#keeping the cats out of it during construction

[just7frogsinapeoplesuit]

My extremely cursed Hooty costume from over the weekend, fueled by the pure existential terror of every person who had no idea what I was

[sashi-ya]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑼𝑵ㅤㅤ january free requestsㅤ ㅤ trafalgar law x f! reader

🕊️ request: @leftladyluminary ⋆｡˚ Hello ( ^ω^ ) I was wondering if I could request a Law x fem!reader exploring a temple together that turns out to be a uh “procreation” temple the strongly affects those who enter? Please and thank you~ （╹◡╹）♡ 🕊️ tw: mdni. raw, rough sex. vaginal. nipple play. pregnancy ideas implied. cream pie. wc: 1650 🕊️ masterlist

Zou is a humid place, very muddy as well. Your boots are dirty, and your clothing soaking wet. Those “Eruption Rains” become pretty inconvenient throughout the day, but they are necessary.

“I shouldn’t have worn a white shirt…” you tell Law, crossing your arms over your breasts.

“I would say you shouldn’t have worn it without a bra, (Name)-ya” Law says, squeezing and twisting his hat to drain it from the excess of water.

You sit down on a rock. Was it really necessary to say such thing? At best he should be a little bit happy to see your body through semi see through fabrics. What Law has just said felt painful to you, to say the least.

“You are right, I’m sorry” you mumble, walking away to find a proper place to hide and change your clothes. You are sure the ones in your backpack are as wet as your current ones, but something darker will do to cover up.

When the rivers formed in what are usually trails on top of Zuneesha’s back are finally dried, you find a very interesting construction ahead. Curious, as always, you come closer to discover it is a shrine.

“What a beautiful place” you comment in awe. Law seems to be anywhere else. He is probably near, but not close to you.

Curious, you put a step inside the shrine. It isn’t necessarily different from the rest of the temples you have attended in this long journey of piracy. However, somehow in the aura feels unusual to you.

The scent of incense smells more flowery, sweet, maybe even a little bit spicy. The Vitreaux windows create incredible depictions of Orchids on the ground, as the sun filters its rains through them. And the altar has a very distinctive little statue that calls for your hand to touch.

“I wonder what’s this shrine about? What god is meant to be built for?  In fact, do Minks have gods?” you ask yourself, making mental notes to ask Wanda once you are back from your expedition.

Your eyes scan the golden sculpture, it looks like two creatures tangled into each other. You would lie if you said you didn’t think of them having sex, and in fact you giggle for your “witty” thoughts.

There isn’t much to discover besides what you have just seen, but a little sign engraved in an old piece of wood.

“you shall keep your blood flowing; the warriors of the Sun must never disappear; they will fight for freedom and unity during this dark night”

You smile; and immediately after reading you remember Luffy. Even Law recognizes he is as shiny as the Sun itself. You don’t really think much of the true meaning of the sign, and soon after find Law looking at you from the very entrance.

“I turned around and you were gone, I didn’t know where you were” he asks, still soaking wet like a cat left out in the rain and looking a little bit mad at you for disappearing.

You could have picked a fight; you probably could have just brushed it off. But neither of those were your reaction, and unconsciously you lift your arms to stretch. The white shirt, still soaking wet, kept the transparency and with that the show off of your hard nipples presented to Law in its full beauty.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for a place to change” you tell him, with a rather sexy tone.

Law’s sun burnt cheeks turn red, golden eyes widening, pupils getting bigger. The little hints of black eyeliner smudge on his already dark tinted under eyes, the juicy pale lips of your captain slowly separating.

“You thought of changing on a shrine? Getting naked on a temple, (Name)-ya?” he asks, coming closer to you as he lets his yellow bag fall on the floor. Law walks like a snow leopard, slowly, menacing, sexily…

You swallow. That’s not his usual self, not at least with you. He looks like he is about to fight you, or even hurt you.

“L-Law, I wanted to put on a shirt over this one so that my breasts won-“ you shut up, as he strikes you and pins you against the altar.

You put your arms back to get a grip of something as you lose balance. Your hand reaches something cold and tiny and immediately after, his warm inked hand falls on top of yours.

Both, at the same time, touch the little statue behind and it feels like a new energy begins to run through your veins. It doesn’t take you long to finally succumb into a lustful, inappropriate kiss. His hands, all over your waist, lift the wet shirt that’s begun to get hot and too heavy on your skin.

“I have no idea what force is making me do this, but believe me I am not mad about it, (Name)-ya” Law whispers, in between panting and with his lips grazing yours.

“I have no idea either, but don’t you dare stop…”

The Surgeon of Death attacks your lips once again, this time while freeing you completely from your wet coverings… even if, something else in you was getting wetter by the moment.

Maybe it was the force of doing something so incorrect, so unholy on a sacred place… or maybe it was your love? Or even, both? Who knows, perhaps it was something else but the more you kiss, the more your bodies slide down until your back hits the red carpet covered floor.

Law’s tattooed hands squeeze and play with your breasts, almost like a beast ready to engulf his prey. “You wanted me to do this, don’t you?” he asks, reaching for one of your hard nipples, kissing the erected surface and then trapping it with his lips.

“Honestly, yes. I missed your touch…” you moan, realizing you are finally able to indulge in sex. It’s been long enough since you could touch each other, since you could be this intimate.

“I know, I’m sorry…” he whispers, planting a soft kiss on your chest.

You know there is nothing to forgive, and immediately after you notice his stitched arm holding the weight of his body on top of you.

“Law… can I be on top this time?” you ask, kissing the scar of his biceps.

His golden eyes shine brightly, apparently he loved the question and nods energetically, even if he felt embarrassed seconds after for doing so.

Soon, you take his place, undressing him faster and straddling your hips on his lap. He is hard, and the grey underwear completely soaked let nothing to the imagination. Deliciously tempting, you feel the impulse to your use your mouth before anything else, but the need of having him inside you is stronger… something invisible is making you desire his seed would fill your womb on and on and on.

You lift your ass from his lap, just a little for your hand to pass through your moved to the side panties and his hardness.

Law gasps when he understands you are not there to waist time on any other type of pleasure that his dick deep inside you.

“Now? but I don’t- I don’t have prot-“ he stutters, fighting in between the need of fucking you rough and reproduction health matters.

“You don’t really need it, I want you raw and rough in me…” you purr, guiding his sex towards your dripping entrance.

Your labia devours his tip, engulfing it with a warm slippery sensation. Law’s neck muscles tense, his head gets thrown back, a moan escapes his lips that resonates all over the shrine.

You do the same as you let yourself fall on top of him for his shaft to be finally entirely inside you. A whine so loud that mixes with his, and it becomes never ending as you start to hump on top of him.

Your hips move up and down, back, and forth and also in circles. Law’s fingers carve marks on the side of your hips and sometimes travel to the small of your back to press you against him with divine force. His hips, who up until now where immobile as pleasure struck him harder than he could ever expected, begin to move too.

“Nggh… let me fuck you faster…” he moans, using all of his strength coming from his core to impale you harder and synchronized to the rhythm of your jumps. The sound of wet sweaty skin slapping against the other become a sacred melody all around, while your nails carve marks as you grip from his heart tattooed pecs.

It doesn’t take you longer for your climaxes to arrive, and while your fingers intertwined with Law’s, your spasming walls milk him so violently… so needy, desperate for his release…

His frown intensifies, he even bites his lower lip but his eyes never shut as his pupils only fix into yours. As if his gaze was trying to anticipate something both knew, willingly to do whatever it takes to make his seed plant on you… deep, inside, of you.

“Fill me up…” “Keep it all inside…”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ...

“Wanda, may I ask you something?” you tap on her soft furry shoulder.

“Yes, honey. Tell me, what is it? Are you ok? You look very tired” the mink says, curious and perhaps a little worried about your state… truth Law wasn’t satisfied with just one round.

“So, I found a Shrine on the forest. It had a little statue; I didn’t get exactly what it was representing. But I remember reading a sign that said something about the warriors of the sun should prevail” you explain.

Wanda giggles. “Well, now I know why you are that tired… you went there with Trafalgar, didn’t you? it’s the procreation shrine, ruled by the sun lovers. That’s where we go to pray when we wanna bear children.. it said to be special forces that help us get pregnant”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“Oh…”

[rensblade]

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃.

⟢ warnings/notes: husband! jing yuan x gender neutral! reader. toothrotting fluff, cute domestic banter tbh. husband yuan nation, please rise. not proofread, we die like tingyun. might be ooc. pls lmk if i got any of the hsr terminology wrong.. appreciate any type of feedback & please please pleaseee send me reqs if u have any ✩

“beloved, am i really that bad of a general?”

the all too familiar baritone of your husband’s voice fills in your ears, as you raise your gaze from the distance, only to watch him sulk from where he was sat upon the seat of divine foresight.

to anyone that squints, would be graced upon a phenomenon all too odd— jing yuan, one of seven arbiter generals, pouting.

“and what.. exactly makes you think so, ‘yuan?” you already knew the answer, but you still entertained the fact he was pouting, almost comically the same way yanqing does, when you deny him from making impulsive sword purchases.. or the same way mimi, your household lion, scrunches up her face and paws at your clothes when you tell her that she won't get any more snacks for the night.

said man sits up from where he's at, and abruptly makes his way down to where you're seated— at his desk. sorting through some of the things unattended earlier during his earlier escapade to fyxestroll garden.

“well.. you know.” he deadpans, staring down at you. you have to keep in a giggle, finding the way he waited so patiently for you to finish with the work at your side, almost akin to your precious lion who does the same.

you heave a sigh, but in an amused way, as you stack the last documents into a neat pile and turn in your chair, and upon being graced with your attention; your lover nearly falls dramatically into your arms.

“i can't help but think i should just hand over my resignation early. you know what, fu xuan probably saw this coming,” he fake-wails, as you caress his hair, cooing at the man who was currently at your feet.

eventually, he relents, when you tug a little hard on his fluffy white mane. “darling.. is this about cirrus?” the mere mention of the heliobus makes jing yuan glower, and you practically have to bite back your laughter at the expression, opting to clear your throat instead.

he stays silent for a second, then scrunches his face. “..absolutely not,” he retaliates in a serious tone. then, he slumps forward again, almost nuzzling into your lap as he tries to hypothesize. “it's just. i need some constructive criticism, before i actually hand over my position to someone else, you know,” he reasons, but you know better.

“right, why of course.” you humor him a little bit longer. pushing the general’s buttons has always been your favorite past time activity.

he pulls away, getting on his feet before he gathers your hands into his and gives you a solemn look. “you get me, my love. this is why we're married.”

that makes you crack a smile. jing yuan only raises a brow, but returns the smile nevertheless, a little hesitant. “yuan, i love you, but. you mean solid constructive criticism like.. i don't know, maybe it's about time you retired and took a big fat cat nap?” you suggest with a snort, and jing yuan simply huffs. (yeah, mimi definitely got the attitude from her dad).

you shake your head, dragging him to sit next to you as you elaborated. “in all seriousness.. you're not a bad general. not a bad mentor, father or husband, jing yuan. don't let that silly heliobi’s words get to your head.” the tall man, lets you cup his face, squishing his cheeks as you pepper kisses across them, as if to prove your point.

he simply gathers your form up into his arms, holding you tightly and you can't help but relax into the warmth he emits. he's truly a big cat. “you know, i’m starting to think this must be how birds that nest in your hair must feel.” you point out with a false-huff, after a minute of silence.

jing yuan chuckles at that, purposely tugging you by the waist; flush closer against his torso as he nuzzles into you— pale locks of his hair cloud your vision. “why, of course. a wise, little sparrow, you are.” he snuggles against you, golden eyes softening as they examine your reactions. “in fact, my favorite.” the baritone of his words send a pleasant wave of warmth through your body, you can feel him smile against your skin as he litters little kisses here and there.

to be fair, if you were held prisoner in his gentle yet steady hold forever, you were more than willing to be reduced to a mere bird, for eternity. okay, and maybe you would miss making snarky rebuttals at the general, but that's about it.

as you're resting yourself against him, a thought crosses your mind, and you'd bask in the silent affection but your loud thoughts cut you short. “and for the record, you still should've let me kick cirrus’s butt.” as expected, a hearty laugh booms from the man’s chest, the vibrations making your body tingle.

“i love you.” he says, practically purring, as the gigantic man nuzzles even further into the crevice of your neck, pressing yet another kiss to the spot he loves. his hair tickles your neck, but you love the familiarity of it all.

what a heavenly life you live, as the general’s personal songbird.

rensblade, 2023. please do not steal my writings or headers, i put a lot of effort into this. reblogs & comments are appreciated! pls send me asks/reqs, i write for most genshin or hsr or jjk characters as of now. thank u once again <3

[starlostseungmin]

husband!minho

✰ notes: third entry of my husband!skz series and as for who won the poll, it’s minho’s turn!! minor warning: sex is mentioned but nothing happened!! i hope you guys enjoy!! not proofread. DO NOT FORGET TO REBLOG, COMMENT AND LEAVE TAGS! thank you <33

chan （ lee know ） changbin | hyunjin | han | felix | seungmin | jeongin

ꔛ

Husband Minho who asked, “Will you be the mother of my three kids?” instead of “Will you marry me?” on one random afternoon when you were both playing with his cats at his parents’ house. It served as his proposal and gave you a jingle ball because he didn’t have a ring with him at that time. 

Husband Minho who used to be a tsundere and nonchalant person but later changed into a fully affectionate bunny the moment he fell for you. 

Husband Minho who got emotional during the wedding day but tried to hold his tears back since it was expected that his friends would tease him later. He gave up eventually and cried when you slow danced with him at the reception. 

Husband Minho who teased you a lot but in a loving way. He tends to be a menace sometimes but it wasn’t bad. Your big baby just loves to play with you. 

Husband Minho who pretends to be annoyed when you ask for a kiss but deep inside he wants to smother you with all the love you deserve. Eventually, he couldn’t keep it to himself so he cuddles you with lots and lots of kisses. 

Husband Minho who spoils you with his five Michelin-star cooking skills and serves you high-quality food. He is the happiest when you compliment him and finish everything on your plate. 

Husband Minho who loves to drag you along when he goes camping and offers to take care of everything while you rest. He’d only ask for minor tasks from you to help him. 

Husband Minho who sends you weird selfies and cat pictures when you’re not together and says he misses you with the kids (his cats). 

Husband Minho who listens to your worries and gives constructive criticisms but at the same time he comforts you with the things you need to feel better. 

Husband Minho who loves to encourage you to do the things you want as long as it would benefit him and it’s not illegal. “The heart knows what it wants,” He said. “But let’s not go to jail shall we?”

Husband Minho who lets you burst out in anger while he stood there listening to everything. He’s not the type to baby you every time and will be civil when it comes to arguments knowing who is in the right and wrong. 

Husband Minho who will never allow you to sleep unless everything is resolved. He’d be sorry if it was his fault and be the cutest baby bunny that you can’t resist to forgive. This comes along with cuddles and kisses or makeup sex (if you’re both into it). 

Husband Minho whose love languages are acts of service, quality time, and words of affirmation. 

Husband Minho whom you swoon to over and over because of how handsome and cute he is. Never a day you’d miss complimenting him by which he’ll be all red and mushy from being shy. 

Husband Minho who got the interest of touching your butt out of his love and affection. 

Husband Minho who lays on top of you when he sees you lying down on your shared bed the moment he gets home because he’s tired and your presence makes him feel relaxed and secure.  He tends to bury his face in the crook of your neck. 

Husband Minho who is loud and dramatic in the most precious way. 

Husband Minho who never forgets important dates and will throw everything away just to spend time with you. 

Husband Minho who acts like a mother especially when you get sick and is stubborn. 

Husband Minho who is good with kids, and had asked you a few times if you want to have one with him but at the same time he doesn’t want to put pressure on your shoulders. He reassures that he can wait and doesn’t even mind if he spends his lifetime with you alone. 

Husband Minho who feels appreciated and loved when you tell him about the things he means to you and how much you are head over heels for him. 

Husband Minho who gets excited when you give him cat necessities. You wonder that he loves his cats more than you sometimes but he’d say you were equally receiving his love and affection. 

Husband Minho who doesn’t always say he loves you but rather says that you are his getaway from everything. It’s you and him against the world, nothing could replace you as you are his happy place and favorite person. The one who comes second after his cats and knows his priorities but you get the privilege. 

Husband Minho who loves you to the moon and back. 

Husband Minho who treasures you the most and the one he’d put first before everything. 

Husband Minho whom you’ll love for a lifetime, promised to never hurt, never leave, and never break his heart. 

✰ taglist: @notastraykid , @ameliesaysshoo , @l3visbby , @reignessance , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @rachabreathing , @hyunverse , @minluvly , @sleepyleeji , @starseungs , @midsoulz , @oddracha , @armystay89

©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒.

[itsphoenix0724]

Promises (Rhysand x Reader)

Summary: You don't argue with your husband often, and never anything as serious as this. However, some things may be too hard to come back from.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of Rhys' trauma from under the mountain

Word Count: 1.7k

Part 2

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first time writing for Rhys, but I apologize; this isn't the happiest thing! This takes place during ACOMAF, and I tried to keep it canon accurate. I may have diverged a little though! I really just needed to get some angst out from first week of school stress lol. If you ever want to interact with me my requests are open! As always constructive criticism is very welcome! I tried to makes this a realistic portrayl of real feelings and emotions. I hope you all enjoy even if it stamps on your heart a bit <3

You’re sitting at the dinner table in the Townhouse, nursing a glass of wine, when you feel your Husband’s power rumble into your bones. It normally feels comforting to you, but now all it does is further the knot of anxiety growing in your stomach.

It’s been a long week. 

It was the first time that Rhys had called in his bargain with Feyre. You’ll always be eternally grateful for what Feyre did for your family, for your court, and the entirety of Prythian. It still didn’t stop the ugly jealousy that clawed at your insides at Rhys spending the week away from you with her. Especially after you learned about the dancing. You knew why it had to happen, you really did. He had explained everything to you in the tearful reunion after he returned from under the mountain. 

You hope Amarantha burned in whatever hell she crawled out from. 

“How was your first week,” you take another gulp of wine, trying to drown the spiders crawling up your throat. 

“I think she’s making some progress. Tamlin isn’t even teaching her how to read! Can you believe that? Even after he saw it almost kill her and his supposedly beloved emissary.” He rubbed out the crease forming between his eyebrows, maneuvering around the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. “She was paper thin and so so pale.” he shook his head as he knocked back the liquor. 

“You didn’t come home the whole time.” You tried your best to keep the venom tamped down in your voice, you weren’t even really angry just confused. Judging by the way the muscles in his back tensed your endeavor had not been successful. 

You knew he would have to call in this bargain eventually you just didn’t expect him to ignore you the entire time she was here. He could’ve taken you with him, you had even expressed interest in meeting Feyre. You had wanted to thank her personally for everything she did to you and extend an olive branch for her time in your court. Rhys had shut down the idea immediately because he thought she might have been overwhelmed. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he turned around and looked at you from his spot leaning against the counter. You didn’t look at him, staring straight at the grooves on the table. You sensed the defensive tone immediately. Rhys almost looks like a cat with all the hair raised on its back. Feline eyes sizing you up like he’s about to pounce on you.

