads their fingers together.

A/N: I don’t have synesthesia, but the first three song paintings really exist and can be found here. the one for os/co was made up by me.

#my writing #lashton #drabble #off-screen #this just set multiple things in stone that were undetermined before today #but when (if) I ever write the prequel things could shift and change #also this Ashton has synesthesia. the kind where he can see music #also me writing the piece with os/co: 'oh Helen isn't going to like this'#ugh I had something else I was going to say about this but now I've forgotten #this is a little treat for the people who follow me here after reading it because this is not going on ao3 until after the prequel #off screen

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philosophiums · 5 years

Text

hmmmmm so..... i wrote an aftg volleyball au.......

@ravenvsfox this is mostly your fault.... also please know that i actually drew out all of the rotations with the players so that i could keep track of them (for the whole ass two rotations i wrote skdjbkjsbdvsf) and buried myself in actual volleyball rules to make sure i wasn’t fucking anything up. anyway pls enjoy

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The ball comes over the net, cleanly past Andrew’s head. Despite his lack of motivation, his hours and years of training tell him to go for it, to stick his arms out and get low and move in for the receive. But for the first time in his life, he’s on the front line, and putting up impossible serves is no longer his job. He stays still, hands loose at his sides, and just watches the ball.

The world always slows down when he’s on the court, like movements through water. He feels the vibrations through his feet, sees the motions of his teammates as both blurry shapes and sharp images. For idiots like Kevin and Neil, he imagines that everything speeds up. All they care about is spiking the ball, touching it as much as they can, and to do that they need to run. They get hyped, they get high off the weight of the ball smacking into their palm, they flood with adrenaline after the success of a clean kill. Andrew imagines it’s just a chase for them – greyhounds running after a cloth rabbit.

But for Andrew, only his thoughts move that fast.

“Aaron!”

“Got it!”

Aaron hasn’t played libero since early last year, even though the color of his uniform proclaims him as such. Except for the first couple games when Andrew hadn’t quite figured out his medication rotation, Andrew’s been the main libero for the Foxes since their freshman year. But Aaron’s knees give way and his heels take his balance like he’s played the whole set and then some. It’s not a natural talent, but it’s far from indifference. Andrew’s watched him practice, and he’s never fallen behind.

The ball goes up, and Andrew moves from the center front, watching the curve, the spin, working through in his mind how his fingers are going to have to be splayed to catch it. This is different from practice, when Kevin would just toss the ball before going in for the spike, but Andrew’s played libero his whole life; he knows how to catch a ball. His body moves, and his mind keeps spinning three steps ahead.

He knows what positions the other team – the Cavaliers – started in, heavy in the front as they prepare to block, but maintaining two receivers on the back line for any balls that might make it through.

The Foxes are in a good defense rotation, which means that their front line is a little lacking, prepared for blocking and not necessarily ready for any powerful spikes. But Kevin’s already moved up from the back right into a more central location, prepared to use the non-dominant hand he’s been strengthening all summer for a back attack. Kevin runs first tempo, and he likes a toss high enough that he can see over the blockers and get a read on the layout of the other team.

Nicky’s taken a step back from the net, ready for a block receive if it should be needed.

Matt seems ready, too, set up to the far right in a position that would let him pull off quite the wipe if he got through. He’s a strong spiker, but he has a bad habit of jumping too close to the net, and his long arms make straights a challenge. He knows the toss likely isn’t going up for him given his position and its relation to Kevin’s, but he’s ready to jump anyway. Andrew knows from watching Renee that Matt prefers his tosses high and tight, and half of a hand length ahead of what could be considered standard. He also runs first tempo, and the fact that he’s hit in a few points over the course of the game means there’s a blocker on him – that’s one less on Kevin.

And then there’s Neil, who isn’t waiting for Andrew’s toss and has already taken off, racing up to the net from the back end of the ten foot line, angling himself in the wide open right side. He’s trying his hardest to get a blocker to chase him, but he hasn’t hit a spike the whole match, and he’s no longer serving his purpose as a decoy.

He runs at minus tempo.