“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have come home to even sleep. When I tried to reach you mind to mind your shields were up.” Your nails dig into the wood, leaving crescent marks in the pine. Rhys doesn’t have an answer for that when you meet his eyes. It almost looks like he’s looking through you instead of at you. 

“I didn’t want to leave her alone in case she tried to jump out a window.” He says the answer matter-of-factly. It’s the same tone you heard him use during the conferences he held with the citizens. He wasn’t exactly brushing you off, but it didn’t feel like he was listening to you either. 

“Why couldn’t you have just told me that?” Your voice cracked. You have been married to Rhys for almost one hundred years. You could tell when he was being shifty, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something from you. Judging from that regretful look in his eye you were correct. 

“I thought you would react poorly. Clearly, I was correct.” The clipped tone is enough to send a white-hot bolt of anger through your body. 

“Do not blame your poor communication skills on me Rhysand.” The glare you fixed him with could have brought the monster that lurks in the bottom of the library to its knees, but Rhys just met your eyes with a steeled look of his own. 

“She needed help. She was begging somebody to come rescue her. She was withering away in the Spring Court! You know how many times I’ve been pulled from bed because she’s vomiting during the night-” Rhys sounded exasperated. But you were tired, so tired. 

“You’ve barely come to bed since you’ve been back.” Your voice was hardly more than a whisper, but the deafening silence that followed your words made it sound like an explosion. You knew it was a low blow. Rhys sometimes couldn’t stomach sleeping in your bed after what Amarantha did to him. After he was startled awake one night a bolt of his power shot your sleeping form out of the bed because, in his nightmare-filled haze, he had mistaken you for her. He had felt awful, and now mostly slept in one of the guest rooms in fear that he would cause serious damage to you. You had tried to convince him, but he knew how powerful he could be, so you relented. 

“You don’t get to throw that in my face right now.” The growl that came from your husband sounded like cold black death. “She needs to be trained. She needs help-” all the pent-up emotion started to boil over inside you. Your airway got smaller, white noise was sounding through your head, and your eyes couldn’t focus on a spot infront of you. 

“I DO NOT CARE WHAT FEYRE NEEDS!” the boom in your voice surprised even you. Rhys took a step back, you rarely even raised your voice, let alone yelled at him. His eyes widened, but his flood of emotions quickly matched yours. 

“SHE SAVED ME! I PROMISED TO KEEP HER SAFE!” The way Rhy’s voice ricocheted off the walls made you flinch. The pure night-kissed power had stolen the warmth from the room and all the air from your lungs. 

“You made promises to me too. Do you remember that?” your voice echoed out with calm fury as you slipped your ring off your finger and held it up to the light. “Do you remember the promises you made to me when you put this ring on my finger?” You didn’t even know where the rage was coming from, You weren’t angry, but it grabbed ahold like cold unforgiving ocean waves and kept pulling you farther into the eye of the hurricane. “You pledged to me your undying loyalty, your faithfulness, your honesty.” That last word coated your tongue in acid. 

It burned you and Rhys as it left your mouth. 

“Do you truly believe I have been unfaithful to you?” his voice grated out like shards of glass. However, in your current state, it seemed more condescending than questioning. 

“I believe you are not being honest with me. I have been married to you for practically 100 years, and have known you even longer. Do you think I don’t know when you’re not telling me something?”  You shot up from your seat and slammed your wedding ring on the table. His violet shield slipped for just a moment to see the hurt flash in his eyes. You haven’t taken that ring off since he gave it to you. 

“You are being irrational.” Rhys tried to step towards you, but you only backed away from him, shaking your head as tears welled up in your eyes. 

“Why are you being so secretive about Feyre? She is engaged Rhys-you took her from her wedding. If she truly needed help why not bring her to Velaris? Why not let her meet me? Why not let her be happy with Tamlin?” The questions kept pouring out but the protective growl Rhysand made at your last statement had you recoiling. He had given himself away. He obviously knew it too, as he tried to step towards you. The tears kept pouring out as you shook your head. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Right now.” Rhys finally hung his head in defeat as he slumped into one of the chairs. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as he stared at your trembling figure from the other side of the table. 

“She is my mate.” Your eyes widened in horror. It felt like the dinner you made earlier tonight was going to make another appearance on your kitchen floor. “She is my mate and I don’t know what to do.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know what to do?” Your voice was shaking with scarcely contained fury as you stormed up to the table. “I am your wife. I am your people’s queen. What more is there to think about? I thought you loved me.” A new wave of tears washed over you, and you swear you could hear your heart breaking. It was so loud. You wonder if Rhys could hear it too. 

“Of course I love you!” he looked at you with desperation and pleading in his eyes. “It’s just more complicated.” You shook your head at him as your sobs finally flowed out of your body. 

“It shouldn’t be complicated,” you heaved out through the tears “You promised to choose me every day. If you can’t do that I can’t be here.” You turn from the table and march up the stairs. You distantly hear Rhys get up and follow you to your room as you shove clothes inside a bag. 

“What are you doing? You’re not leaving, are you?” His eyes widened in horror as he tried to grab the items out of your hands. “Darling-”

“Do not call me that right now.” You manage to sniff out the words behind the tears. “I just can’t be here if you cannot choose me. There shouldn’t even be a question.” 

“Where will you go?” He at least had it in him to sound concerned about your well-being. 

“I don’t know, anywhere but here.” You shoved the last thing in your suitcase and winnowed away without another word. You left Rhysand in your house, with your ring sitting on the table. He found himself sitting at the kitchen table for the rest of the night, nursing a bottle of whisky and running over the cool sapphire with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t know if you were ever coming back. He didn’t know where you went. 

What the fuck had he done?

[pedge-page]

Joel dealing with Preggo Wife # 7: House Pet

Can be read with others in series or standalone

Warnings: unprotected sex, slight Daddy kink, suggestive of oral M receiving, annoying reader and annoyed Joel

18 + ONLY

- - - -

You watch one depressing commercial of shivering dogs left emaciated in the cold begging for love and care, and all the water in your entire body comes flooding out in tears.

“J-j-j"—snUFFF—“JOeeeOEeeeoelllLLLL!!!" You wail, wiping your snot on his shirt sleeve while curled up against him. “THEY NWEEEDDD MWEEEEE!!!!”

“You wanna donate?”

N-d—nooo--“sniffle—“wanna -wa-wanna aa-ad-ad-opt—“

He chuckles like its some obvious joke, but when he sees the absolute shine in your giant eyes staring pleadingly at him, he puts his foot down as gently as possible: “Honey, we can’t have a dog right now. With you—being like this, and a baby on the way, I’ve got enough on my plate as is. Wanna make sure you and babygirl are well taken care of first, okay?”

There’s a tense silence hanging in the air as you seize a breath in your throat. 

And then you’re LOSING IT, whining and crying like a child into his face.

“Jesus,” he mumbles softly, gently stroking your hair, hushing little shhhhh into your forehead and rocking you in his arms like a baby in a cradle— a giant baby stuffed with another baby currently rattling the emotions of the big baby.

 He's given you a cup of water for bed and tucking you in, picking up the litany of tissues tossed around you, while you refuse to quit your puffy eye’d and endless barrage of tears. 

By the next morning, swollen lids yet calm, he thought he’d heard the last of it last night. And you were doing much better mood wise—no cries, though a little cold shoulder to him. He gives you a few hours till you’re over it and asking for ice cream like nothing happened. 

Until now, five days later where every minute is just a retort to his face about getting a dog.

When you best friend comes over to give you extra baby clothes:

"Aww your girl named her puppy Winston? That's so adorable! Joel, ya hear that??” You peak loudly so he can hear from the kitchen. “Too bad I don’t have a puppy named Winston.”

"When you have our daughter, she can get a puppy named Winston"

"Oh! Already picking her over me for getting a dog?"

He rolls his eyes, tuning out to focus on making you biscuits that are too salty so you’ll have something else to whine about.

-

During movie night:

“…If only I had a dog to help keep my feet warm on the couch.”

He shovels a fist full of popcorn into his tilted back, wide mouth. “‘At’s what a blanket’s for.” he yanks your favorite soft one over your toes and keeps his eyes on the TV.

-

To the neighbor that just fucking moved in two weeks ago:

"Joel doesn't kiss me enough. If I had a dog, I wouldn't complain as much since the pup would love me unconditionally."

He grits his teeth, excusing himself to the bathroom.

-

At Tommy’s place for a Sunday BBQ:

“Bought the wood second hand—I re constructed our living room myself,” he says braggingly, drawing a beer from the cooler.

"Yeah, Tommy, it’s real nice.” You charm, and you can already see Joel's fist clench at his side. “Would look even better with a dog in the window."

-

“Wish I had a fluffy dog to cuddle instead of your big ass."

-

"My husband spoils me so much. He usually gets me anything I want without asking! Unless it's a dog ..."

-

Joel finishing adding furniture to the baby room.

"You know what else this room could use?” 

"A dog bed, a dog blanket, a dog.”

-

"If you say-one more-god damn thing-about the dog..." he huffs.

"What dog? We don't even have a dog."

"We don't-need one. Got a cat in the house already."

He thrusts in again with a grunt, your trail of thought disappearing for a second just as Joel’s fat cock penetrates you.

 The two of you are lying sideways on the bed, his chest pressed flush against your back. With your leg just barely propped up with his masculine arm hooked under your knee, a hand splayed protectively over your big belly, he has enough room to slot his length into your achy sopping cunt, slowly fucking you with harsh little jolts. You grip the back of his neck, fingers clutched in his sweaty locks, feeling his hot breath dampening your collar. 

He lets out a pained hiss. “This lil pussy right here is all the animal I can handle now. Now quit it.”

His hips begin to crash lightly over your ass, rutting his tip deeper into you with muffled slaps. He loves the sight of your now largely grown thighs jiggling with each impact. Loves the feeling of your swollen breasts suffocating his other hand. Loves the knowledge of his wife so stuffed full of him for everyone to see. 

You moan lightly, clenching around him at the leisure, unhurried yet pent up pleasure coursing through you. But your mind wonders again. “If you don't want a rescue we can get a certain breed: How about a malnoise? Or something smaller like a corgi? Or aussie. Oh Pitties are so cute!"

He rolls his eyes, nose buried in your hair. How are you even able to have a coherent conversation right now while he's rearranging your guts? Rather than hushing you with another quit it, he decides to entertain you. "Jesus woman. Ain't pitties all mean?"

"Nooooo —mmm baby, right there—“ you whine, panting in sync as you lowly try to hump him back. “Protective, intimidating looking.” You smile, mouth agape and eyes closed when he hits that sweet spot deep inside.  “Just—like you, big ol sweethearts…Who give their wives exactly what they fucking want—like a dog."

“Christ.” The hand from under your leg glides over your wet clit, his rough digits rubbing fast circles while his other free arm  unfolds from under your throat to grip it lightly. His knees bend so he can rock just his hips with ferocious power, railing with the intent to fuck you so dumb, you can’t help but shut up. “One more peep and I'm switching us up and gonna fuck you like one.”

You really didn’t want to —resorting to this lounging position because your back hurt too much to be fucked doggy, and the baby weighed too heavily to ride him. Thank God his cock was fucking huge—it could reach deep into you at any position. No fucking wonder you got pregnant so easily. 

“no- no Daddy, I'll be good," you hum. "Unfff—mmm-yeah—yeah! Fuuuck—fuck me baby that’s it!” You shout. Joel’s hand works endlessly on your little nub, now at the mercy of his ministrations to get you off since you can’t reach yourself anymore. You grip your belly and cry, walls convulsing around his meat with a much needed orgasm. Joel follows suit not too long after, biting your shoulder as his hips still against your ass, pumping you full of his pearly cum.

The two of you stay in the same position, breathing heavily as you come down from your respective highs. 

His eyes close, breath slowing and getting deeper in relaxation as his fingers lightly dance over your swole bump.

You feel the gentle cooling breeze of the fan spinning above you. Sighing contently now filled with your husband’s love and caressed with his tender hands. 

 “…So I was thinking, when we get a dog..."

"WE ARE NOT GETTIN’ A DOG AND THAT’S FINAL."

-

Tommy comes over and can tell something is up between you two.  When Joel leaves the room, he asks "so what is it this week with Joel?"

"He won't get me--what do you mean THIS week??"

"Nothing nothing, he won't get you a what?"

"A dog. I want a dog. He doesn’t want a dog. So I don’t understand why he can’t compromise and get a dog.”

He laughs. “Honey, cuz that’s not a compromise. You know why he won't get you one, right?"

"Cuz he doesn't want to take care of me, a baby, and the dog at the same time"

"Nah. He's worried you'll only want the dog’s affection, and the baby gets the rest of your attention. Then you won’t have anything left for him.”

“…Oh!"

-

Later that night, Joel is still steaming from your earlier conversation after sex, having no regard for listening to another thing you had to say the rest of the day. You waddle into the bedroom, looking apologetic as possible with your hands held behind your back. He only looks up from the bed to see you: in his large T shirt with nothing else, freshly lavender scented from your bath, and big pleading child-like eyes full of sorrow. He purses his lips before returning to his book, glasses perched on his nose.

You approach Joel with an apology gift that you hid behind your back: a stuffed wolf.

He smiles gently unable to even pretend to hold his temper against you. you kiss the tip of his nose as he caresses your smoothed bump. “You're my favorite dog anyway,” you say warmly. “Needy. Grumpy. Likes food. Gives me kisses."

“Thought I didn’t give ya enough kisses? Least that’s what you told neighbor.”

“That was—a lie.” You bat your eyes cutely. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Mmmm,” is all he says, his eyes raking over your curves just barely covered now due to your size. “I don’t know, Daddy might need more apologies — ya did treat me real bad this week.”

You hum sadly, nuzzling yourself against his chest. your hand trails down his firm middle, all the way to the growing tent sticking up from his boxers.

“I can lick it better,” you whisper seductively in his ear, nipping at his pulse point.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

And after one of your famous deep throated blow job with Joel's balls happily emptied in your already full belly, he leans over to his side table and pulls the drawer open, holding something tight in his hand.

You just barely stop yourself from falling asleep with your head on his lap when he dangles a dog collar above your head. You sit up, inspecting it with grubbing hands: it has your home address etched on to the metal plate, but no name on it. 

“What you want me to be your dog? I’ll wear the collar but I’m not getting on my knees, nor crawling around and drinking from dog bowls  and shitting in the yard—“

“No angel,” he shushes you. Although the image of you wearing the collar, naked and heavily pregnant on your knees in front of him wasn’t a bad idea at all…he shakes his head from the delusion. ”Aint for you. Thought about it—but ONLY after have the baby and are settled, and ya know IF —and that’s a mighty big if—we find one that’s not too rough shape, got a good sense about ‘im, then MAYBE I’ll consider it.”

"Oh my god! Thank you! Thankyouthankyou--"

"I said IF sweetheart. Got along road ahead till then."

"I'll give you as many blow jobs as you want."

"You already do that for yourself."

"Yeah but... how about I sit on your face? Fully?"

His ears perk up. "Yeah?"

"After the baby is born," you quip, smirking with more confidence then your swollen body can muster trying to wiggle away from his grasp like a devious chubby oompa lumpa. He just laughs to himself as you slip down the bed, and the sudden urge to pee has you B-lining to the bathroom.

- - - -

Series Masterlist

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[sweet-as-writing]

Different Plot/Story Structures

There are a lot of different plot structures that you can play around with when writing a story. This post is just providing some of the more common ones for you to know. While these structures are not to be adhered to completely, they can provide a good basis to get a story running and help keep it on track.

Freytag's Pyramid

Freytag's pyramid is one of the oldest and most well-known story structures. It consists of five acts: introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, and conclusion. Falling action and conclusion do not mean a decrease in intensity, but rather a shift in the plot or the stakes for the characters - aka surpassing "the point of no return." What works about this structure is its ability to heighten action in a story and introduce plot twists to make a story grip the reader.

Save the Cat

Save the Cat is a newer structure that was initially constructed for TV shows, but it works well in a larger story as well, regardless of medium. It breaks up the story into an A-plot and B-plot, shifting action between the two to balance intensity with moments for the action to cool down. Typically, the A-plot has higher stakes than the B-plot and is the main focus of the characters. What works about this structure is that it effectively utilizes side-plots to not just accompany, but enhance the main plot.

The Fichtean Curve

The Fichtean Curve is essentially a series of mini-stories that build up to a greater story, with the stakes elevating during each story. It's similar to a TV season that has several episodes, each one advancing the plot while providing a smaller story that keeps the excitement continuing. What works about the Fichtean Curve is the freedom to move non-linearly through plots, using perspectives of different characters, different settings, and different mini-plots to enhance the story.

Free-form

Free-form is exactly what it sounds like: letting your mind run free while writing your story, disregarding traditional story structures and trusting yourself. This doesn't work for everyone: in fact, I believe that almost all writers need at least a little bit of structure when writing. But mapping out a beginning and end, and letting yourself find your own path to connect the two is what works for some writers. Besides, you can always go back during editing and figure out the most efficient way to map the pieces together!

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Ghost Bookshop Romance Headcanons

CoD ML

📖 Ghost is secretly quite bookish, having found refuge in novels during his youth and now even as a grown man. He especially loves bakery and coffee shop romances, though he’d never admit this outright.

📖 No one asks what he’s reading when they see him sitting with his e-reader, more often than not smoking as well.

📖 Those who are brave enough to ask only get glared at in answer and walk away, tail tucked between their legs.

📖 When he’s on leave, back home in Manchester, he watches out for a particular girl he’s seen at Waterstones. Pops by there for hours on end, drinking coffee, smoking outside yet near the shop, all in the hope he’ll bump into you.

📖 Your face looks familiar to him, but he can’t remember where he’s seen it if ever he has. Nonetheless, it’s enchanting, a strange though pleasant (and thoroughly distracting) imprint on his memory.

📖 Unbeknownst to him, you’re secretly his favourite author. However, you barely have any photos out there, preferring the anonymity of your pen name. It doesn’t help you haven’t published in a while due to being grabbed tightly in the vicious maws of writer’s block. Henceforth, despite the loyal fanbase, there’s little talk about your works or you yourself.

📖 One day he catches you sitting in one of the chairs dotted around the store, reading. Finally, at long last, he has the chance to talk to you!

📖 Simon has a whole plan. First he’d ask you what you’re reading and your opinion on it thus far, gradually leading the conversation towards your recommendations and favourites. It’s essential to gain that info because there’s always plenty to say and discover about books. Then, he’d ask you for tea, show you he isn’t as scary as he looks.

📖 But, like out in the field, there can be unforeseen circumstances.

📖 He didn’t account for the goosebumps on your skin, the slight shiver that has you shaking despite your efforts to suppress it.

📖 “Trying to catch a cold?” Simon crouches down before you, takes off his heavy leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm, infused with the scent of nicotine, black pepper, gun oil, gasoline, and black tea.

📖 For a moment you stare at him, gobsmacked. After all, you don’t meet someone in a skull balaclava at Waterstones on the daily. Nevertheless, after wrapping his jacket around you a little tighter and deciding he means no harm, you find your voice. “Not consciously. Guess I’m not particularly good at dressing for the weather.”

📖 “No, you’re not.” He chuckles at your expression, a mixture of shock and surprise. Much to his delight, Simon senses you’re not offended by his bluntness. “Fancy a cuppa? My treat.”

📖 “Only if you tell me your name.”

📖 “For now, call me Ghost.”

📖 “Cheshire. Pleased to meet you.”

📖 “Like the cat?”

📖 “Indeed.” The way you tilt your head, eyes bright with defiance and granting him a glimpse of the walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself, sends electricity through his nerves. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

📖 Simon usually keeps people at a distance, even the taskforce, but he’ll gladly take on the challenge of getting closer. “Yeah.”

📖 As per his promise, he pays for the tea and a scone to share. He cuts it in half, giving you the thicker top part while he settles for the thinner bottom bit.

📖 He doesn’t know how, but as he watches you smear jam and only the tiniest bit of clotted cream on the pastry it hits him. Finally he recalls who you are, where he’s seen you before.

📖 “Cheshire,” he begins, wanting to breach the topic carefully. Still, it’s hard to not get distracted by how you’re innocently enjoying your scone, enough to unintentionally give him the opportunity to wipe the crumbs from the corner of your mouth. However, to restrain himself, Simon tucks his hands in his lap. “Have you by chance heard of (your pen name)?”

📖 He clocks how you stiffen. Bingo. “How do you know that name?”

📖 “I… I’m… I’m a fan. Inked Monsters is the first book of yours I read. I liked how you discussed the prejudice against age gap relations, lone wolves, and heavily tattooed people. Made me feel heard.”

📖 You can’t help but chuckle, amazed at this giant’s enthusiasm for your novels. “What’s so funny?”

📖 “Nothing, it’s just… you don’t strike me as the type to like my writing. I’m glad to hear it touched you, though.”

📖 “Well, I am. But yours is the only one in the genre I really like. I’m not a big fan of fairy tales or retellings, but yours,” he glances at his cup, comically small in his big hands, “I… I do… a lot.”

📖 “Glad to hear it.”

📖 “How’s it going with Sugar Hood and Flannel Wolf? Haven’t heard or seen anything about it for a while.”

📖 You snort because ‘for a while’ is a severe understatement considering it’s been three years. The fanbase exploded with supportive messages when you announced you were writing another modern fairytale. This time, it would be about a lumberjack grumpy werewolf and a young woman who runs a bakery after her grandma’s passed away.

📖 And there’s the key phrase.

📖 Would be.

📖 “I’m suffering from writer’s block, which also drives my publisher and agent up the bloody wall. They still earn enough thanks to me to not cancel my contract, but I don’t think I’ll be able to publish soon… if ever again.”

📖 The way you look down into your tea, head bowed low and eyes sad, breaks his heart. “How so?”

📖 “When a hobby turns into a profession, there’s the pressure to perform, to deliver. I used to write for fun, but now it feels like a chore and I feel nothing but guilt for not doing it. Doesn’t help I’m stuck on the plot.”

📖 “You need a rubber duck.”

📖 You look up at him, feeling like you lost the plot. “A rubber duck?”

📖 “Talk through your problems to a rubber duck and you’ll see the solution presents itself. This duck can also be… someone.”

📖 “Are you asking to be my rubber duck?”

📖 “Proofreader, at most. If you’d allow it.”

📖 “A second opinion wouldn’t hurt.” You smile to yourself and shake your head. “A ghost reader.”

📖 Little do you know that that is what gets him going. “Let’s make this a two-man project. You write, I read, and we get through this together. Fuck deadlines and to hell with the people pressuring you to write. This is our plan, our mission. Getting that book out.”

📖 You giggle, a sound he archives for later. “My God, you’re headstrong. It’s nice, though, to hear you speak as passionately about my works like I did once.”

📖 “Being stagnant is useless. It’s also definitely the way to get yourself killed out in the field.” Simon wishes he could kick himself in the face for his words. “Sorry, you can take the man out of the army, but not vice versa.”

📖 “That explains a lot, you being an army man.” You take a sip of tea and nibble on the scone. “Retired or on leave?”

📖 “On leave.”

📖 “Know when you’re deployed again?”

📖 “Not any time soon. Unless Price cooks something up again. No, I’ll be here for a while.” Mumbling under his breath, the words too low for you to make out, he adds, “Plenty time for me to help you.”

📖 “Pardon?”

📖 “Nothing. But,” he clears his throat, “if you don’t mind, would you sign one of my copies?”

📖 “Sure. You have it with you?”

📖 “No, so, uhm, could we meet here tomorrow for that?”

📖 “Are you asking to see me again?”

📖 “If we could have tea again, that’d be nice too.”

📖 “Maybe grab a bite in town instead?”

📖 He perks up. “That’s a yes?”

📖 “It’s bad protocol to go out with a fan, but,” your smile makes him melt, “how can I say no to an interesting man like you, Ghost?”

📖 You pop the last bit of the scone into your mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Meet here?” He nods. “Thank you for the tea.”

📖 “Anytime.”

📖 Ngl, silly as it is considering you just met, he’s kinda disappointed you don’t give him a kiss on the cheek before you leave.

📖 Though he finds enough satisfaction in the fact you ate the piece of the scone he cut for you.

📖 Enough to carry him through the day.

📖 Afterwards, the two of you stay in regular contact. It’s not always about business and even if it is, the conversation always diverges. To what you’re reading, simple recipes for Simon to try and make (he’s a self-confessed terrible cook), easy stretching exercises for you to do in between writing sprints (he hasn’t had the courage yet to ask you to accompany him to the gym), or possible outings.

📖 Yes, outings.

📖 Because Simon loves driving around the country on his bike with you.

📖 What he’d love even more, though, is not having to book rooms or accommodations with two single beds rather than one king or queen size bed whenever you’re off on a multi-day trip.

📖 Occasionally you do buddy reads. You were the first to propose it and have since expanded your literary horizons together. If only because Simon makes a lot of notes. Honestly, it’s surprising he doesn’t have a literary degree what with how passionate he is about reading.

📖 One day, a few days before he’s off to the gods know where, your ghost reader gives you a book with a copy of his dog tag. Until then, you’ve only known him as Ghost.

📖 But now you finally know his name.

📖 Simon Riley.

📖 “What’s this?” You look from the necklace to him, uncomprehending why he’d gift you his dog tag.

📖 He keeps his eyes trained on you, taking you in as best he can lest this will be the last time he’ll see you. After all, there always remains the chance he won’t return. “In case I don’t come back. I don’t care if they’ll be unable to identify me. I’m a ghost, un fantasma according to a buddy in Mexico. But I want you to have something to remember me by.”

📖 “You’re very real to me.” His heart cracks at your outburst. “How can you say that? You’re a person, Simon!”

📖 There’s no hesitation in the way he cups your cheeks and presses his lips against yours. You melt into his touch, the feel of his hands on your skin, feeling the smirk pressed against your lips when you clutch his shirt.

📖 “Your person, eh?” he asks when he breaks away, breathless and lightly panting. However, he has to stop himself here. Unlike in the field, there’s no time limit with you.

📖 Because despite the novel, he’s come to understand you’re in more than a business relationship.

📖 A relationship which takes time, shouldn’t be rushed.

📖 An opportunity for you both to show yourselves.

📖 For him to learn patience and self-restraint.

📖 For you to learn how to trust and rely on someone.

📖 And grow together.

📖 “Yes, so don’t you bloody dare claim otherwise ever again.” The way you poke his chest, full of conviction, melts his cold heart.

📖 “I’ll try to be a person around you, sweetheart.”

📖 If only because you care.

📖 And he can’t live without your stories.

📖 Especially not when you tell them yourself.

Btw, I might actually write Sugar Hood & Flannel Wolf because I’m going nigh on feral thinking about werewolf!Price. I mean, c’mon, that man screams wolf vibes (aside from the massive daddy… I mean teddy! Teddy vibes).

[tourettesdog]

I’m replaying Stray and it got me thinking of a DPxStray crossover

Like taking the core themes and setting of Stray, but mashing DP vibes, characters, and ghostliness into it.

Warning: Stray spoilers

So with Stray the whole thing is that it's been hundreds of years in an underground city, all of the humans have died off, and in their place the robots they had as workers have gained sentience and filled the niches people left behind. You, as the little kitty cat, find the last human whose consciousness has been uploaded into a drone that you carry around in your little backpack-- together you're trying to open up the underground city and get to the outside.

So in terms of a crossover, I'd imagine that the construction of the ghost portal and resulting war with the GIW has a disastrous effect on the world. The surface slowly grows less and less habitable, long years of war that are never-ending. During this time, the Fentons get roped into a project to help build an underground city with a ghost shield-- a last bastion for humanity. It's the least they can do, considering the harm their research caused.

Danny's accident still happened in this scenario, he still fought as Phantom, but he was grievously injured and reverted into his badly-cracked core. His parents think he's long gone, while Jazz holds onto it and keeps him safe, not knowing if he'll ever reform.

Decades pass and the Fentons eventually move into the underground city they helped make. They live in disgrace, knowing they caused the turmoil that tore apart the surface and caused the death of their son. They try to make amends by lending their minds and hands to the city. When illness ravages the city, they die with regrets.

When Jazz knows her own time is drawing near, she does what she can to keep Danny's core safe as her last act.

She's watched one of the smaller cracks on his core disappear over her lifetime, but Jazz knows she won't live to see her brother made whole again. Sometimes she can sort of get a sense of him flickering around his core. Feel his emotions. Know he's still there.

Jazz finds some old tech that her parents squirreled away-- even with their many regrets, they were always proud of their research. With it, she builds a container to keep Danny in with filtered ectoplasm, hoping that it will be enough. That someday he'll come back, and that he won't be too upset she's left him behind.

Danny grows stronger over the years, his energy feeding into the technology around him. His (electric) core feeds on it as much as the filtered ectoplasm, and he finds comfort in exploring the network-- the only sense of freedom he's had in a long time.

Hundreds of years later, a little ginger cat finds its way into an underground city. The screens and tech act oddly, guiding the little cat to the backroom of an old apartment where a bright stone floats in a green canister. The cat can feel emotions and thoughts coming off of the thing. It's urged by more than instinct to knock over the container and free the stone inside.

The spectral being that floats out from the stone startles the cat at first, but then the being greets the cat gently and strokes it with a hand that hardly ghosts through the tips of its fur. A friend.

Danny doesn't really know how many years he's spent in this container. His memories are a jumbled mess, his senses addled. He feels like he remembers someone telling him that he needed to survive-- to find his way back out to the surface.

However long Danny's been healing, however, it's still not enough to maintain a fully corporeal body. He's tethered to his core, only able to project his shape for short periods of time before he has to retreat back into it.

He knows he needs to get to the surface to find a steadier source of pure, fresh ectoplasm to help him.

Danny's not really sure if he should trust a cat with what is essentially his head, heart, and soul, but... he doesn't have much of a choice.

In terms of the robots with the crossover, I feel like they could either exist as-is, or they could also be ghostly in nature. Like maybe the people that passed away in the underground city still linger, their ectoplasm imbibing into the circuitry of the robots. I imagine the mass death of the residents in the city could have created a lot of blob ghosts, and that over time maybe those blob ghosts latched onto the robots and became something more substantial. 

In terms of the zurks, I imagine that either the Fentons made one last massive mistake, or someone used some of their research (perhaps altering bacteria with ectoplasm) and it had disastrous consequences. 

[bonefall]

since squirrelflight isn't sparkpelts mom, or brambleclaws mate, whats the context (i think squirrelflights hope) where sparkpelt calls her a mouseheart for sticking up for brambleclaw

I think a lot of people forget that the context in the book was not great to begin with, since we collectively remember it from Moonkitti's video where she's making a point that Sparkpelt is acknowedging Bramblestar's mistreatment. It's part of her argument, demonstrating that even cats WITHIN the Clan can see that Bramble is treating his wife poorly.

But people who haven't read the book (or haven't in a while and half-remember it) construct context backwards from that, and think it was Sparkpelt trying to tell her mom to stop getting pushed around. It's not.

The context was; Sparkpelt wants Bramblestar to nonsensically start a war with ShadowClan because she thinks they poisoned Larksong.

She's not thinking straight because she's stressed. She's blaming ShadowClan because they'd previously poisoned SkyClan, and believes the motive is that they're angry with Bramblestar for trying to keep the peace. Yelling at her mother is supposed to be an example of irrationally lashing out.

It's also, probably, another opportunity for the writers to torment Squilf tbh. Sparkpelt screams at her that she's being a coward for defending the things Squilf had to BEG Bramblestar to do, so that Bramblestar can step in and tut-tut her with, "don't call your mom a mouseheart when ACTUALLY she's a bitch." Then he turns around to cry that his whole family hates him and he's actually the saddest little ducky in the kiddie pool. Lmaoo

So anyway. Squirrelflight's Horror.

Yep, Sparkpelt's no longer Squirrelflight's daughter; these two are Apprentice and Mentor.

And, yep, Squirrelflight broke it off with Bramblestar after OotS. They never get back together; Sparkpelt's mother is Jessy. But, in the very beginning of this book... she starts to feel bad for him, a tiny bit of the love they had re-sparks, and they're courting again.

Not "mates," but the equivalent of dating.

...Much to the chagrin of Squirrelflight's children, as all three of them have disavowed Bramblestar. Fallenleaf and Jayfeather awkwardly try not to get involved, and Lionblaze probably ends up in a argument with her as he tries to forcefully warn her about what a stupid choice she's making. They both dig their heels in because they are a lot alike, and Lionblaze's explosive confrontation only made the situation worse.

And tertiary effects: Toadstep takes his mate's side, but his mother Daisy (Squilf's best friend) and sister Rosepetal, (Squilf's first apprentice), choose to support Squirrelflight in whatever she does. Squilf's grandchild Hollylark and her apprentice, Sparkpelt, are... cautiously optimistic.

Sparkpelt's relationship with her dad has always been extremely strained. She wants to love him... but she's been involved in his little "tests" before. Squilf was always the one who PROTECTED her from them, an emotional rock during the storm that was her adolescence. Squilf knows what she's doing. She's aware of what she's getting into. She wants her dad to be happy. She knows he hasn't been happy since Jessy left him.

They All Know This. Yes?

So... she should be glad, right? That the people she loves are going to make each other happy? Maybe this will... you know... fix him. And her kits can be born into a happy world where their grandfather isn't so... frustrating.

Or, maybe she can just, HOPE, y'know? Maybe things can be okay after all? Just once?

Hollylark meanwhile is like, "Sure babe it's all gonna be fine! Nothing terrible is going to happen, hahahahahahahaha" as xey purchase 14 fire extinguishers, an insurance plan, and consult the Clerics on the best god to pray to. Alderheart solemnly tells xem that if there was a god who could help, he would have worshiped them long ago.

Leafpool sighs, "at least try goldenflower."

Squirrelflight's Horror's purpose is to set up the events of TBC. Bramblestar's controversial choices here, getting his entire Clan wrapped up in an abusive game he's going to play with his ex-wife/sort-of girlfriend, and ultimately leading his Clan into a controversial battle that gets Leafpool killed, is why no one caught that he was replaced by a cruel impostor.

But most of all, it's about Squirrelflight. It's her going on trial to defend Fire Alone as an ideology in the modern era, it's setting up how her worst enemy will kill to hurt her but how her allies support her, and it's her finally rejecting any love she has left lingering for someone who has proven that he can't treat her well, so that she can focus on all the people who do.

Her heart WILL lead her to make some rash, destructive choices, but nothing she's ever done out of compassion will be something she apologizes for.

SO the change of context around Hollylark's poisoning and death.

For one, Hollylark is now something more interesting. Xey are a Nature Spirit, one of the new entities in BB that I'm still solidifying the rules for.

Other examples of Nature Spirits: Brokenstar, Star Flower.

They're quite rare, and typically born of bits of nature that were beloved for generations before being destroyed.

Hollylark was born because one of xeir moms had a magic misfire. So xey're extremely weak compared to those two.

Fallenleaf has no idea yet how exactly she did this... or, even, how far her own powers extend.

Over the course of this story, Fallen is also having a tiny realization of her own that she can't stay in ThunderClan. She's a God, now, with Sol trapped inside her chest.

Bramblestar WILL be trying to drag her into the conflict, and she has to stand firm and argue that her powers can't be used for politics... or...

this part she does not say, knowing that saying it out loud would only make Squilf double down like Lionblaze's big fight with her did,

Or for Bramblestar's stupid drama.

Of her siblings, she's carrying the least pain about Bramblestar's treatment. She dropped the secret, and then vanished into an adventure that took her from this life for a thousand moons.

Everything still feels very far away, in a sense. Like she's still a distance away from the Hollyleaf that she once was.

So... Bramblestar feels small. This all feels small. Petty.

Beneath her.

So, whatever happens to Hollylark... it feels like a cold rainstorm. If she'd felt somewhat numb and dazed before, reality HITS her.

She couldn't SAVE her child. She has NO IDEA what her powers really are, or their limits.

This causes Fallenleaf and her mate, Cinderheart, to leave the Clans in search of those answers. To find out what Fallenleaf's role, as the new God of Autumn, should be.

But that's Cinderheart's Travels. One of the BB books that doesn't have an equivalent canon book lmao.

And back on Hollylark.

My current thought is that Sparkpelt should end up a LOT sicker from the prey-poisoning, while Hollylark is the one who's less affected by it.

In my head, Hollylark through this SE is in a sort of role where xey're not giving a ton of xeir own opinions, clearly just trying to support Sparkpelt and the kits. Xey're unbelievably stressed out, but xeir response under pressure is to fawn.

So the context of Sparkpelt snapping at Squirrelflight would be that she's physically sick. She's tired, terrified for herself, her kits, and in her state, she's taking it out on Squilf.

Instead of blaming ShadowClan, though, I'm thinking it would be more relevant for Sparkpelt to be angry that Squilf is "Making Bramblestar so upset."

If she's going to be making accusations that are emotional and don't make any sense, Squilf should be noticing that Sparkpelt is being sucked right back into being the self-conscious, terrified child she used to be. Before she had a mentor to rely on.

She hates that Squirrelflight is "upsetting" Bramblestar, blaming her for his actions, in a way that she used to do to herself when she was young.

And at first, Squilf is going to ACCEPT that, and APOLOGIZE... until something happens in front of her to make her realize that if she did that, she would be saying that the toxic impulses she had to train OUT of Sparkpaw were "correct."

A recognition of herself through Sparkpelt before her. And a realization that, no matter what happens, she NEEDS to be there for Sparkpelt because she still needs someone in her corner.

I'm still working out the non-Trial parts of Squirrelflight's Horror, so this is still getting shuffled around. But next,

Bramblestar barges in to "defend" Squilf.

What I like about the original context is the way that Bramble takes a fight between Squilf and Spark and makes it all about himself. I think it's intriguing and telling that he takes the opportunity to guilt trip Squilf again.

And what I'd like to do with the idea in the context of BB, is have Bramble try to force himself into this very personal moment like he's both a hero of Squilf AND hurting sooo very much to do it. Like it was a favor he was doing her, to cut through his immense pain at being undermined and betrayed, to "stand by her side."

And Squirrelflight sees this and feels sickened.

How could she EVER apologize to Sparkpelt for making Bramblestar upset, when he's so callous he'll BARGE in to "save her" from his sick daughter?

Something he MOCKED her for, once, before she chose him over Ashfur?

She's not fully ready to FINALLY purge herself of Bramble, no, but it's one of the last steps. Apologizing to Sparkpelt seemed like the correct thing to do... until Bramblestar reminded her where their guilt comes from.