It’s no wonder Renee can’t properly set to him, and it’s no wonder he can’t trust Renee to give him the toss he needs. Most people would say that Neil should adapt to Renee – hell, Wymack already yelled at him to slow down – but in volleyball it’s the spiker who takes charge of the attack. It’s the spiker fighting in the air for every point. The setter’s job is to make sure the spiker has good footing when they take off.

Renee refused to back down from the challenge in practice, but today she didn’t seem to trust her tosses enough. Her fever and chest cold may have had something to do with it. Her holy high horse lost them the first match, but Andrew made a promise and a trade with Wymack.

The second match is theirs.

Andrew’s never set to Neil, has never set to anyone other than Kevin, but the reckless idiot has already jumped, and he’s wide open.

Maybe.

The ball settles on Andrew’s fingertips, and he cradles it for only a moment before firing it off at Neil. It’s a fast toss – too fast, really, but there’s no other choice. He has to get the ball to a fool who’s already in the air.

With a smack, Neil’s palm connects with the ball, and it collides with the floor in the massive gap in the Cavaliers’ defense.

For the first time all day, the supports for the Cavaliers fall quiet, a string of unsettled murmurs the only thing trickling down to the court. Words of disbelief come in from the Foxes’ own sparse supporters, too, and it feels like every person around Andrew has suddenly leaned in for a closer look. On the side lines, Wymack is on his feet fast enough that Andrew’s eyes move to him for a second, just to make sure he stays where he’s supposed to be. And then his gaze goes back to Neil, whose back is to Andrew, head bent enough that Andrew can see the red roots escaping the dyed brown of his hair.

But the stunned silence only lasts for a few breaths, and then the Foxes start yelling, going crazy over a play they weren’t expecting. Phrases like “what the fuck was that” and “holy shit” punctuate the general chorus of excitement, a one syllable sound that keeps getting louder as time draws on. Andrew doesn’t get swept up in it.

Neil turns around and lifts his eyes from his red palm, finding Andrew through the commotion of Matt and Kevin running at him. His eyes are wide; Andrew thinks if they were any wider he might be able to make out the ocean of blue hiding behind the brown of his contacts. The surprise plays on his face clearer and more honest than Andrew’s ever seen him. He’s shocked, Andrew thinks, over being handed the trust of an unlikely toss. It was reckless, since they’ve never tried it before, and he expects a few stern words from Wymack and Kevin once they’re off the court for longer than a time out, but for now, he’s going to sit in this moment.

Andrew can hide behind the logic of Neil being wide open all he likes – his brain still knows what this uncommon feeling in his chest is.

A perfect hit. A moment of shared trust.

Andrew walks up, and Neil pushes past Matt to meet him halfway. There are several dozen snide things Andrew could say about Neil’s style and obsessive focus, about how he shouldn’t be blaming anyone but himself for the lack of tosses he’s received thus far in the game. But he just cocks his head instead, enraptured by how Neil has managed to stack yet another mystery on top of all of his lies. One more thing for Andrew to unfold.

“How was it?” he asks.

The Foxes fall strangely silent, as if the miracle play never happened. They never expect Andrew to care or offer to change. They don’t know him at all.

Neil curls his fingers into a fist. “Perfect.” This is the first time they’ve said anything to each other since Columbia. The wild grin that takes over Neil’s face is worse than the drugs, and Andrew both wants it to stop and isn’t ready for the withdrawal.

He turns his gaze away, towards the net and what lies beyond. The Cavaliers look confused but unshaken, probably chalking up the spike as nothing more than a desperate stroke of luck – the rash motions of an animal backed into a corner. It’s their turn to receive anyway, so there’s no doubt they believe they can get the point back. They may be right. Maybe it was a fluke. But the ball has never felt better in Andrew’s hands.

The first referee chirps his whistle, and the Foxes make their way back to their positions, rotating once clockwise. Matt’s up to serve, but Andrew’s not going to look. He’s watching the Cavaliers, wondering where Matt’s serve is going to go and who’s going to spike after the setter gets the ball. He knows his block height isn’t going to be good enough, probably not even for a one touch, but Nicky’s in the front now and Neil’s steady as a fucking hurricane in the center of the court.

“Nice serve!” Dan calls, back on the court after Aaron swapped out. They won’t need a libero right now, and Dan’s good defense for a chance ball.