MOSTLY, I'm unsure of how to resolve this scene. I know I don't want Squilf to stand up for Sparkpelt yet though.

And I want that to bug her. She was such a swirling whirlwind of guilt, shock, and offense, that she did nothing. Caught between too many emotions, she froze.

So Bramble could either storm off like he does in-canon, OR, have Hollylark finally push in to tell them that they need to leave and cut it early.

At some point, perhaps as an ending to this scene or later, I do want Hollylark to express frustration at the way Bramblestar is changing Squirrelflight, and how she just stood back right there

Xey're wise enough to realize it's not Squilf DOING it, but can't help but feel a crushing disappointment that she's THIS old, THIS wise, been through SO MUCH because of this guy...

"I LOVE you, but it's not just about you either. Can't you see how he's finding aaaaall these ways to drag everyone in, just because he wants to get at you?"

And especially Sparkpelt. She needs all of her allies right now, most of all the very mentor who taught her she didn't deserve to feel the way her dad often makes her.

But Squilf did not push back for her. It was only one moment... but it was an important one. And she lapsed.

She can't let that happen ever again.

As for Hollylark, I know that I need to kill them before the end of this book. Like canon, xey're gone before Squilf has her trial. My current thought is that xey sacrifice themself in some way in order to save Sparkpelt's life, perhaps deciding to "take their pain onto myself" and dying in her place.

And that's the context, so far. I've got the Trial pretty solidly mapped out, but the reworked politics and interpersonal stuff are still a WIP. I know the beginning and the end, but the middle's still loose!

[compacflt]

Rumors from Pearl Harbor.

When Admiral Kazansky first comes to Pearl, he brings with him about half of his previous staff, all exceptionally-hardworking people hand-picked over years—advisors, flag aides, secretaries, ranks all over the board. But his new hires, upon getting acquainted with the old guard, are shocked to discover that his previous staff still hardly knows him at all.

“He keeps to himself, mostly,” Lieutenant Commander Hartford explains over a pint. “I made the mistake of asking him once what he did for fun. You know, like, hobbies and stuff. He blinked at me for a second, and then said, ‘I read.’ That’s it! I read! My advice to you newcomers would be, don’t ask him questions about his personal life, because it tends to be pretty boring.”

“It sounds to me like he’s a walking, talking Wikipedia page,” says Captain Calvert, who worked for the previous two Pacific Fleet Commanders and thinks she knows how to deal with them by now. “We owe it to ourselves to figure him out. It’ll make our lives easier, anyway. So, let’s put our heads together: what do we know about him?”

What they know are his habits, which they’ll come to learn intimately over the next few years, and which are admittedly pretty boring. Admiral Kazansky is one of the first to show up to work in the morning and one of the last to leave in the evening. He often answers e-mails past 2300 hours, but never later than midnight. Jokes never catch him off-guard; he rarely smiles, and when he does, it has an ulterior motive. When he’s not working, he’s scheming and making plans to go back home to San Diego, and his requests for leave are always granted, because he works like a pack mule from home anyway. He signs off every e-mail with “Sincerely,”…

“Is he sincere, though?” asks Chief Warrant Officer Kent halfway through Admiral Kazansky’s first year. (Admiral Kazansky is surely unaware that his staff now spends the second Friday of every month chit-chatting about him over drinks in downtown Honolulu.) “I can’t ever tell. And he lives in Hawaii. San Diego’s nice, I know, but what’s so different about the beaches there that he can’t get here?”

“I genuinely don’t think he’s human,” confesses Commander Stoddard. “People warned me about that when I came here, and I laughed it off, but… he keeps his desk biologically sterile. Not one fingerprint, but I’ve never seen anyone wipe it down. I’ve looked through his drawers. Don’t judge me, I got curious. Everything squared away, like he’s goddamn Einstein or something. Have any of you ever seen him in his civvies?” No one has. “God damn it, where does he shop for groceries? No one’s seen him at a grocery store? Does he even own a pair of jeans? Does he wear his uniform to bed, too?”

“He probably goes grocery shopping on the whole other side of the island to avoid all the enlisted kids,” laughs Captain Calvert. “Come to think of it…you know how he always eats lunch in the office? It’s always a salad. And always the same kind of salad. This guy survives on one cup of coffee and one spinach salad a day. Maybe he really isn’t human.”

They build out their wealth of knowledge and come to learn that Admiral Kazansky is defined by his extremes, by what he always does and what he never does. Admiral Kazansky gets his uniforms dry-cleaned every week, though he never spills anything on them. No one has ever seen Admiral Kazansky stumble over his words while giving a speech, or trip over a sidewalk curb, or push a “pull” door. He is always polite and never friendly. Sometimes he is cold, and sometimes he is cruel in his patience with you when you’ve fucked up, like a cat toying with a hemorrhaging mouse. But he never raises his voice. He is always immaculately put-together, well-groomed, constructed every day like a product on an assembly line. Nothing is ever out of place. Allegedly his umbrella once turned inside-out during a rainstorm; he disdainfully shook it once, as a hunter might pump a loaded shotgun, and it flipped itself right-side-in again. The laws of physics do not seem to apply to him. Nor do the natural embarrassments that come with being human. Admiral Kazansky is never flustered, never harried, and never falls apart.

“I found this old picture of him shaking hands with another pilot on the Internet,” says Chief Warrant Officer Kent in Admiral Kazansky’s second year. “Smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Never seen him smile like that in all my years working with him. And he had frosted tips, too. Like Guy Fieri on a diet and steroids. It was the eighties, sure, but it’s like he knew how to have fun, once upon a time. Wonder what happened to him.”

“I feel lonely for him sometimes,” says Commander Stoddard. “Strict guy like that, no family, no friends, no wife, nothing to live for but the Navy? He’s like a workhorse with blinders on. Nowhere to go but forward. That’s a lonely existence.”

“Not if you’re a robot,” says Lieutenant Commander Hartford. “I swear, sometimes he breathes and it makes me jump, ‘cause I forgot he was alive!” —What else doesn’t Admiral Kazansky do?

That’s when they realize that none of them, not the old guard nor the new, has ever, not once, ever seen or heard Admiral Kazansky sneeze.

And they all finally give up the game and quit arguing and agree that, no, he really isn’t human after all. He must be some cyborg from the future sent to whip the Pacific Fleet into shape, and you can’t ask for too much humanity from someone who’s doing a pretty damn good job of it.

The rumors start soon after that. Jokes that could get them all tossed out of the Navy, but probably won’t. Jokes that accidentally spread like wildfire.

Yes, Admiral Kazansky could be a cyborg, but he also could be a Mormon fundamentalist, or a Scientologist, or a really weird Catholic. Maybe he goes home to San Diego so often because in his spare time he’s really a mule ferrying cocaine across the Mexi-Cali border. That’s what he does for fun. He eats spinach salads because he’s a reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man, and he needs all the super-strength he can get to deal with the Navy’s modern-day bullshit.

“I don’t know if that story makes sense,” laughs Captain Calvert on the phone with her husband in Washington, “but it makes more sense than the real Admiral Kazansky does!”

So the rumors get spread around.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Maverick comments, watching Ice make their bed from the relative comfort of the bedroom doorway, “or if I should tell you this, because you might crack down on it, which would be a shame, ‘cause it’s funny. But every time you send a mass e-mail to the Pacific Fleet commissioned officer corps, you become the main topic of conversation between all of us officers for a solid day and a half.”

“Oh?” says Ice with a smile, struggling to fit the last corner of the fitted sheet to the mattress. He sighs, tugs on the strings of his old ratty-ass hooded sweatshirt, and looks at Maverick balefully through his glasses. “Help me out over here, would you? —What are people saying? All good things, I hope.”

“Not really,” Maverick says, stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase as he stares out the window into the San Diego sunshine. “Some pretty crazy shit, actually. Hard as hell for me to keep a straight face. I heard this one—you know, people are saying you eat nothing but salads?”

“Oh,” laughs Ice, hospital-cornering the free sheet. “Yeah, that one’s kind of true. I bring salads in to the office sometimes.”

“You hate salads.”

“I know, it’s torture! Move over.” He bumps Maverick out of the way to tuck in the last corner. “But, I figure, if a man torments himself with spinach-and-arugula salads three times a week, you ought to respect his commitment. It’s all an act. You get to a certain Defense Department paygrade, it all starts being storytelling and stagecraft.”

“Or trickery and deception, depending on how you look at it.”

“Sure. But you could say that about everything. —Besides, I’d rather the Navy discuss my salads than discuss… well, this.” He gestures to Maverick, then down to the bed. They start tugging the comforter over it together. “How much slack you got over there?”

“‘Bout a foot.”

Ice pulls his side down a couple more inches to match, then flips the top up. “Is that it? That’s all people are saying about me?”

Maverick grins and bends down to pick up a pillow. “They’re also saying that you’re the reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man. I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam, and all that. Think fast.”

Ice doesn’t think fast, and the pillow hits him square in the face, and he laughs again as he catches it in his arms. “Shit, that’s good,” he says; “I was just about to call Slider, think I’ll tell him that one. That’ll make him laugh. Popeye Iceman.” He tosses the pillow onto the made-up bed and pulls out his cell phone, but—then he frowns, grimaces, mutters “Ah, no,” and turns away to sneeze.

[ijustliketoreadstuff]

The choice that Kagami regretted.

In "Protection", Kagami comes to the realization that she had fallen in love with Adrien again.

Originally, Kagami was set in her decision to not only end her romantic relationship with Adrien, but also help him and Marinette find their way to each other, as she knew long ago that they were the ones who were made for each other. 

(in "Mr. Pigeon 72", Regardless, of Marinette's effort, Kagami was set in her decision to end things with Adrien)

(In "Mr. Pigeon 72", Kagami understood Adrien and Marinette were made for each other)

And yet, despite previously accepting that a love life with Adrien was likely not meant to be, it was Lila who made Kagami question the choices she felt certain were right, and it all started with resurfacing one simple little emotion, pain.

Kagami used to believe Adrien was perfect and in turn the only one who was perfect enough to be worthy of her love, but it was not until they actually started dating did she realize that she did not know him as well as she thought. Adrien was secretive because of his life as Cat Noir, he distanced himself during important moments to save the day with Ladybug, and his at times undecisive choices disappointed her as it held him back from taking the initiative and saying what he needed to say.

However, in "Protection", as Kagami heard Lila talk about how she too was left broken hearted by a boy she once loved and struggled with the pain of knowing they would never be together, for a split moment, everything Kagami did in regards to Adrien and Marinette came flooding back, revealing to her a truth she had previously accepted, but had not properly grieved and gained closure on, the end of what she thought would have been a long and meaningful love life with Adrien.

(Back in "Heart Hunter," Kagami confides in Ladybug that she truly believed she and Adrien had a future together, believing they were made for each other as they were a lot alike. Such a future with him was something she could not give up, even if it was for the sake of friendship. )

Although Kagami tried to shrug off her past with Adrien and push away any feelings she believed were unimportant, to instead focus on her friendships and attempts to help him and Marinette get closer, it was a single conversation in the kitchen that would not only change her whole perspective of Adrien, but their lost love.

In the kitchen, as Kagami consulted Adrien over the events of the failed Ferris wheel plan and Marinette's struggles, Kagami witnessed Adrien do something she had never seen him do before, she saw him set aside his doubts and take charge.

As much as Kagami knew that Adrien disappointed her in their past relationship, to see him now in "Protection" proclaim how he should be the one to take care of a problem, all the while expressing a great deal of determination and confidence in his decision, made her realize that he was now far from the person who previously disappointed her, he changed, but it was precisely this change that made her fall for him all over again.

As Kagami heard Adrien make so much effort to plan something special for Marinette, she was honest when she said how lucky Marinette was to have someone like him, but deep down, Kagami felt a sense of pain surfacing as she heard the guy she once dated make so much effort for another girl, but not show that same effort when he dated her.

(Back in "Lies", it was Kagami who made the carefully constructed plans for the two of them to spend more time together, outside their busy schedules while also keeping their alone time a secret from their parents.)

(In "Protection", as Riposte Prime, Kagami speaks out about her frustrations and reminds Adrien about his past lack of effort in loving her when they dated)

As much as Tomoe wanted Kagami to take a second chance with Adrien, she couldn't, because she knew Adrien loved Marinette. Coming between them would not only hurt them, but her as well, they were after all, her friends and she loved them both. However, what Lila told her next, not only made Kagami doubt Adrien's past lack of commitment, but her entire perspective on breaking up with him.

Although Lila's words helped resurface Kagami's romantic emotions for Adrien, and although her own mother pushed her to cut the bonds she made so she could take Adrien back from Marinette, the one thing which held her back from taking her mothers extreme advice, was her sense of moral as she knew it was wrong to betray a loving and caring friend like Marinette, a friendship that was ultimately something Lila took away in an instant with a single lie.

Lila knew Kagami would never turn against Marinette if she did not cast aside the love and respect she had for her, and what better way to do that than by convincing Kagami that Marinette was a fraud. (More here)

As much as Lila's lie convinced Kagami that Marinette was secretly a horrible person who lied and manipulated her since the day they met, what finally crushed Kagami was the belief that she had wasted her life trusting and loving a friendship that was never real. As for the time and effort she spent helping Adrien and Marinette come together, well, all of it was now meaningless as it meant that she had not only lost Adrien, but also aided in helping him start a relationship with someone who was completely wrong for him, something her own mother had strongly believed.

Kagami had made the decision to break up with Adrien back in “Lies”, but given all that she has seen Adrien accomplish and having now been swayed into believing that Marinette had lied and manipulated her way into stealing Adrien from her, left her questioning if her decision to break up with him was not only too sudden, but possibly the biggest mistake of her life.

( As Roposte Prime, Kagami claims that Adrien's efforts and love towards Marinette is nothing more than the result of her “lies” and “manipulation” pushing him to love her and do more for her, it was not real and he was a naïve fool for ever believing it was )

Kagami used to believe she and Adrien were made for each other, and knowing now that Adrien had the capacity to change, was enough for her to question if Lila's words were true, that they truly were the ones who were made for each other and that things between her and Adrien were bound to work out, Adrien just needed more time and help from her to become the guy she always thought him to be and had now become, but for the wrong person.

Even after Kagami was de-akumatized, Lila's words stuck to her, making her believe that any of Marinette's attempts to reconcile with her was nothing more than another attempt to lie and manipulate her way out of trouble. Although she attempted to push Marinette away for "falsely befriending her" and "robbing" her of a life with Adrien she thought was meant to be, it was Adrien who took the initiative and cleared her clouded judgment, reminding Kagami of the truth she lost. 

Adrien cared for Kagami and cherished her just as much as any good person in his life, he knew that no matter what it was Lila told her, Kagami knew just as much as he did that Marinette had always proven herself to be a kind and considerate person.

But for Kagami to see Adrien proclaim why it was he loved Marinette, reminded her that true love was something that could not be controlled, the knot that tied Adrien and Marinette together could not be undone, and despite her mother's belief, it could not be cut, not even by her own sword, because no matter how different her friends appeared to be, what they had was real, it was no lie.

Despite the love she and Adrien shared in their past relationship and despite how alike they thought their lives were, the two of them understood they could not ignore the truth, and the truth was that they too were still very different people with their own individual issues, and no matter how they tried to go about it, things just didn't work out between them, because they were simply not meant to be.

No matter how much it pained Kagami to realize that she and Adrien would truly never be together, she knew now better than ever before that she had to learn to acknowledge and sort through her own emotions, to learn to move on with her life just as he did, and accept that no matter what love she had left for him and no matter what future she thought they could have had together, such a life between them would never come to be, Adrien's heart belonged to someone else, and that someone was Marinette.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Sometimes I feel like one of those cats that isn’t yours but, instead of occasionally leaving mice or birds by your door, I drop a wholeass AU at your feet.

I have another one :D it’s kind of a wild ride, I do apologize in advance for the essay XD

I simply call this The Robot AU (It’s a little more complicated from robots, they’re more of a horrific combination of mechanical and flesh all stemming back from the supernova-ed remains of a dead god)

By far the strangest one is Sevika as her origins are complicated leading to a unique upbringing. She is something called a Disasembaler, but more than that she is of a phased out subtype called ‘The Constructed’ people who were built in factories instead of developing on the mycelium-like root system or being born to parents. The Constructed are most commonly made during war time or a time of high economic stress to keep up with a high demand for soldiers or workers if supply is dwindling, a key draw to them is that they are already in adult forms, with developed brains and functioning bodies and pre-existing coding, meaning they don’t have to be trained.

Sevika’s particular branch was made specifically to be killing machines as their name would suggest. They were created by Piltover to quell one of the first uprisings, the squadrons that were made were launched into the city via individual shuttles meant to both carry the person inside to their desired location and to cause as much damage to the infrastructure as possible. 

Sevika was an interesting case because her pod didn’t open and instead of self-destructing, due to faulty wiring, she instead went dormant for several melinia until one day it spat her out. Sevika never really had a childhood, she was “born” an adult, while her brain was technically fully developed she understood the world about as well as a newborn. Being seen as a boogie-man and the literal face of death she wasn’t exactly perceived well, leading to feelings of alienation and building resentment, these were later weaponized by Silco to get her on his side. 

Though Sevika was given the nickname “the dragon” due to a slight defect in her waste disposal system. Usually the waste produced takes the form of liquid that once it hits the air it turns into a colorless, odorless gas expelled along openings along various parts of the body, most of them are located along the back. However, hers invade into the ventilation chamber and have holes in them, having not not fully been processed the liquid is red. This then spills into her ventilation chamber causing her to constantly express a highly flammable gas. 

Silco is something called a “Firstborn” which comes directly from the mycelium-like structures, one of two things happens to them, they are taken to group homes or adopted into families, the former happened to him. (it's nothing really official people can basically go to "the baby spot" and pick out a child the way someone does a pastry) ironically people like this are seen as more pure as they are believed to be more closely connected with their god. After being drowned and exposed to the Pilt’s toxins the metal covering his face began to be eaten away by “red rot” or by its better known name, rust. 

He hides this with a porcelain mask, it used to be just white but he allowed Jinx to decorate it and never painted over. If you were to take it off that the rust has eaten away part of his face plate allowing for the intricate metal structures and delicate inner workings (which would usually be protected by said face plate) to be exposed. The rust has also started to spread to the inner workers leading to more and more difficulty with mauvering that side of his face. (think: chewing, smiling, blinking, and even movement of the eye itself)

If you look at his left hand you’ll notice that he’s missing his pinky finger. This is courtesy of Sevika.

Jinx is something called a Derivative. These are people who were born to parents rather than being made in a factory or coming from the “original source”. As she is younger and is the next generation she reflects a newer, sleeker design. Most notably her face is a screen able to project a typical face or can replace her expressions with emoticons. She’s upgraded herself multiple times installing weapon systems, however this altering has become something of an addiction, to the point of being akin to self mutilation.

With the need to constantly change she is almost unrecognizable from the girl she used to be, one might notice that she was trying to mimic Silco in her younger years, but is now starting to try her own aesthetics. 

It’s also not recommended for a growing person to undergo so many drastic changes such as weapon installments, leading to her having stunted growth and some internal deformities similar to Sevika’s. However instead of spitting focus fluid into her lungs she simply bleeds into them leading to the formation of crystalline structures which inhibit her breathing.