The whistle blows, and Matt’s serve goes over clean.

Andrew’s fighting his drug-fucked brain, but it’s not hard to think when he’s on the court, when the ball’s in play and everything slows down to a speed he can process. Volleyball can be surprising, but it’s systematic – three chances to touch the ball, a receive, a toss, a spike. He’s going to have to work on his vertical if he wants to stay on the court as a setter beyond this game.

Does he want that?

The Cavaliers receive Matt’s powerful jump serve, and he broke their pattern but the ball still goes up. The players connect for a quick.

Neil shoots from the center towards the left corner, plowing towards Nicky as he follows the ball like he’s magnetized. And christ, he’s fast. He’s up in the air before Nicky, fingers splayed and arms stretching.

“One touch!” Neil shouts.

How, Andrew isn’t sure. He hasn’t even moved yet.

“Chance ball!” Kevin goes in for the receive, hitting it up cleanly towards Andrew, who moves into position in just a couple of steps. With all three of the Foxes’ powerhouse spikers on the back line, the blockers for the Cavaliers are more spread out along the net, preparing to read block, perhaps even preparing for a back attack. Nicky’s in a good position for a quick and has one blocker on him, so the chances of it getting past are good, but the Cavaliers keep up defense even on the back line, so the chances of it getting picked up again are also good.

Andrew looks at Kevin and wonders if he could fight his way into a point from the back line with a hand he hasn’t fully mastered yet.

But it’s Neil who sings to him again, his body cutting air as he runs along the net in search of a place free of blockers. He’s already a blur in Andrew’s peripheral, just a flash of orange and black planting his feet and jumping as high as he can. There’s no one marking him, so there’s no reason to try so hard, but Andrew doubts Neil knows anything except fighting, except being dialed all the way up for as long as he can sustain his stamina.

Maybe the last toss was a fluke.

Andrew wants to know for sure.

The ball settles against his fingertips, and he bends his hands until the ball is cradled completely. The motion doesn’t even last the span of two breaths, but he thinks he can feel each fingertip as they settle against the synthetic leather. Neil’s nearing the peak of his jump, and no one’s ready. Andrew lets the ball fly.

It’s not perfect – he’s new to this, and no amount of thinking can make his hands work perfectly every time. But he knows where Neil is, and he knows how to get the ball there. It’s low and a little short. Neil sees that, too, and in the fraction of a second he has to hit the ball before it goes flying into the stands, Neil adjusts his arm and smacks the ball down.

He lands, and his hands are already in fists, a delighted yell rising from deep in his lungs and ripping out of his throat. He whirls on Andrew and he looks wild, hair sticking to his forehead and temples, teeth bared.

Goosebumps slide along Andrew’s arms and down his spine. His heart jumps like he’s in freefall. A pipe dream. A new drug. That’s all Neil is. But he jogs over to Andrew and refuses to let him come up for air.

“It’s so fast,” he says, a safe distance away, but he’s shining so brightly that Andrew feels like he should take a step back, anyway.

He holds his ground. “Nice cover.” Most spikers would have been able to grab a poor set, so Neil’s hand connecting with the ball isn’t anything to fawn over, but the speed factor makes it more impressive. This is Andrew’s only concession.

“Neil!” Nicky runs up and barrels into him, excitedly wrapping around him as if that was the winning point. They have another ten to go; Nicky needs to calm down.

Andrew turns away, wondering if his shaky body is going to last the whole game. It’s his turn to serve after the next play, but he’s never practiced so they’ll have to give up that point. Then he’ll be on the back line, and his training as a libero is going to hinder him being able to set, because if he gets the receive up they’re fucked.

Why does he care?

“Andrew.”

He turns back, looking at Neil, who managed to shove his way out of Nicky’s enthusiasm. The look in his eyes is as greedy as it is deadly. “Let’s do that again.”

#the foxhole court #aftg #tfc #the foxhole court fic #anyway this is like 2.4k and i wrote most of it on my phone bc my brain wasn't working #enjoy #i'll likely also post it to ao3 tomorrow #my fics #aftg volleyball au

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viktorfm · 4 years

Text

(MAXENCE DANET-FAUVEL, NONBINARY) - Have you seen VIKTOR SAMUELS? VIKTOR is in HIS/THEIR SENIOR year. The VISUAL ARTS MAJOR is 24 years old & is a CAPRICORN. People say HE/THEY are OBSERVANT, INGENIOUS, RETICENT and DEPENDENT. Rumors say they’re a member of KINCAID. I heard from the gossip blog that THEY'RE HAVING AN AFFAIR WITH THEIR THERAPIST. (JAMES. 21. EST. THEY/THEM.)

dont. look at me. i know. anyways if it wasnt obvs i abandoned cupid (n darrow) in order 2 bring the two ocs tht he ws inspired by n ws a combination of bt. theyre better as different ppl methinks.

DEATH, HEAVY GRIEF, OVERDOSE / DRUG ADDICTION, HOSPITALIZATION, HYPERSEXUALITY, RELIGION MENTIONS TW

aesthetic.

old tvs and their static, worn tapes, horror movie screams, spilled ink, a sculptor’s hands, clay-stained, chicken scratch handwriting, messy notes, messy hair, scoffs and eye-rolls, bruised knuckles, sore throats, funeral homes and a crying preacher, shattered ceramics, knife fights, high ledges, vertically-striped pants, red lights, the moon shrouded in clouds, cigarette butts, graveyards and half-empty wine bottles, sitting there for hours and talking to nothing, about nothing, a god complex, gold rings adorning both hands, barbwire baseball bats, having never played baseball in your life, deep eyebags and broken mirrors, a permanent chip on one’s shoulder, yearning, longing, wishing.

basics.

full name: viktor phillip samuels

nickname(s): icky vicky :/

b.o.d. - january 2nd, 1996

label(s): the black hole, the crepehanger, the impious, the opaque, the tempest, etc.

height: 6′1″

hometown: preaker, vermont

sexuality: pansexual uwu

stats

favorite song: disorder, joy division / it’s getting faster, moving faster / now it’s getting out of hand / on the tenth floor, down the back stairs / it’s a no man’s land / lights are flashing, cars are crashing / getting frequent now / i’ve got the spirit, lose the feeling / let it out somehow

background.

born to mama and papa (preacher) samuels in preaker, vermont - fifteen minutes after his twin sister, tatiana samuels. years later, rosa samuels joined the gang.

was an awkward, quiet kid growing up, he didn’t interact well with others and preferred being left alone to dig up worms and draw on the walls of their childhood home. the only exception was his twin, really.

as he got older he grew out of this, but instead became like … sort of an asshole? maybe to compensate for years of childhood awkwardness. he’s the sort of person who will bite the hand that feeds him & developed into a full time nuisance by middle school, unlike tatiana who was much more subtle about her conniving manners.

always has been a fan of ‘darker’ materials. grim & creepy morbid shit. probably the biggest tim burton fan, ever since he was a kid … not a good look for a preacher’s son, but he never really felt ‘in’ with the rest of his family to begin with. classic black sheep syndrome.

drew disturbing pictures as a kid that probably prompted one or two or five phone calls home to assure everything was fine.

just really had a knack for art at a young age, from drawing to painting to playing with clay. it’s always been his thing and probably is the only thing he’s good at.

being twins with tatiana was hard. they were near opposite besides both being quite mean-spirited. tatiana handled being in public better, left a better image behind - but viktor had talent, more than she did. they loved each other deeply - y’know, those unbreakable twin bonds as cliche as it sounds - but found each other as competition for their parents’ attention. a rivalry for affection.

in high school is when viktor really started to act out. it started extreme, like losing his virginity in their church and vandalism around the neighborhoods. faked being possessed in the middle of sunday service & almost had an exorcism performed on him.

his only redeemable trait was like … just his sheer talent in the arts. was in a 3d art ap course and specialized in sculptures. he could pretty much create anything he wanted with enough dedication.

because he was the problem child, the one who deserved to be disciplined for all his antics, tatiana could sneak away and get away with whatever she wanted much easier. on the bright-side, for her, i guess.

not a very motivated person - wasn’t planning on going to college, much less going to yates but his parents literally wrote & sent his college application for him because they weren’t going to house a deadbeat but had too much heart to kick him out onto the streets. cool!