Vi (as Jinx’s sister) looks very similar to how Jinx used to look before her modifications. However, something that is to be noted is that her gauntlets are not something she can slip on and off, they are now a permanent part of her. She is still trying to figure out how to live with big ass hands.

Mel is by far the one who underwent the most change other than Jinx. She started as a war machine like her mother with heavy armor and internal weapon systems. However when she was banished she rid herself of her heavy armor for something sleeker and removed her weapon systems. This was to her mother’s disapproval but ya know…. It’s kind of the point. 

A staple of Piltover is to have over the top modifications. (think outfits from the capitol in hunger games, except permanent) whereas the people who live in Zaun can’t afford these types of changes (except if they do it themselves and if they do they tend to try to bulk-up for greater protection).

I welcome all your AUs they are like delicious treats for my brain to chew on 😭💗💗💗

Oooh this is a fascinating one - especially given all the chem-modifications and body augmentations already present in Zaun, all of which are deeply cyberpunk-dystopia.

I like the idea of Jinx's crystals inhibiting her breathing - a secondhand metaphor for the trauma that inhibits her full growth. Imagine Sevika as exuding fiery spume every moment - she would legit shimmer at a distance like a heat mirage on the highway. Also someone should draw Mel's upgraded armor I am sure it's pure gold - literally 💫

Also imagine Fortiche animating all this in Angel's Egg art style 🥺👀

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Timothée Chalamet Goes Electric

In Chapter Three of our ongoing project, the young actor talks candidly about coming of age over the last few years — a process he calls “adultifying" — during which he turned a professional corner, discovered a cohort of colorful peers, and learned to embrace his spirit of rebellion.

By Daniel Riley

Photography by Cass BirdOctober 17, 2023

“I don’t even know if I want to share this with you because it’s quite intimate,” Timothée Chalamet said, “but as an actor, you sort of live at a dining room table in your head, and you have about 30 personalities at the table, and you’re trying to attend to them, without going crazy.”

Assembled at the table were, yes, the many characters he’d embodied in films. But there were also the versions of himself that had been constructed in public and reflected back at him. There were the versions constructed through truth. The versions constructed through conjecture. The versions constructed through outright fabrication. And then finally—lastly—there was the person that he actually was and is beneath it all.

“And it was when that guy didn’t align with the first ones that things could get very trippy.”

One weeknight this summer, after when I typically go to sleep, Timothée Chalamet—the real one—came by my apartment building in downtown Manhattan. It was steaming hot and he had his hood up and a jean jacket on. Layers. He had a mask, too, a holdover for so many of his kind, even as a mask in public, at night, draws more eyes your way than it diverts. He was walking with pep, with freedom of movement.

He preferred to prowl his hometown at night these days, like Batman, when he can move readily in the shadows. Batman was hungry. “Do you know where I can get a sandwich?” he asked me.

After walking a little, he looked up. “I would just go there, but is there a better place than that?”

It was a grimy bodega that I know to be run by cats.

I persuaded him to get a bowl of pasta from a place that was willing to stay open late. We talked about his forthcoming blockbusters, Wonka and Dune: Part Two, and the transformation that had occurred both professionally and personally since the last time I saw Chalamet, in 2020.

“I bet I’m way calmer than I was talking to you in Woodstock,” he said.

That was the first COVID summer, which he’d spent between New York City and upstate New York, doing his best not to lose his mind. He was 24 years old then and an emerging Hollywood star, with all the opportunities laid out before him that he’d spent his early life fantasizing about. And yet there he was—there we all were—stuck, suspended mid-life, and bursting at the seams to get back to work. “I had spent a lot of time after high school with my head in the clouds, imagining a life as an actor, and totally oblivious to the life I was actually leading,” he said. “I was out of touch with an in-touch life. And during COVID, it flipped, and I was forced to become very in touch with my increasingly out-of-touch life. It was not good for me.”

But when I saw him this summer, he was three years older, three years wiser, and willing to indulge me with measuring the distance between then and now. For those keeping score at home, this is Chalamet’s third GQ cover, and the third story we’ve done in what has become a sort of longer-term project in progress. Six years ago, when I met him in his initial blush of fame from Call Me by Your Name, I saw up close a person in the last moments of their Before life. Three years ago, when we met for Chapter Two, I saw up close a person reckoning in real time with that rocket ship of fame and acclaim. And then this summer, here we were again, doing a version of what we’d done before—just walking around, hiding out, and otherwise taking stock of a moment in time in an early and extraordinary career.

“Even going to my friend Julian’s apartment,” he said, “there’s a Polaroid, ’cause he Polaroids everyone who has lived in the apartment, and there’s one of me from 2015, and when I see my expression there, I’m like: Man, I feel like I’ve lived seven lives since then.”

It was not just the stack-up of time—but the pivot he felt he was riding from one phase of his life and career to another. He brought up the recent bestseller Four Thousand Weeks (thesis: A good life is only 4,000 weeks, so how do you plan to not waste any of them?) and the 27 Club (he was now 27 himself) and the creeping fog that had slowly then suddenly enveloped people his age. “You start going on Instagram, seeing people from your high school getting married, friends having kids, and you start going: This balls-to-the-wall thing, even at this amazing level I’m at that probably couldn’t have gone better—you still start wondering, How long till you have to change?”

Material change was not that simple. This was, after all, one of the most beloved young actors in Hollywood. This was someone who had been told he was plenty good enough precisely as he was. This was a young man who, when he emerged—as though fully formed both onscreen and while promoting films, in both his talent and ebullient charm—went on one late-night show and was implored before a live audience to: Don’t ever change! Please don’t change!

“People are going to roll their eyes that these are actual problems to have,” he said, “but that is an interesting challenge to have to feel like for your life and your work and your art, that these are things where there actually shouldn’t be an evolution.”

“It’s like Bob,” he said, meaning Dylan, whom he’d been preparing to play in the forthcoming James Mangold film, A Complete Unknown, for over three years now. His head was in it, Dylan day and night, and he was attuned, as ever, to echoes between his own life and the stories he was training to tell. “The Dylan metaphor is going electric,” he said, referring to the infamous moment at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival when Dylan, that era’s one true acoustic god, plugged his guitar into an amp, brought out a band, and started to really rock. “Now, the great thing about going electric is that was in the name of art. That was an act of rebellion and a push in a musical direction that happened to be…. So I don’t want to say….” He wasn’t saying it—but he was straining to maybe connect the metaphor to some other things on his mind, as well. “God, it’d be so ironic to talk so much about acting and the art and the work, and then get caught in a loop about the demands of a public life. But…”

It went like this. The balance of indulging the aching artist’s desire, on the one hand, and navigating the blessing and burden of celebrity on the other. He took deep breaths. He knocked on wood a lot. On more than one occasion he broke into a confession with: “I definitely want to contextualize this with an attitude of gratitude—I heard Denzel say that on Desus & Mero.” He did not want to tread hastily, he did not want to toss any of it to the wind. “Every career is a miracle,” he said, with real gravity. But it might feel good, necessary even, for a little rebellion.

As we strolled through the Village after his midnight snack, every block sparked a memory. Here was the theater where his grandmother, mother, and sister were all part of the same dance piece. Here was where the first party was where kids were drinking “Mike’s Hard.” Here was the bookstore where he first met Ralph Fiennes and proudly declared that he’d just done a movie with Luca Guadagnino. I shared one of my own. Here was where Jennifer Lawrence lives, I said.

“Really?” Chalamet said. “Should we see if she’s home?”

We kept on moving to the place he was staying during his time in town. It was getting very late, and was very possibly the stillest night of the summer. No Taylor Swift concert close by. No film set in production. No playoff game just let out. It was, I will say as a now longtime resident, the absolute last circumstances in which one would expect to spot a movie star. And yet there, out of nothing, came a male cry from down the street, out the window of a passing cab.

“Timothée?!?!”

He looked toward it, head down and shoulders hunched. “Whattup.”

“Oh! My! God!” the voice replied, having been validated with a bull’s-eye.

A few blocks later, it happened again.

“Oh, my God!! Can we…?!”

And he slipped into photo mode, like a robot butler whose switch had been flipped to the On position. “Where are you guys from?”

I apologized for leading him through the heart of NYU.

“These are my people,” he joked.

Despite getting hounded by photographers or stopped or recognized, he still loved walking around New York on his own. It was what he’d done all his life, as everyone else did. It was equalizing, he said, even the idea that an air conditioner can drop on your head at any second.

But in recent years, it was his intense familiarity with those daily rhythms of his in New York City that made him realize it might be time for a major pivot. “After one too many days of doing the same thing, I just got this overwhelming sense that I was still playing the same hand of cards I’d had for a long time—but that I had a better hand to play,” he said. “I was living in this rental place that didn’t feel like home. I was getting the same bacon, egg, and cheese at the same deli. Resisting any lifestyle change.”

All the while his circumstances had changed. He had grown older. The movies were bigger. His profile was immeasurably larger. But he was holding onto something—why? He had seen it up close in Hollywood. The man-child. The people who so loved playing characters that they played characters in their real lives, too, without actually transforming themselves into more mature human beings. He knew the cliché about celebrities staying developmentally the age that they were when they became famous. But how is a beloved movie star meant to change the right way? How is he supposed to grow up? How does he meaningfully evolve his life and art without killing his core? This was only the most important thing there was for Timothée Chalamet. It might be worthwhile to chart the course. “All I knew,” he said, “was it was time to level up.”

After our time in Woodstock in the summer of 2020, Chalamet flew to Budapest for Dune: Part One reshoots and got sick immediately. It was a familiar story after that summer spent locked down: The moment they let us out of our cages, we caught everything else there was to catch. It was another false start for him, every cell crying out to work.

It had been so onerous getting into Europe during COVID that when Dune wrapped he stayed on the continent. He spent some time in the South of France with Hedi Slimane, in Paris with Haider Ackermann, in Rome and Milan with Luca Guadagnino. Guadagnino handed him a script, Bones and All, a cannibal love story, an addiction-parable road film set at the fringes of the American middle. “Luca said: ‘I’ll do it if you do it,’” Chalamet said. This was both a validation of their fruitful creative partnership—but also a statement that seemed literally true. In the few years since Call Me by Your Name, Chalamet had become the sort of Hollywood property whose presence in an otherwise borderline project could get it greenlighted, and made quickly.

Chalamet was staying in an Airbnb in Rome, wandering around the city, just living out “a sort of blank period.” One thing he does recall is that he watched Nomadland, thought it was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, and wanted to do something like it. Bones and All was maybe that something. He went to Milan to talk things over with Guadagnino and committed on the spot.

In the meantime, he returned to the US, hosted SNL for the first time, and prepped for his brief role in Adam McKay’s Don’t Look Up, alongside Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Lawrence. He was in Boston for 24 days—14 of which were spent in quarantine and 10 of which were actually working. Chalamet, in his mellowest state, is a threat of energy, and here he was locked in another hotel room. “By the time I got to set I was buzz-ing,” he recalled, seemingly feeling the crazy in his body all over again. “That was the day Jennifer said was the most annoying day of her life, working with me and Leo. I exploded out of my room.”

He started prep on Bones and All right away that spring, still somewhat in the thrall of director Chloé Zhao’s Nomadland. Zhao introduced Chalamet to Derek Endres, one of the rootless travelers whom she cast to play themselves in the Oscar-winning film. Chalamet, who was born and raised in New York City and had spent no real time in the Midwest or the South, soaked up several blurry weeks driving around Ohio, Tennessee, and Nebraska with Derek, talking about life on the road and listening to folk music.

It’s difficult to underscore how polar the two ways Timothée Chalamet experiences time are. There are the long stretches during a movie production, during a press cycle, during a fashion campaign, when every minute is scheduled for days or weeks or months at a time. But there are other long stretches, in between the making of movies and promoting them, that are seemingly devoid of time as we experience it, with infinite expanses for developing a film character or developing himself.

Plan B producers Jeremy Kleiner and Dede Gardner, who worked with Chalamet on Beautiful Boy and The King, have a unique, rolling conversation with him about film and music and books, with references that range to the philosophical. “I think there’s a dimension of him that maybe not everybody would know necessarily,” Kleiner said, “where he just has this really wide wingspan in terms of what he’s taking in from the world around him and how that factors into what he feels he should be doing with his time.” These periods between films were historically the intervals that Chalamet said he would sometimes get “existential”—for better or worse. “Restlessness can be a pejorative term, but I mean it in a good way,” Kleiner said. “There’s a searching, a seeking.” Even early in his career, Chalamet seemed to exact total control when he was working on a film and an evolving sense of control when he was not. Those weeks on the road with Derek, those were good, restless weeks of searching, seeking.

“It’s something I think about a lot with Dylan,” Chalamet said, “that life rhythms are different. When you’re raised in the city, going stir-crazy during the pandemic, your life rhythm becomes agitated. And driving through the middle of the country listening to Townes Van Zandt, your life rhythm adjusts in a great way.”

They filmed Bones and All in the spring and summer of 2021, really moving from place to place as the characters do. His life rhythm adapted. “I got my second jab in Cincinnati,” he said, of his COVID vaccine, like it was a long-lost love, or a lyric to a Townes Van Zandt song. Lee, his cannibalistic character, wore the clothes of his victims and dyed red streaks into his hair, an act of what Chalamet called “self-styling” that he could relate to—a guy trying to express himself through his hair and his clothes. Living out of a truck at the American periphery, that took some effort to get in tune with. I saw immediately why it appealed.

Lee is an “eater,” a cannibal by blood, not choice. Chalamet plays him with an appropriate blend of swagger and self-loathing. During preproduction, reports revealed that Chalamet’s Call Me by Your Name costar Armie Hammer had been accused by several women of sharing sexual fantasies in which he represented himself as, yes, a cannibal. (Some DMs allegedly sent to one woman by Hammer read: “I am 100% a cannibal. I want to eat you.”) There were those who wondered if the seemingly ironic choice for a next film by Chalamet and Guadagnino was a little insensitive; there were those who wondered why Chalamet and Guadagnino didn’t lean into the insane confluence even more. “I mean, what were the chances that we’re developing this thing?” Chalamet said, reflecting on that strange period. When false reports suggested the film was inspired by the news, “it made me feel like: Now I’ve really got to do this,” he said. “Because this is actually based on a book.”

Chalamet’s face went stiff when I asked him to describe how he personally experienced the allegations against Hammer. “I don’t know,” he said, reluctantly. “These things end up getting clickbaited so intensely. Disorienting is a good word.”

Lee was the first character Chalamet helped develop in a major way with a screenwriter. It was also the first film he produced from tip to tail. When he introduced Bones and All to the world at the Venice Film Festival, he did so with a backless red jumpsuit from Ackermann. “When you’re promoting a smaller movie, you can stir it up a little,” he said. The role was new, subtle, and strong. There were flavors to it that felt at once different from anything else he’d done, and yet built around a center of intense familiarity. When I asked Dede Gardner how “the industry” regards “Timothée Chalamet the Entity,” whose name and face you can put on a movie poster and get to promote your film, she seemed almost incapable of looking past the pure performer: “I suspect he sits at the top of the totem pole,” she said. “But he is just so good. His gift is ferocious. His ability is just prismatic—in a way that it would by definition take him years for all the sides to show.” Lee, then, had come and gone—never to be seen again. He was already down the road.

The day they wrapped Bones and All, Chalamet cut off his blood-streaked mullet, dyed his hair brown, and flew to Cannes for the premiere of Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch. At one point, he leaned over to costar Bill Murray and asked him what he’d whispered to Selena Gomez on the Cannes red carpet in 2019. Chalamet laughed, reflecting: “He said, ‘Fame is fleeting!’ ”

Chalamet tried to take some time off, to soak up some vacation, but, he said, “the Wonka factory pipes were calling.” Director Paul King, best known for the beloved Paddington movies, had met Chalamet in London around the 2018 BAFTAs when, like so many, he’d been bowled over and seduced by Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name. When Wonka came King’s way, Chalamet was really the only choice for the role, King said. “It was: This could be great—but it could also be great for him.” Still, King couldn’t help but wonder what this guy, whom he’d met just once, would be like now that he’d become one of the biggest stars in the world. “It’s not always a recipe for ��charming and focused,’ ” King said. “I’m a neurotic workaholic who will sort of leave no stone unturned—and I really felt he was a kindred spirit.”

This Wonka is also a musical, and Chalamet sings and dances throughout. It is, Chalamet said, “a throwback to LaGuardia,” meaning his performing-arts high school. “We’re telling a story here. This isn’t, like, athletic naturalism. It’s a shot of earnestness and sincerity, without the cynicism or dread or all the stuff we’re exhausted by.”

He trained in New York and London with Tony-winning choreographer Christopher Gattelli. “Sometimes with someone of that caliber, it’s almost like a chore to get them to do things, especially if it’s out of their comfort zone,” Gattelli said. “But he was the exact opposite—he wanted to go and go and go and do it over and over.” Chalamet hadn’t previously studied tap, among the hardest forms of dance to learn, but once he gained his confidence, Gattelli said, he couldn’t get him to stop. “He would Skype with his mom and his grandma, just to show them, because you could tell that he was genuinely proud of himself.” Of what he was picking up, but also of the way he was sort of carrying on this family tradition from his grandmother and mother—both trained Broadway dancers. “He would joke about it—like ‘It’s in my blood!’ And I was like: It is. It literally is.”

In Wonka, Chalamet plays a young Willy, fresh off a literal boat. It is pre-factory, pre–chocolate empire, pre–midlife trauma that curdles the previous film versions of the character, who’ve turned their backs on the world. “It would’ve been so easy to do an impression of Johnny Depp or Gene Wilder,” King said, “and it would’ve been sort of horrible. Because the people who’ve played Wonka before are brilliant and captivating and have done some famously wonderful performances that people have loved. So it’s really putting your head above the parapet.”

Between the choreography boot camp in New York and London, the voice training in LA, and recording songs at the Abbey Road Studios in London, there was considerable work before day one of filming. And then the already sizable shoot doubled in length due to COVID pauses. Every time someone on the crew tested positive, it was a mandated two weeks off. Production crawled, through the fall of 2021, the winter of 2021, and into the spring of 2022, with Chalamet posted up in the UK. It was, he said, a new challenge to keep his intense focus over that interval.

There was, as well, a distraction at home. His grandmother, whom he’d been especially close to all his life, had been sick and dying for some time—and it was becoming more and more evident that he might not make it home in time. “She was always so supportive of my career,” he said, “as she was also the voice in my ear to just live as normal a youth as possible.” Before he left New York for London that summer, Chalamet had her over to the apartment he’d been renting. He set up his laptop to film what he knew might be their final lengthy conversation. They just sat there for hours talking about stuff that she had never shared with him before. “But then when she left,” he said, “I saw that my laptop had died. And that was just a little metaphor for how scattered I was during that period—like, I was present to the conversation, but couldn’t even keep it together enough to chronicle it.”

It was a lot all at once that summer and fall—from Bones and All to promoting The French Dispatch to cohosting the Met Gala to starting on Wonka to promoting Dune. “I tried doing way too much, in retrospect,” he said. It was this awareness that he brought to Paul King when, with one major scene remaining, Chalamet asked to leave to be at his grandmother’s hospital bed. Chalamet had taken pride in the fact that he’d never shut down a production, but this felt like one of those moments in life. I asked King about it. “I think it’s sometimes easy because he’s a movie star and the lead to forget that there’s also a young man at the heart of this going through something,” he said. “And it’s very easy for the film to seem like the most important thing because everyone is turning up to work, but actually there’s something far more important going on.”