he’s actually pretty smart but he just doesn’t apply himself. has a minor in english because he didn’t care for an extra course-load, but he’s good at writing & analyzing literature. is going to use it to write and illustrate his own series of children books with a style similar to tim burton’s. not for the kids, but because he likes to leave a trail of terror in whatever he does.

has been experimenting with himself since high school but college is where he really had started to crack down on himself. was out as pansexual & nonbinary by his sophomore year of college just … not to his parents, who don’t really need to know.

if you asked him if he believed in twins having a psychic connection with each other - he’d tell you he wouldn’t know. it felt believable at times, but sometimes he had no idea what was going on inside of tatiana’as head. on the other hand - viktor had always felt oddly transparent to her, like she knew all of his moves before he did. the only person who could predict him accurately.

( tw death, grief, overdose / hospitalization beyond this point )

when tatiana disappeared, viktor knew something was up. it was a twist in his gut, pure instinct that something wasn’t right. and it wasn’t right - and when she was proclaimed missing, they couldn’t find her.

and when tatiana died - viktor knew. it felt wrong, something cut so severely in him he could pinpoint her death to the second. he didn’t know how, or why, but he knew it. knew it before anybody else had.

afterwards he went on a sort of bender. he’d begun to struggle with a mild drug addiction late senior year of high school / early college, but he was managing it up until this point.

his mental health had also sunk to an all-time low, when it’d never been great to begin with. (manic & depressive episodes. once fixated on a sculpting project for six months and then knocked it off the table and destroyed it as soon as he finished it for no apparent reason.)

tatiana’s body wasn’t found immediately, and when it was … viktor went off the rails. ended up overdosing & being hospitalized. spent six months in & out of psychiatric care after that.

came back to yates to finish his senior year because … for the reasons above, he hadn’t been able to complete it. just wants to get his credits and get out of here.

is still dealing with a lot of trauma & grief - causes him to spiral and be unpredictable in regards of his mental health. he stopped taking his medication, so. :/ some days are alright, other days are pretty bad.

personality & facts.

the human embodiment of a gremlin that was fed after midnight. a goblin, if you will. one of those cats with a narrow head and really big ears … that’s them!

a big horror & halloween enthusiast. loves the old campy horror movies & probably has an abundance of masks from different movies. dresses like a grimy millennial beetlejuice more than they should because they just … love those black & white vertical-striped pants.

can appreciate the ~urban legends~ at yates and likes to feed into the fear that surrounds them. is probably the cause of a few ‘anomalies’ and ‘paranormal sightings’ because they’re just … a jerk.

fashion alternates between e-boy (they would be tiktok famous if they were 17 & didn’t think that a majorly minor based app was weird.), millennial beetlejuice, and goth in a crop top & sweatpants. big fan of crop tops and a big fan of sweatpants.

they can be really fucking mean? petty, aggressive, a major instigator. will literally spit in your face for little to no reason, you could just look at them the wrong way. the kind of person who will stick their gum into someone else’s hair. other than that? they’re like … sort of okay. they’re not always mean, just a dick about 90% of the time lmao

like okay yeah they’ll call someone a stinky bitch for no reason except they feel like it and believes it. it’s fine, they’re fine, we’re fine.

despite the fact that they’re probably getting into a fight whenever, considers themself to be a lover and not a fighter but that’a primarily because they fuck a lot. uses it as a coping mechanism, like they’re this big fancy carnival show that’s like ‘come one, come all! fuck the dead girl’s twin brother!’ and it’s … a lot. might have a problem with hypsersexuality but they’re not fully aware of it.

the preacher’s whore son, basically :)

pansexual & nonbinary, switches between he & they pronouns often and without a pattern, but they have such a fragile grip on their identity that you could call them ‘dog-faced bitch’ and they’d turn around like. sup.

vastly impulsive … like i said, they destroy their own creations for the fun of it. spends all their money on useless shit, will cheat on someone because they feel like it & likes the thrill, screams into the night sky frequently like a cat in heat.

will also spend months creating useless shit for no reason too. spent six of them sculpting a hollowed out tree the size of them & then took a sledgehammer to it.