When he returned to London to finally wrap Wonka, he wandered the studio lot while they prepared the final scene. He stopped by the set of Barbie to say hi to his sometime collaborator and enduring caretaker Greta Gerwig. He bumped into Jason Momoa, in full Aquaman costume, walking to a soundstage. He looked at his own Wonka overcoat and top hat. “You start to realize you’re just another job on the lot,” he said, grinning. No matter the acclaim, no matter the fame, to the crews in Leavesden in the UK, Timothée Chalamet or anyone is just another guy in funny clothes, like the many who have come before and the many who will come again. It was good medicine. It was also a sign that it was time to go home—but where on earth was that now?

“I don’t naturally feel this way,” he said, “but during the throes of COVID it felt like people that were in LA with a little more privacy had it better figured out than I did.” There were many months on movie sets ahead of him, but for the periods in between, maybe there was something more permanent to return to. So before leaving to shoot Dune: Part Two last year, he bought a house in Los Angeles on a bit of a whim. “I was able to spend 10 days in it before I went to Dune, and just having it as the home base, it psychologically helped.”

Chalamet had never had the ability to just pick right up with the same cast and crew, as he did with Dune—and the result was a uniquely complex enterprise made “remarkably smooth,” he said. “For Part One,” director Denis Villeneuve said, “it was for Timothée his first big studio-movie experience. He had assurance, but I was feeling that he was kind of vulnerable, trying to find his way on a set like that, trying to find his focus and discovering how to protect his own bubble. And on Part Two, he came to set the first day and learned so much between both movies about how to secure his focus and to own his space.”

Something else happened in the run-up to filming related to one of his new costars, Austin Butler. “It started on Zoom,” Chalamet said, “when we did a cast reading.” Was Butler still talking like Elvis? I asked him. “No, here’s the thing, he was already talking like Stellan Skarsgård.” That is, on day one of the first read-through, Butler had already dialed his way all the way into the character, the heir to Skarsgård’s Baron Harkonnen. “And you could see everyone was, like…”—he laughed a little nervously—“I can’t overstate how inspiring it was to me personally.” It persisted throughout the production. “Because here was someone who’s a little older than me, but generationally we’re similar, and I don’t know how he would put it, but his journey was different than mine.” Butler had come up via Disney Channel and Nickelodeon before breaking out in Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood and getting nominated for an Oscar for last year’s Elvis. “But he takes the work incredibly seriously. And I feel like I hadn’t seen that among someone my age, whether it was in drama school or on set, that did take the work that seriously but then after ‘cut’ wasn’t, you know, in some show of how seriously they took it—and instead is this tremendously affable, wonderful man.”

What Chalamet instantly recognized in Butler was someone who would challenge his own commitment—and force him to raise his ceiling. I suggested to Chalamet, a basketball fan, that the dynamic was like a star in the NBA who’d dominated straight out of high school but was suddenly confronted by a rookie who’d maybe cut his teeth in Europe and threatened his perch in the league. “Okay! Exactly!” he said. “I love that metaphor!” This was all just acting, of course. But here was someone who Chalamet felt could push him. Like: Man, I’d better practice harder.

“I think any great actor has a competitiveness to them, and Timmy is no exception,” Dune producer Cale Boyter said. “Whether that’s something they carry on the inside, or just in paying attention to what their peers are doing, a scene only gets better when one actor really brings it and then everyone else elevates.” Boyter described for me the emotional climax of Part Two, an enormous set piece that took weeks to film, and that centers on a showdown between Chalamet’s Paul Atreides and Butler’s Feyd-Rautha. “You’re talking about two of the most talented young actors of our generation facing off. I would say Timmy’s level of preparation going into the scene—well, knowing he was fighting Austin enhanced it.”

When production wrapped, Chalamet’s interest in the Austin Butler Playbook did not end. “You asked me what I’ve been doing in LA this year?” he said at one point. “I’ve basically been working with his entire Elvis team for my Dylan prep. There’s a wonderful dialect coach named Tim Monich. Vocal coach named Eric Vetro. Movement coach named Polly Bennett. I just saw the way he committed to it all—and realized I needed to step it up.”

There was another person who had been in Chalamet’s ear—or at least his inbox—about the greater spectrum of training required for this new phase of leading---man-dom. “After I met Tom Cruise, right after finishing the first Dune, he sent me the most wonderfully inspiring email,” Chalamet said. It included a Rolodex of sorts of all the experts he might need for stunt training. A motorcycle coach. A helicopter coach. “He basically said, in Old Hollywood, you would be getting dance training and fight training, and nobody is going to hold you to that standard today. So it’s up to you. The email was really like a war cry.”

While filming Part Two, in the summer and fall of 2022, Chalamet said he saw Top Gun: Maverick eight times. On one occasion, he bought out a movie theater in Budapest for two bucks a seat and took the whole cast and crew. “Top Gun was just hugely inspiring to me last summer when we were making Dune,” he said. “Some of the crew were kind of scoffing at going, but I just thought it was one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen.”

Dune: Part Two marked the beginning of a new sense of self and purpose for Chalamet, who clearly embraced the opportunity and the responsibility of standing in the center of the frame in these bigger films. “Action-wise,” Villeneuve said, “I felt that he was much more trained than in Part One, and ready for the fighting sequences. I was impressed by his level of discipline for Part Two. You know, when you are the lead on a movie, there’s a presence, the way you approach your work and your discipline will necessarily have a ripple effect on the rest of the crew. He was the first one on set, always ready. And I was super pleased and impressed with how Timothée really embraced that discipline and became, for me, a real leading actor on this film.”

It always feels rare for an audience to witness a real-life off-screen pivot in a movie—someone growing up, someone breaking down, someone redeeming themselves. Call Me by Your Name was one of those pivots: a true coming of age, a transformation before our eyes. And here now, it seems, was another. “In Part One,” Villeneuve said, “the camera was capturing the performance of a teenager—I’m talking about the character, someone who was learning about the world and experiencing a new reality. But Part Two is really about someone who goes from the boy to the man, and becomes a leader, and even, I will say, a dark charismatic, messianic figure. It was the first time that I witnessed someone growing in front of my camera.”

When Dune wrapped in December, Chalamet returned to his new house in Los Angeles. He spent most days since, he said, “Dylan-ing hard.” He’d been rereading Dylan’s Chronicles, and it felt newly important to him to protect the artists’ imperative Dylan lays out there: “You need your ability to imagine, your ability to observe, and your ability to experience,” Chalamet said. “And if any one of those is compromised, your ability to create is compromised in some way.”

The place in LA provided him new cover to do just that. It was a sanctuary—a key to novel comfort, peace, and freedom. The house used to belong to Kenny G, and Pete Sampras after that. It had a beautiful tennis court, over which Chalamet had rolled in a basketball hoop and a Ping-Pong table, on which he was training most days for a potential new film. He was always toiling on the next thing or things. Preparation for roles that may or may not come to fruition. And some new things outside of acting. It was all top secret, he said, but one of those new projects sparkled, the other got you drunk. This spring and summer, though, it was Dylan in Position A.

Chalamet was very aware that the last time we talked at length, he was also deep in his preparation to play Bob Dylan. He had been, both literally and metaphorically, carrying around his guitar with him for three years now. He teamed up with Butler’s vocal coach, Eric Vetro, first on Wonka and then again for A Complete Unknown prep. Vetro, who’s worked with a number of actors on their high-profile music roles, singled out Chalamet for his balance of anything-is--possible enthusiasm with reverence for the work: “He does everything with such a playful air, but there’s always that core of real seriousness where he is gonna nail it.”

That balance of spirited and sober, of young and old—it was the lightning running through his body and mind at all times. When we’d been talking about celebrities staying forever the age they were when they got famous, he’d joked: “The trouble with me is I had an 81-year-old mind when I was 17.” That duality will probably make a pretty good Dylan. The voice work, Vetro said, was not about creating a perfect copy: “It’s taking on all the characteristics of Dylan’s voice and his mannerisms and his speech patterns, and bringing that into the music—so that when you hear Timothée do the music, what you’re really getting is the essence of Bob Dylan. You’re not getting an impersonation of him. It’s breathing new life into that voice that we know so well.”

Chalamet has not yet met Dylan. “I didn’t want to three years ago, because I just didn’t want to for superstitious reasons,” he said. “Now I would love to.”

The study of Dylan was aiding him in ways large and small. “Bob is like my Fame for Dummies,” he said. “It’s a different thing now because there were so few people who were that well-known then that you could really just dodge everything and be unknown.... But I still try to learn from him.” Do the work. Then disappear. Do the work. Then disappear.

Chalamet spent much of the first half of 2023 keeping a low profile, disappearing. What was most important, for both him and his work, he said, was to protect the piece of his humanity that fuels performance. “You’ve got to have the experiences in your personal life that are usable to you,” he said. “The experiential rush of my career taking off was so new to me that those were the experiences that were feeding my work for a while. But you’ve got to have real experiences. Human experiences. You’ve got to fall in love, you’ve got to be bored. I talked about the crease in the cushion of the couch the last time we talked”—that is, in 2020, his bone-deep desire to get off his rocket ship and reacquaint himself with stillness, with just sitting on the couch for a minute—“but I never found the crease in that time! I never slowed down. I never disappeared from view. But this year, in LA, I feel like I have in a great way.”

On the occasions that he did pop up, the world took notice. The first time, in January, was in an Apple TV+ ad—where he experiences FOMO watching all his contemporaries star in hit Apple shows and films. The ad is charming, knowing, and cuts devilishly close to the old anxiousness I’d encountered earlier in his career.

The second time, in April, was when he was spotted filming a Bleu de Chanel commercial in SoHo with Martin Scorsese. When they first started talking about doing the spot together, Scorsese asked Chalamet if he’d ever seen the 1968 Fellini short Toby Dammit. Recalling it, he laughed (no, he hadn’t), but the first jolt of the 80-year-old director’s energetic vision was exhilarating. It didn’t let down during the shoot: “We were in Queens at four in the morning and he was bounding up the subway stairs,” Chalamet said. “It should’ve occurred to me sooner that I try to find something to work on with him. Yes, it’s a perfume ad, but for me it was an opportunity for an enormous education.” The result is another cunning facsimile of reality in which Chalamet sends up a caricature of himself. “It’s not lost on me that the only things I’ve shot since wrapping Dune,” he said, smiling, “are ads for billion-dollar companies satirizing a version of my life.”

Over the past six years, as Chalamet became famous and then very famous, he sometimes found himself measuring the distance between the real Timothée Chalamet and these varied perceptions of him. The dinner table of Timothée Chalamets. But this was precisely the sort of needle spinning that seemed to have subsided. This summer, it seemed the signal for true north was evident and clear and that the other noise was receding. He couldn’t control how the distortions traveled. He could only control who he was—and he was happy to own it.

Which related to the other time Chalamet popped up in early 2023. This spring, he was spotted on his way to Tito’s Tacos in Culver City. Notable only because the person he was supposedly with was Kylie Jenner, and the photos of each of their SUVs in proximity to the other spun around the world instantly and sparked rumors of a possible pairing.

Chalamet is not naïve about how celebrity culture works. In fact, besides living it every day, he is perhaps the foremost member of the first generation of mega-celebrity who himself was as internet obsessed with his favorite artists as people are with him. Kid Cudi. Leo. Et cetera. He is a product of that fever, in no way above it, and so he understands the desire to get close, to get all the way in. “I can’t say that this stuff doesn’t matter,” he said, “because my intense fandom has led me to where I am.” But he also bristles at the suggestion that he might not be entitled to a wholly private life.

When I told him that this is all a fair and practically inalienable right, but that if he really wanted to be left alone he might not spend time with one of the four most followed people on Instagram, he nodded and chuckled: “This reminds me of that recent South Park episode with the Worldwide Privacy Tour,” he said, referring to a send-up of Harry and Meghan flying around in a private jet and appearing on a talk show to demand: We want privacy! We want privacy! “Sometimes, people are going to be hella confused when you say you’re trying to live a private life.”

After months of dodging rumors, the pair confirmed them by attending a Beyoncé concert together in LA in September, then the US Open men’s singles final together in New York, and otherwise not shying away from being out and about and affectionate together in public. Due to the SAG-AFTRA strike, I couldn’t follow up to ask him what happened to his existential plea for this part of his life to be left offstage, but I imagine he might’ve just protested: “We want privacy! We want privacy!”

That night this summer, roaming around New York, we got back to the place he was staying, and a little before 1 a.m., we really started talking. Chalamet wanted to get into the difference between how he was three years ago versus how he was now—and why.

Three years ago, he said, life was spinning. This was the moment in the cabin in the woods in Woodstock. He felt quite alone with his budding fame; literally isolated, with no one around who could really understand what was happening to him. It was like being the first one to hit puberty. He’d been “pedestaled,” he said. He did not know how he was meant to live. He did not know how a person, a person in his lonely cabin, was meant to be.

On Dune: Part One, he’d attached himself to the older men on set, men who were more like uncles than equals, like Josh Brolin, Jason Momoa, and Oscar Isaac. “I feel like for a while there, it was really just older people in the room around me,” he said. “People I love but just, generationally above. And there was a moment when I—I don’t want this to come across wrong, but I felt like I was without peers.” Whereas on Part Two, he was with his contemporaries. Other actors who understood as well as—if not better than—he does, he said, how to balance the improbable fame with the life’s desire to act well. There was Zendaya. Austin Butler. Florence Pugh. And even Tom Holland, who dates Zendaya and would visit the set.

“It was so incredibly valuable to spend so much time with Zendaya and her assistant, Darnell, and when Tom would come to set too,” he said. “They’re level. They’re good Hollywood. They’re good-energy Hollywood. And then Austin and Florence. I feel like I’m creating a community for myself of people who care about the right things.”

“In Part One,” Villeneuve said, “Timothée was a little puppy with big dogs. The younger actor with the older mentors. In Part Two, he was with friends.”

“Look at Zendaya,” Chalamet said. “Just how much she’s able to achieve while also sort of letting everything roll off her back is mega-inspiring. She’s just doing.”

Here now was his class. The people his age who’d joined him in his strange circumstances, but who’d seemingly figured it out, whom he could look up to. It brought him peace. It gave him the comfort, the fellowship, the confidence, the inspiration, and the competitive motivation to do what he needed to hold onto what was worth holding onto and move on from the rest. It was time.

“At 24, I could have been content with the way I was doing things,” he said. “But that period of being stuck or stopped ended up being tremendously beneficial. It wasn’t just being isolated. It was actually a place to sprout from. And to bring more tenacity.”

It came up again and again from those I spoke to who’d come in contact with Chalamet these past three years. Here was this actor who had been elevated in such a way that he might’ve come to believe that his immense talent was enough, that his personhood alone was worth strangers’ obsession, that he inherently deserved the center of the frame. Instead, those people who knew him well said, he insisted on bringing even more effort, as though compulsively resistant to resting on his laurels. Not me—every rehearsal, every take, every interaction seemed to say. Let other people take this for granted.

“It’s this mix of challenging yourself and trying new things and venturing into new terrain—and so there’s that evolution,” producer Jeremy Kleiner said. “But there’s also a center—there’s a moral center, an aesthetic center. Whenever we spend time with him, it’s as it was, but it’s different. And you feel that mix of continuity and evolution—”

Yes, that was it exactly. Precisely the sensation of tracing my time with Chalamet from Chapter One to Chapter Two to Chapter Three. The way in which time passes, change occurs, but the center holds. That’s how you keep your mind, body, career, reputation, and integrity as an artist intact while still welcoming the rest—somehow performing the necessary surgery to shed that which needed shedding, while taking care to preserve it.

The efforts to push higher in his work dovetailed with the efforts to push ahead in his personal life. In both cases, the antagonist was the status quo—even if the status quo was much lauded and much loved. It was all part of growing up, of actively electing to evolve into the next version of himself. Of adding new versions of himself to that dinner table, or perhaps just asking some of those versions to head home for good. “When I was sitting in my grandma’s hospital room at Mount Sinai, and I knew I had two weeks left swimming in a chocolate tank to go back to, I was like, Wow, I’ve really gotta start putting some caissons into the earth or I’m going to be in trouble. I have no real solid footing to land after all this to spring forth from again. This is why people who turn 27 and refuse to start pulling the handbrake end up dying. It’s the last gasps of your youth hitting a wall. Your body is actually adultifying.”

Chalamet had asked me if he seemed calmer than when we were in the woods together three years ago—and the difference this summer was palpable. He had, it seemed, passed through some rough air but found clearer skies. He’d taken his ship higher. Leveled up. Things were simpler there. “Yes,” he said. “It had to become simpler in order for it to become really complicated again. And I hope that when I do this next movie, and you talk to me at the end of it, I’ll be in ruins.”

He had to change something to get out of a temporary storm. As a human and as an artist. He started treating his acting even more seriously. Embracing being a leading man. Training like he’d never trained before. He ditched his apartment in New York. Bought a house in LA. Started spending time with whom he pleased. But what happens when you eschew the things that made your career what it’s become? What happens when you deliberately defy the moves that led you where you’d always wanted to go, and try something altogether different? It was a risk. But it made perfect sense. It happens. Your family members start to die. Your elders get replaced by your peers. You pack up your life and plant roots elsewhere. You put down the instrument that made you known and pick up another one instead. You plug it in. Do you hear that? That’s the buzz of something new. Wait till you hear what it sounds like when you strum.

Daniel Riley is GQ’s global content development director.

A version of this story originally appeared in the November 2023 issue of GQ with the title “Timothée Chalamet Goes Electric”

[ghoststyles]

Fairway to Heaven - Part 7

You might wanna queue up Phoebe Bridgers for this one?

7.6K

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It’s been five whole weeks since Harry received Camille’s package. The brown box sits in the back of Harry’s office closet, burning a hole in the floor. He left all of the contents alone, except Oliver’s birth photo and a drawing, which are now in a picture frame on his desk.

The drawing, made of crayon and construction paper, is of a cat (or so he thinks) next to the Eiffel tower. In large, messy letters reads ‘Pierre’. When he zones out during his meetings, he looks at it, wondering if Camille has made any promises to Oliver about meeting Harry.

It’s not that he’s avoiding going to Paris. He’d leave tomorrow if it were up to him. Reopening this chapter of his life means a lifestyle change, not just for himself, but for Briar. She’s 24. No one should be thrown into a life where they’re suddenly a step-mom. She can’t even rent a car alone in America, for God’s sake.

They’ve danced around the topic; neither of them really knowing what to do. Briar tries to keep busy by working at the club and spending time at her campus’s library. Harry can’t help but feel her pulling away. He prays this uncertainty from her is in his head as he feels his 30 year old self-destruction return.

The door to his son is wide open. He wishes someone would just fucking shove him through.

~

Briar is staring staring off into space at Cafe Benito, waiting for Madison to arrive. She taps her foot nervously, making direct eye contact with everyone who enters. She feels sneaky and that Harry could walk in at any minute.

The short brunette enters the cafe moments later, directly locking eyes with Briar at the corner table.

“Hi, Briar! So nice to finally meet you in person,” she smiles warmly, sitting down in the seat across from her. Briar pushes an iced latte toward her, to which she smiles gratefully. “Your message was a little cryptic. What’s up? And why did you want to meet in person?”

Briar takes a deep breath as she stares at Harry’s assistant, a woman she’s talked with numerous times over the phone, but has never met.

“Without getting into too much detail, Harry is dealing with a personal issue, and I think he might need a little help. I wanted to get in touch with you, since you know his schedule and travel preferences.”

“Oh, sure, sure. What’s going on?”

“He needs to go to Paris for a bit. I’m not thinking too long. Maybe a month or so,” Briar sighs, looking off to the side. “But I know he’s so busy with work, it’s super hard.”

“Well, he and Niall just hired a new associate, so I feel like it wouldn’t be too hard. A lot of people take leaves of absences,” Madison smiles softly. “I’d say it’s been about 8 years since Harry took one. Not sure why. I had just started there as a temp.”

Briar has a hunch as to why he took time off. Nonetheless, she doesn’t dwell on it.

“Yeah, a leave of absence. I just don’t think he’ll do it on his own. Which is why I need your help. I’d like to arrange for him to travel there, maybe in two weeks. Does he fly commercial or take the jet?”

“Commercial for long-haul flights. He gets less freaked out over the ocean in the bigger planes,” she laughs. “I can book something using my company card and get reimbursed for it so he doesn’t suspect anything.”

“That sounds good. I say just pick a date, and I’ll make it work. Do you think you can slowly start clearing his calendar? Maybe decline recurring meetings one at a time. I’ll talk to Niall to make sure this is alright.”

The women discuss packing for him in secret, and ways to cover their tracks. As heart wrenching as this whole situation is, a rush of adrenaline hits Briar. She takes a sharp breath when Madison speaks up.

“Are you going to be joining him? I can make sure to get you the seats that lie down next to each other.”

Briar bites her lip as she feels her eyes droop sadly.

“No, this is just something he needs to take care of. I think it’ll bring on some personal growth.”

Madison nods, “Okay, no problem. Can I be honest with you?”

Briar sits up, nodding.

“Harry has been a new person since he met you. It’s like night and day. Before, he was a little scatterbrained. I think you bring a little stability to his life that he was missing.”

Briar’s heart could jump out of her chest. She quietly thanks Madison, scared of crying in the cafe.

“I could feel him slipping back into his old ways these past few weeks, so whatever he needs to go do, I hope it brings him back,” she places her hand lightly on Briar’s shoulder before standing up.

Briar hopes it brings him back, too.

~

A few days later, Briar heads to Harry’s house with Gus in what feels like the first time in forever. She feels like a stranger. They’ve texted here and there, but Briar is purposefully making herself busy and unavailable.

Maureen is out watering her plants along their shared fence when Briar drives up. Gus trots over to sniff her through the fence before promptly lifting his leg, nearly peeing on her. Maureen shrieks, dropping the hose and walking back to her house.

Briar laughs to herself before calling Gus back over. Gus barges into Harry’s house through his garage door like he owns the place. Briar follows him in, only to stop dead in her tracks at the site of his kitchen.

Harry is singing Elton John at the top of his lungs, placing cookies on a cooling rack. His oven is on and the counters are littered with bowls, plates and dry ingredients. She watches as he circles his hips, mixing the batter as he moves along.

“And I think it’s gonna be a long, long ti--,” Gus finally approaches Harry, to which he jumps when he feels his fur swipe his leg. “Birdie! What’re you doing here?”

She smiles, walking over to him to wrap her arms around his core. She slips her hands in the waistband of his sweatpants, making his gasp at how cold her hands are.

“Just miss ya, is all,” she smiles, closing her eyes. “What’s all this for?”

“I listened to a podcast and they mentioned doing something from your childhood that made you happy. So, I decided to make some cookies. Boxed recipe, of course,” he laughs, pointing to the slightly burnt desserts.

“That sounds like fun,” she scrunches her eyebrows, wondering what she’d pick. “I’d do a lemonade stand, I think.”

“Now we’re talking. Want to be my business partner?” Harry places the bowl down before lifting Briar onto the countertop. “I’ve missed you, baby. I’m so sorry I’ve been so in my head lately.”

Briar shrugs, not sure what to say. They kiss passionately for a few minutes, before Gus starts barking. They break the kiss, only to see Gus giving them the side eye near his food bowl.

“I fed you at home, hungry, hungry hippo!”

“Just give him some. He looks skinny,” Harry purses his lips as he walks to the pantry. He scoops a generous amount of food into the bowl, making Briar roll her eyes. The vet would say otherwise.

Her phone buzzes, signaling Madison sent Harry’s Paris itinerary. She quickly clears the notification, taking note of the departure date. Harry leaves in 8 days. Her stomach turns in anguish.

Harry guides Briar to his couch, bringing her to lay her legs across his lap. He’s staring dreamily into her eyes, but she can’t feel more disconnected to him. She knows how bad this situation is hurting him, and she doesn’t want him to move on without addressing these feelings.

Harry starts to dance his hands up her side, a clear pathway to getting in her pants. Her resolve remains strong.

“Let’s just talk, Harry,” she grabs his hand and puts it in his lap. “I feel like we haven’t been doing a lot of that lately.”

Harry nods, defeated, “I know. It’s just a weird situation that I don’t know how to navigate.”

“I agree, but that’s why we have to do it together,” she says, twisting the ring on his pointer finger. “How’s work? What’s been going on?”

“We just hired a new associate, so that should take some things off my plate. My calendar is surprisingly lighter. This might be a shift in the right direction. Or, Niall is silently pushing me out,” he chuckles.

Briar bites her lip. She has an animated face, and she doesn’t want her expression to give her secret away. Harry continues talking, so she assumes she’s in the clear.

Her conversation with Niall went well; he rolled his eyes at the idea of taking on more work, but he understands this is something Harry needs to do. His job is to play dumb at work and make Harry believe he is attending all of the same meetings. Madison even went as far as to make fake calendar invites.

“How’s your mom settling into California?” Harry asks after a beat of silence. Briar has to stop herself from groaning.

Weeks before, she drug her brothers to their childhood home to clear out junk. It was a cathartic experience; she hadn’t been there in years, but it felt like she never left. Her bedroom was the exact same; purple walls with zebra print accents. She found her pile of Littlest Pet Shop pets and Polly Pockets. It was like she was 5 again, sitting on the floor with her Dad, giving names to each pet and telling him their intricate backstories; lots of infidelity and long lost twins.

Even her oldest brother, Welles, and his new fiancee, Imani, came. He started off cold, but warmed up as they reminisced on their early days. Cormac sat quietly, unable to join in since he was just a baby at the time.

“I think she’s alright. The house is beautiful. Have you ever been to Montecito?”

Harry looks down, before nodding, “Yeah, that’s where Camille and I lived for a bit.”

“Oh. I see,” Briar says quietly.

“You should go out and see her. It really is one of the most beautiful places,” Harry says, rubbing her leg.

“Yeah, maybe,” she yawns. The pair chit chat for a bit longer, putting Briar’s mind at ease a little.

“Can you stay for a few days?” Harry asks, staring right into her eyes. “I-I can’t help but feel like I’m fucking everything up.”

This wakes Briar right up.

“H, no. I think I’ve just been trying to keep myself busy since the only thing that needs to happen now is,” Briar trails off. “You need to go to Paris.”

Harry closes his eyes. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I’m just scared.”

Briar sits up, adjusting herself into a kneeled position. She grabs his hand, looking down.

“I know you are,” she inhales. “So, I made arrangements for you to go. You leave in 8 days.”

Briar feels like a ton of bricks land on her. She’s terrified to meet his eyes.

“W-what?”

Harry is stunned, feeling like all the air in his lungs left at once.

“I talked to Madison and Niall. Everything is set. You’re going to stay there for a month.”

He closes his eyes, processing what she’s saying. What about work? What about the two of them?

“I didn’t go as far as contacting Camille, so you’ll have to do that. But, I’m sure she can fit in some visits. Maybe at a park, to start,” Briar rambles. “You’ll probably have a lot of downtime.”

“A-are you not coming with me?” Harry asks, dumbfounded. His hands are trembling, waiting for her answer.

She shifts, not meeting his eyes, “No. Just you.”

Panic bubbles uncomfortably in his chest, “Birdie, please, I,” he trails off. “I can’t do that. No. No.”

“You can, and you’re going to. This is such a big moment for you, but I think you need to do it on your own,” Briar chokes out. Tears started to roll down her rosy cheeks. “You can call me any time. I’m sorry I had to do this so sneakily.”

He pulls her into his chest as he starts to cry. His heart is breaking knowing they’ll be separated for a month.

“Thank you,” he croaks. “You don’t understand how much this means to me. But I’m so gutted you aren’t coming.”

She sniffles, wiping her nose on his shirt. His chest bobbles up and down as the quiet cries take over him. She can’t help but feel like this is the end.

~

Harry sent Camille an email of his itinerary a few days prior to his departure. He profusely apologized for the last minute plans, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s eager, almost. But, maybe Harry is reading too far into her tone.

The family has a few activities throughout the month, but they can easily work around Harry’s time with Oliver. She even invited him to one of his football games.

Briar is sat on Harry’s bed as he looks through his suitcase one last time. He mentally checks off his toiletries, socks and underwear, not really paying any mind to his outfits.

He’s still in disbelief he’ll be on a leave of absence from work. It took a lot of convincing from Niall, but finally Harry gave in as Niall swooped him into a big hug. Harry made a list of books in his phone that he’d like to read, and museums he’d like to visit, since he hadn’t been to Paris in years. Hell, he’s barely had any free time at all.

“Are you gonna stay here while I’m gone?”

Briar’s head snaps up to look at Harry. She bites her lip, unsure how to answer.

“I think I’ll just stay at my apartment, if that’s okay,” she says quietly. Suddenly picking at her cuticles is more interesting than looking at Harry.

Harry’s heart sinks, but he understands. She didn’t ask to be part of this.

“I just don’t want to feel like the girl you have waiting for you at home.”

Harry shudders, but nods, “I get it. I want you to be comfortable. I drug you into this.”

“No, I offered to help. So I am. It’ll be okay. I just have to keep myself busy.”

Harry moves the suitcase from the bench at the foot of the bed to the floor. He looks at his folded clothes sadly and swallows thickly. He crawls to meet her on the bed, pulling her into the small spoon position. Harry starts to kiss the back of her neck, sucking a little longer as he moves under her jaw.

“Are you gonna send me lots of nudies?”

Briar inhales deeply, not missing a beat before replying, “No, you can watch porn.”

Harry gasps, “Briar Barlowe, I do NOT watch porn!”

“Mhm, sure,” she smiles to herself, still facing the other direction. “What do you even watch anyway?”

Harry thinks for a minute, wanting to have this conversation delicately, “I just try to support women in their pursuit to find lucrative job opportunities. Also known as fucking the housekeeper.”

“You are so full of shit,” she laughs.

“I like watching people fuck in the woods. And maybe almost get caught.”

Briar’s eyes scrunch closed as she giggles. That checks out, based on the number of times they’ve hooked up on the 14th hole.

“What do YOU watch, missy?”

Briar smiles, “hmmm. A lot of it we already do. But my new favorite is ‘free use’”

Harry’s stomach clenches, “That’s hot as fuck baby. You want me to just take you whenever I want? Wanna wear nothing but one of my shirts around the house?”

He continues kissing her neck as she moans out, “Yeah, daddy.”

“Wanna go downstairs and pretend to read your book? And I’ll be right there?”

Her heart races with excitement. This is just the distraction she needs. She peels herself away from him, but not before grabbing his crotch.

“Oi! Easy, Birdie.”

She scurries off to Harry’s sofa, peeling her panties and bra off as she goes. It’ll be like a scavenger hunt. She grabs a book from the shelf and positions herself on her stomach, knees bent and ankles crossed behind her in the air. The exposure feels cool against her wet cunt.

She flips to a random page, a smutty one of course. The character is pinned down, her partner kissing down her body with an ice cube in his mouth. She shivers, imagining Harry’s tongue swirling around her nipple with ice between his teeth.

She hears Harry coming down the steps. The trick to free use porn is to not say a word at first. Briar continues reading until she feels Harry come up behind her, his large hand grabbing her butt cheek and massaging it. She flips the pages, furrowing her brows and using her pointer finger to keep her spot exaggeratedly.

Harry pulls his cock out from his gym shorts and briefs before lining himself up and pressing into her. He keeps his thrusts short and shallow, not wanting to give her too much of a reaction.

Tiny gasps escape her throat, but she tries to keep her composure. For added fun, Briar starts to read her book out loud. Harry’s stomach clenches at the detail, wanting to do everything to his girl.

“‘Wrap your legs around me and tell me how much you like it, Nate says’,” Briar sighs out, slowly flipping the page. Harry has to bite his knuckle as not to cry out.

“I love reading, I wish my daddy read my naughty books with me,” Briar sighs, holding back a moan. “Oh my gosh, daddy? Is that you?”

She turns her head, a devious glint in her eyes.

“Ughn, keep reading your book, baby. Wanna hear your words.”

“‘Can you be a good girl and be quiet?’ Nate says, and I can finally start to feel his fingers under my skirt,” Briar reads out loud, her pussy clenching Harry’s cock deliciously.

Harry locks his jaw, smacking the book out of her hands. She gasps as he flips her over and starts to pound into her. He presses his hand into her bare chest for leverage. She throws her head back, a strangled cry falling from her lips.

“Love fucking you all the time, baby. Don’t know how I’m gonna live without this fucking pussy for a month,” Harry grits out.

In all their fun, it distracted Briar from the magnitude of their situation. Her mood shifts, and it’s like her cunt dried up immediately. Her heart is pumping from anxiety and not excitement. She cries out, her muted orgasm washing over her. She might as well have faked it.  

“Fffuck yes, baby. Gonna come now,” Harry grasps her cheeks with one hand, making her lips puff out like a fish. “Can you say, ‘I love you, Daddy’?”

“I wov you daddy,” she blubbers out, his hand making it difficult to enunciate.

Harry buries into her before dropping his body weight onto her and sticking his face in her neck as he pours into her, “Love you so much.”

She stares at the ceiling over his shoulder. Love fucking hurts sometimes.

~

On the day of Harry’s flight, he and Briar spend the whole day together. They got breakfast and took Gus for a walk around the public garden. Their pinkies are locked as they stroll past the once flowery oasis, spying piles of leaves on the ground.

“What’re you thinking about right now?” Briar asks.

“I’m not as nervous as I thought I’d be. I think I’m thinking of logistics. Like, if it goes well, what do we do? Do I fly to France a few times a year? I don’t think she’d let him come stay with me right away. Someone would have to fly back and forth with him,” Harry trails off, his pinkie cutting off the circulation of Briar’s.

“Well, there’s time to figure that out. It doesn’t have to be determined over night,” Briar says, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her heart has felt heavy all day. She tries not to let her feelings show on her face, because she knows Harry would back out. He has to do this.

“And I want to make sure you know where you fit in all of this. I know you haven’t said it, but I know your brain pretty well at this point,” Harry says, placing his thumb on her cheek as he turns to face her. “We’re partners. A team. I know you’re thinking you’re a burden. And you’re not; I value your input so much. Just need you to be patient with me.”

She nods silently, placing her head on his chest. Gus starts to pull on his leash toward a goose, so it stops her from crying.

“Augustus Theodore Barlowe-Styles!” Harry yells.

Briar looks at him wildly, “Um, when did that happen?”

Harry shrugs, “If you need me to sign a fake paper, I will. But I am his dad.”

Briar bites her lip, looking the other direction so Harry can’t see the pain on her face.

They continue on, returning to the car about an hour later. Harry has a parking ticket, to which he grumbles to himself. Briar laughs, snapping a photo of him holding the bright orange paper.

They return home to put Gus away and wait for the driver. Harry arranged for a driver to pick them up so they can say their goodbyes the whole drive. When the black Escalade pulls into the driveway, silent tears start to blur her vision. The man grabs Harry’s luggage and opens the door for Briar to get in.

They sit so close together, not even a sheet of paper can fit between them. He grasps her hand for dear life, not willing to let go first. The drive to the airport is excruciating, so Harry just peppers kisses in Briar’s hair, taking in long whiffs of her scent.

“I can’t thank you enough, Birdie,” Harry starts. “A month will go by in no time.”

Briar breathes in deeply, a lump forming in her throat, “Just a month.”

“Just a month.”

They sit in silence, basking in the physical feeling of one another. Harry leans down to kiss her as they pull into the terminal. It deepens, Harry gently swiping his tongue through her lips. The car comes to a stop, so Briar breaks apart. Harry feels a pang in his heart.

Briar starts to cry, a tiny sniffle escaping her. She can’t bring herself to look at him.

“I don’t want to go yet, but I have to, baby.”

She nods, squeezing her eyes shut. Her grip on his t-shirt is so tight, her hands are shaking.

“I love you, Birdie, so much. Just bear with me, please. Whatever you’re feeling…Call me. Text me. We’re in this together.”

Harry grips her thigh before opening the car door. She shuffles out after him, the bright lights of the terminal blinding her. The driver is taking Harry’s luggage from the trunk, so the two of them stand at the hood of the car in a tight embrace.

Briar’s tears are dampening Harry’s favorite Kendrick Lamar ‘DAMN.’ hoodie. He looks so soft and comfy. His hair is freshly washed, the smell of the citrus shampoo taking over their embrace.

The AirFrance attendants take his luggage away, so he only has to worry about his trusty suede duffel bag. He places one last long kiss on Briar’s forehead and pulls away. Their hands are interlocked, but don’t separate until the last second.

Harry grabs his duffel bag before sadly following the attendant inside. Briar stands still, watching him through the glass windows until he’s at the escalator. Harry presses a kiss to the pads of his three fingers before turning his hand to face her. She reaches up, pretending to grab the stray kiss, tears still falling rapidly.

“Whenever you’re ready miss,” the driver’s soft voice breaks her train of thought. She looks over at him in acknowledgement.

When she looks back to the escalator, he’s gone. Briar sobbed the whole ride home.

~

“I can’t be a step-mom, Caroline. I’m fucking 24 years old!” Briar grasps at her hair as she’s sat at brunch. She didn’t sleep for a single minute after dropping Harry off. She paced her apartment, ready to send the most Earth-shattering text to Harry.

He couldn’t have been sweeter to her. He paid for in-flight wifi so he could text her throughout. He watched movies he thought she’d like, and rated his meals. He was a fan of the yogurt parfait but not the chicken milanese. He let her know there was a woman with a young baby sat next to him, so he offered to hold the baby while she used the restroom. Briar’s heart hurt at the last part.

“Well, maybe you don’t have to be all that involved, anyway. The kid lives in France, for Christ’s sake. You could be like Luke and Lorelai in Gilmore Girls.”

Briar stares at her, bewildered, “They broke up because of the secret kid, Caro.”

“You’re right! But they found each other in the end.”

She rolls her eyes at her friend’s inability to read the room. She’s too absorbed in her new bartender boyfriend to care about anyone else now.

Briar hasn’t heard from Harry in a few hours, but she assumes it’s because of the time difference. The waiter appears, asking if the girls would like more mimosas.

“Keep them coming, please,” Caroline smiles. He nods before disappearing into the back. She looks back at Briar. “Can’t you just hold on for two weeks? That way, he’ll have a better idea of how he can manage it all, and then you can decide.”