they’re very super dramatic. would play the organ at church when nobody was looking after them and service was about to start. would just churn out these super haunting, creepy melodies like they were phantom of the opera. would do the same exact thing at home on their keyboard with the pipe organ setting whenever they got grounded until their parents took it away hbdsjfngkh

will absolutely not talk about their ‘time away’ because it’s not anyone’s business, not even their own younger sister. still refuses to talk about tatiana’s death, or their mental health, or their addiction (fallen back into it but it hasn’t gotten severe … yet :/), or anything involving their own emotions.

will just change the topic abruptly, no warning. asks about the jonas brothers instead and they fucking hate the jonas brothers.

that being said they’re absolutely not over tatiana’s death & it’s to the point of obsession over it. like there’s some kind of secret that needs to be uncovered, even though there just. isn’t. tatiana was their rock and they were pretty much dependent on her. kept them grounded. could control them when nobody else could, got into their head easier than others. it’s sort of like rosa lost two siblings that day because viktor hasn’t been the same since.

emotionally unavailable while also crying twice a day. cries during their brawls but still wins. is stony-faced when they tell you they cheated on you with your much hotter best friend.

will tell you straight up what they want from you, no bullshit & no beating around the bush. just blunt. if they want to fuck, nothing else, then that’s it. if they feel deviation or developing feelings then they’ll ghost in less than a second. is awful like that but feels no shame.

but also emotional as shit and it’s confusing. will cry on a whim and then flip you off if you try to console them or ask them what’s up. will bite you.

they go to therapy but they just fuck around and wastes their therapists’ time … also is fucking their therapist, but that’s neither here nor there. so they’re not really getting the help they need.

likes to be intimidating but not … with their body or anything because they’re a twig but uses their love & knowledge of horror and creepy shit to their advantage. has an abundance of fake blood. has channeled the energy of jack nicholson and used it on tatiana’s boyfriends before (also is a big fan of sfx makeup & has dabbled in it)

probably chases kids around with a chainsaw without the chain on halloween every year.

generally never doing good, both mental health wise & morally. would probably steal candy from a baby for funsies.

i don’t know if there’s a good to them somewhere deep down, but they don’t see any issues with themself either. nothing really breaks through to them anymore because the only person who ever made them stop and think about their actions was tatiana, and well, y’know. :/

an introverted reclusive type who doesn’t like most people or going out, but does so anyway if it means a quick high & a cheap thrill.

pretty observant and likes to analyze people even though they’re often like … partially wrong. judgmental because they like to make people feel bad, not because they’re a righteous mighty person. because they’re not. so like, a hypocrite!

wanted connections.

religious trauma? oh worm ;; three cheers fr <3 guilt <3 anyways uh. just people tht viktor hs known thru the church in some way even tho hes a fkn. freak now. maybe even family friends.

the horror of our love :/ ;; hmm. any romance tht cld b toxic i think this cld fit. just rly a bad fit. viktor doesnt rly know hw to love so nothing rly lasts bt. maybe they try n try n nothing works bt they keep trying. cld also just be anything unrequited.

little fkn gremlins ;; theyre all evil n mean. bt theyre all friends. <3

you are nothing ;; uuh. enemy plots. spicy enemies. rly bad enemies. rivals. they r brutal towards each other bcos nothing viktor does is ever soft.

fuck u dont pity me ;; uh. people who try to get close to viktor n he just. bites at them. he’s like no. bc he assumes ppl who r kind in response 2 his vileness r. theres smth wrong w them. n it might hv to do with pity. n he hates pity.

ugh. locals x ;; ppl who also grew up around preaker, vermont. the samuels r <3 well known folks n the uh. hm. the murder is an ongoing case. so they cld know abt it <3

dont tell anybody x ;; this is for soft plots. i dont know much about soft plots but.

maybe i am part of the problem ;; the problem is chlamydiagate. this is a hook-ups connection. fwbs n one night stands. ppl viktor hs brutally ghosted. he doesnt acknowledge their existence outside of these events, perhaps.

dont u just wna go apeshit ;; this is where viktor becomes a bad influence.

bt uh. anything. pelase

#yatesintro #death tw #grief tw #murder tw #addiction tw #drug abuse tw #hospitalization tw #overdose tw #hypersexuality mention #religion mention #zooweemama

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