She’s right. Briar hasn’t even given it a fighting chance; she’s just always trusted her gut and it’s always worked out. The complexity of the situation scares her.

“You’re right. I don’t even know if they’ve met yet. I’ll relax a little, I guess. How’s Max?”

Caroline nods, giving Briar a side hug, “We’re good. Taking it slow. He got out of a long relationship not long ago, too. I’m really happy, Bri.”

Briar smiles, “I’m so glad. You deserve it. I’ll try to cross paths with him a little more at Wynnewood. Does this mean you’re moving back here any time soon?”

Caroline laughs, breaking the yolk on her eggs Benedict, “Probably. I’m already sick of my parents’ house. It’s weird not knowing anyone in your town as an adult.”

Briar looks down at her phone when she feels it start to vibrate.

🦊: Are you busy?

She puts her phone in her purse so she can focus on her friend. She’ll call him later.

“I get that. Have you met anyone at the gym or anything? Maybe you can start teaching spin again,” Briar suggests. Caroline juts her lip out.

“Maybe. It’s a commitment, though.”

“Might be good for you. Think about it.”

The girls wrap up, and part ways. If there’s one thing the two of them go hard or go home for, it’s brunch. Briar decides to grab an Uber since she had a few mimosas.

The driver arrives, but he furrows his brow when she gets in.

“For Harry?”

Fuck. She’s using his account, not hers. She nods, not really wanting to disclose that it’s her boyfriend’s account. Her phone vibrates again.

🦊: Where are you going? Call me if you’re heading home.

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath. Leaning her head against the window, she lets the glass cool her now warm forehead. Harry gets pinged when his credit card is charged.

She dials his contact, about to give up until he answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Birdie. What’re you up to?”

She can’t quite read his tone.

“Hi. Not much, just got done grabbing brunch with Caroline,” she looks out the window. “H-how’s it going over there?”

“Everything here is good. I landed in the morning, obviously, checked into my hotel, and then I met up with Camille and Oliver at a park close by. It was surreal, honestly,” Harry says, putting his free hand on top of his head. “It went really well. Better than I could’ve imagined.”

Briar smiles, finally feeling genuine about this whole situation. She could cry knowing that little boy will finally get to know his father. And she knows he’ll never skip out on him from this point on.

“I’m so glad, H. Really. I bet you’ll have so much fun the rest of the time you’re there. Will you be able to have him by yourself, do you think? Or does Camille want to be there for the first couple visits?”

“I think I will, eventually, yeah. She just wants to make sure he’s comfortable, y’know? But, from what I can tell, he’s already perfectly comfortable.”

“That’s great. Maybe there’s an activity you can do together,” Briar says, but pauses. “Honestly I’m not sure how French children spend their time. Eating cheese?”

Harry laughs, pacing his hotel room. He hasn’t been this anxious with Briar on the phone since their first call.

“From what I can tell, it’s a lot of play dates. The thing is, kids are allowed to just ‘be’ here. I feel like American kids have to be occupied at all times. It was cool to see his imagination play out. Even though we only had a football with us. He got really creative with it.”

“Anyway, I miss ya, Birdie. How’s Caroline? Is she still with Max?”

“Miss you too, so much. Gus does too. I don’t take him for runs like you do. And Caro is good. Still with Max,” she says as she fumbles out of the Uber.

“Thank you!” She says to the driver.

“You home already?”

“Yeah, walking up to the door. Sorry I accidentally used your account,” Briar says sheepishly.

“Don’t apologize, my love. Charge whatever you need to on my card.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna take Gus for a walk. I love you. I’m glad you had a good day. Remember to send pictures,” she smiles leaning on her door frame.

“Love you, Birdie. Have a good night.”

“Bye. Sleep well,” she says quietly.

She starts to cry again, maybe from the alcohol. She’s happy for him. Really. But she can’t help but feel this gnawing in her soul.

~

“Olivier! Viens ici s'il te plait,” Camille calls out.

Harry is rusty at French, not needing to use it in years. Nonetheless, his boy drops the toy in his hand and enters the kitchen.

For their visit today, they’re at Camille and Theo’s countryside home. Theo took their daughter for a walk to give them space. Harry didn’t request for Theo to make himself scarce, but he appreciates the gesture.

“Harry va t'emmener chercher une crêpe. Est-ce que ça sonne bien?”

The little boy nods. Harry is translating in his head. He only recognizes is his name and une crêpe.

Even though Camille is hesitant, the crêperie is around the corner in the small town. They’d be gone for half an hour max.

“Does that sound good, mate? What flavor are you going to get?”

Oliver looks puzzled, and stares at his mom. She nods her head, “Anglais, Olivier.”

“Oweo,” he says quietly. Harry learned Oliver has a small speech impediment they’re working through. He’s made great strides throughout the school year.

“I might get that, too. Ready to go?”

The boy nods, and they both stand to head to the front door. Camille waves them off from the window.

Harry feels like a deer in headlights. Should he hold his hand?

Oliver starts to walk on the gravel road, to which Harry switches positions with him so he’s in harms way if a car were to swerve at them.

Alright, he thinks. That was fatherly.

Oliver reaches his small hand to grab Harry’s, and he feels his heart lurch in his chest. It’s so small, Oliver holds onto his pinky. He smiles, thinking of Briar.

They walk a bit longer, Harry listening to Oliver ramble on about 100 topics. He smiles and nods largely, encouraging him to keep talking. The crêperie comes into view, so they enter the shop to meet a cheery older woman.

“Olivier! Bonjour mon coeur!”

Oliver hides behind Harry’s leg and peeps out, "Bonjour mademoiselle Celine.”

“Good morning. We’d love to have two Oreo crêpes, please. I’ll also take a cappuccino.”

“Of course, sir. Tout pour mon client préféré,” she giggles, looking at the boy. Judging by their mischievous smiles, he can tell Oliver is a regular here.

“Merci.”

They sit at a small table outside on the packed patio. Oliver sits on Harry’s lap, since there is only one chair. Oliver points out birds and starts to recite the alphabet backwards for Harry.

“Parles-tu français?” the woman next to them asks.

“Not much, honestly,” Harry laughs.

“Is this your son?”

“Oh, he’s n—,” Harry stops himself. “Yes. Yes, this is my son, Oliver.”

His heart is beating out of his chest. He’s so used to not claiming his niece when he takes her out.

“Beautiful. You look like twins,” she smiles before going back to reading her book.

“Merci,” Harry smiles.

The waiter brings their crepes and Harry’s drink. He pulls his phone out for a quick selfie of the two of them, Oreo crumbs messy around their mouths. He sends it to Briar, knowing it’s the middle of the night.

“Who is that girwl?” Oliver asks, spying Harry’s screen saver. His little accent makes Harry smile.

“That’s my girlfriend, Briar. Maybe one day you’ll get to meet her. Do you want to see her silly puppy, Gus?”

“Yeah!”

Harry shows Oliver tons of videos he’s taken of Gus and photos of himself and Briar. They enjoy their time looking at pictures and singing some of the songs he’s learned at school. The two walk home together, hand in hand.

Harry doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

~

It’s noon before Briar finally wakes up on her day off. Gus is well past his puppy years, so he’ll sleep as long as she’ll let him. She leashes him up, opting to not bring her phone and take in the sunshine.

She misses being able to let him out back at Harry’s, but she deals with it. They walk and Gus sniffs around for about an hour before they make their way home. She pulls her phone on the charger to find a few texts from Harry.

🦊: Awake yet, lazy bones?

🦊:  Went for crêpes. Just the two of us.

🦊: I already feel so comfortable hanging with him, Bird. I wish you were here 🖤

There are several hours in between texts, so she doesn’t rush to reply.

🐥: Two cute guys! I’m so happy for you. Wish I was there too.

She lies.

Gus lays down, so Briar immediately heads outside with her headphones. She hasn’t taken a run in weeks, but she wants her heart to hammer in her chest from exercise, not anxiety. She’s never told Harry she runs, in fear of him dragging her for long distances. She prefers to run to a coffee shop and then walk back.

Main street comes into view once she finds a good rhythm. She’s listening to Clouds by One Direction, so her pace is quick. She passes Lululemon moms with their babies in strollers and designer dogs in tow, giving tight lip smiles.

Her favorite cafe is on her right, so she stops to stretch and even out her breathing before going in. The guy at the counter welcomes her asking what she’d like to drink.

“Can I have an iced green tea with just a pump of sweetener and a lemon?”

“Sure, coming right up,” he winks.

She sits at the counter to get off her feet.

“This might be weird, but I think you’re in one of my business classes.”

Briar cocks her head to look at him. They all have to have profile photos since it’s online. She finally recognizes him. Spencer.

“Oh, yes! Spencer, right? I’m Briar,” she reaches out to shake his hand gently.

“Yep, good memory. Are you almost done with your paper?”

Briar smiles, “Nope, haven’t even started outlining.”

“Okay, good. At least we’re on the same wavelength.”

He hands her the drink and waves her off when she tries to give him her card, “No worries, it’s on me. Let me know if you want to meet up and study some time.”

He walks swiftly into the back. He wrote his number on the cardboard sleeve surrounding the drink. Nervousness bubbles in her stomach.

🦊: Heading back to the hotel. Let me know if you’re free.

She reads Harry’s text. Re-reads it. Re-reads it again. Then she shoves her phone in her sports bra before sprinting out of the cafe.

Her music resumes at full volume, this time, Kiss You comes on. She smiles trying not to sing out loud for everyone to hear.

She makes it home in record time, running straight to the bathroom to shower. She continues playing her music, only to be interrupted by a call. She squints from across the bathroom to see the familiar fox emoji on the screen. She waits for it to go to voicemail before belting out the lyrics to Steal My Girl. Briar isn’t sure why she’s avoiding him. It’s only been 3 days. They have a long time to go.

She finishes her shower, taking the time to moisturize and do her skincare routine. Once she’s in her robe, she settles in her bed to call Harry back.

“‘Lo?”

“Hi,” She says quietly. “Did I just wake you up?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I think I fell asleep at 4pm,” he chuckles. “How is your day?”

“Good, I slept in and then went for a run, actually.”

“A run? How come you’ve never gone on one with me?” Harry is sort of offended.

Briar laughs, a genuine one, “‘Cause I was scared you’d make me run for miles. I like to run and get coffee or tea and then walk back.”

Harry hums, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. He’s not sure what else to say to her.

“Can we FaceTime? Wanna see your pretty face,” Harry says.

“Mhm,” Briar switches to FaceTime in one swift motion.

“Hi, pretty,” Harry says, his eyes lighting up.

“Hi, handsome. Looks like you already need a haircut,” she laughs.

“I know, I totally spaced getting one before I left. Although, I didn’t know I was leaving.”

Briar is quiet before asking, “How was your day with Oliver? That’s great you got some time alone with him.”

Harry beams as he tells her all the things Oliver has shown and talked to him about. He told her how natural everything feels, even so soon after officially meeting him.

“So, did Camille explain to him who you are?” Briar asks delicately.

“Yeah, but he hasn’t called me Dad or anything, yet. Papa, in French, I guess. She gave him all of my cards every year. She’s shown him pictures,” Harry yawns. “But I don’t think she ever told him the history, of course. Always said ‘maybe one day. Ultimately, Theo is raising him. That’s a bond I won’t try to interfere with. I trust him.”

“That’s good. I know I keep saying it, but I’m so happy for you,” Briar smiles softly.

“Thanks, Bird. You look awfully comfy,” Harry smirks. “Whatcha got under that robe, lovie?”

“C’mon, not now, H,” Briar blows him off.

A confused look flashes over his face, but it quickly fades.

“What? Why not?”

“I just — You’re there to see your son. I just feel weird calling and doing all this,” Briar admits.

“But it’s okay to call me while I’m on a work trip and get me riled up?” His head cocks to the side, eyebrows furrowed.

“T-that’s different.”

“How?” His nostrils flare out. “It’s not like I have Oliver here with me.”

“I don’t know, it just is. Don’t be like this, please,” she pleads.

“Okay…?” he draws out. Suddenly, her flaky behavior is not in his head. “Um, I guess I’ll let you go then. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They both hang up with newly formed pits in their stomachs.

~

Harry woke up bright and early on day 11, getting ready to watch Oliver’s football game. They spent the last few days apart so he could visit his grandparents in the south of France.

Harry spent each day the same way; eating at a cafe, reading the newspaper, taking his French Duolingo lesson, and then hitting a museum or a park before ordering room service. Sometimes a call with Briar fits in there.

Harry smiles at the thought of his mum and sister meeting him. Gemma’s daughter, Hattie, is only a year older than Oliver. He can picture them running around in the backyard on a summer day, jumping in and out of the pool, ice lollies staining their faces.

He’s getting ahead of himself. He visibly shakes his head back and forth to focus.

Grabbing it off the side table, he looks at his phone. It’s 1AM at home, so he wonders if Briar is still awake.

🦊: Hi, Birdie. Still awake?

Briar is 5 episodes deep into Jersey Shore when her phone vibrates. Gus stirs, wondering why she’s disturbing him. Doing the math in her head, she realizes it’s 7AM in Paris.

🐥: Morning 🤍 I’m just watching TV

He doesn’t bother replying, and opts to call.

“Hi,” she says quietly, grabbing the remote to pause the TV. The tension over the last few days have been rough, and Briar knows it’s her fault. Her cold feet about going all in with Harry has consumed her. She’s been dodging his calls, calling back hours after he tries to initiate contact.

“What’re you doing up so late, baby girl?”

His gruff morning voice gives her chills. She misses his soft speaking voice gently rousing her from sleep in the mornings.

“Watching classic American television,” she laughs softly. “What’re you doing up so early?”

“I was invited to watch Oliver’s football games today. Camille’s parents will be there too, so it’ll be nice to see them.”

Briar grimaces to herself. Will it? Those people left him high and dry as much as Camille did.

“That’s nice. Were you close with them?”

“Yeah, her dad and I bonded over vintage cars and watches. And her mum is very sweet.”

Briar hums. After a while, Harry speaks up.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right, Birdie?”

She freezes. He’s onto her.

“Yes,” she starts off slow and questioning. “Why do you say that?”

“Not sure. It might be me. Just feeling like we’re a bit off.”

“I’m not a long distance person. You know that,” she lies. Again.

“I know that. This isn’t a long distance relationship, though,” Harry replies.

Briar opts for silence. Again.

“I need words, baby. This is never going to work if you’re not honest with me.”

She closes her eyes, “I just don’t think it’s going to work at all, Harry.”

There it is. The breaking point. The atomic bomb. The earthquake that destroys 100 cities.

Harry covers his eyes with his hand. He’s so shaky he can barely stand. A highlight reel of their time together flashes through his mind. The high highs and their few and far between lows. He’s never in his life felt so tied to another human being before. Not even his son, whom he’s just getting to know.

“You don’t mean that,” Harry presses. His heart is racing so fast it’s all he can hear.

“I don’t fucking know, Harry,” a cry explodes out of her chest. “This feels like too much, too soon.”

Harry clenches his teeth and balls his fists, “No. No, Briar. This isn’t how this is going to go.”

“Why do you get to dictate everything? This is a big fucking deal, Harry. I can’t see where I fit into this, so I’m taking myself out of it.”

“No! Baby, please. Please just wait until I’m back. There’s gonna be a plan, and I’m sorry I don’t have that for you right now. I’m so fucking sorry. Don’t do this to me. Please,” his voice breaks, exaggerated wheezing leaving his chest.

Briar holds the phone away from her ear, unable to listen to the begging. She’d cave immediately.

“I’ll fly you out. Right fucking now. Drive to the hangar and get on the fucking plane,” he seethes. 

She shakes her head, even though he can’t see her. 

“Get on the fucking plane, Briar,” the anguish in his voice shatters her heart into a million pieces. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Briar clicks off hastily. She feels like the most heartless person in the world. Violent sobs take over as she leans down to rub her face in Gus’s fur.

“Fuck, fuck, ffuck, fuck, fuck!” Harry yells. He starts to punch into the pillow on the bed, slamming his fist over and over again.

With shaky hands, he texts Camille that something came up and he’ll see them tomorrow instead. Harry crumples to the floor, feeling like he could vomit. His phone buzzes, hoping--praying-- it’s Briar. 

Harry, that’s not how this is going to work. You’re either in, or you’re out.

C

“Fuck!”

_________________________________________________

Alexa, play ‘I Know the End’ by Phoebe Bridgers. IM SORRY IM SOFIFJRIJFJRG SEND ME A MESSAGE OR A BOTTLE OF TEQUILA

@daphnesutton @pandeebearstyles @anxiouswaterss @gem1712 @stylesfever @awesomenavy @crazygirlinthisworld @butdaddyilovehim-hs @luxiorchive @alchemxx @narry-heart​

[noitkot1]

s4!Scar's base is so cool and shelters all the dead Scars

Or all Life Series Scar's respawn in Scar's Frontier Outpost- or or, oh god all 5 Scar's are stuck together.

All throughout s4 Scar mentions something-something that Scar's Frontier Outpost is "a place for all Scar's to go!" This au is that, but Scar's Frontier Outpost is quite literal in its description. All Scar's that have died go there to rest. And happen to meet some of the other universe's version of themselves in death.

3rd!Scar waking up completely alone as the first, only with the cats to accompany him as he slowly wanders through this very not well lit up town. Only gaping at the TERRIBLE train track construction. Even if he is no expert a train track should not have a 90 degree turn! Of course half shirtless with a cat on his shoulder, or well guiding him. The place is abandoned to his eyes and- well. He's dead isn't he? Passed when Grian murdered him in the cactus ring, so this is his afterlife...

Its nicer than he had imagined it to be.

Then one day months and months later, there's a silly wizard in his bed with green, depressed eyes. And as he stares into a mirror, this replica-Scar sits up slowly, hands shaking with winces and the biggest frown ever. Looking towards the other Scar, his voice cracks during the sentence, "am I dead?" 3rd!Scar only does a quick nod, because while he assumed this is the afterlife, why would the afterlife have multiple versions of himself? He shrugs it off, probably better not to question it. It'll be nice to have some company.

Meanwhile LL!Scar is pulling his hoodie over his head and trying his best to be small and hide away. Because he was unrightfully- totally rightfully, it was a death game. A death game he did not sign up for- murdered. And now he's dead and seeing other versions of himself. It'd be a shock to anyone's system truly, and LL!Scar stares blindly as 3rd!Scar goes on a long babble, sitting down and petting one of the cats with a smile as he talks all about the local train in the area. A week later, the two have settled in and just exist. Because they're dead now and all they can really do is make the world more pretty.

This repeats for each one. After DL 3rd!Scar stops sleeping in the bed they keep spawning in, changing that room out to be more welcoming in a sense. After the mess that is DL, the one who somehow stays farther away from the "group" than LL did, the two give little concerned glances and raises of the eyebrow. That room has a big banner over the door reading "WELCOME TO SCARS FRONTEIR OUTPOST(AKA YOUR DEAD)", streamers hanging from the ceiling, and a red carpet added to the bottom. The entire room is restructured, and they add a chest full of essential items and a little note reading, "DISCONT FOR ONE SANDWICH!" and on the back it read all horribly scribbled out, "if youd like one more glorius sandwich, that will cost you one shoe!" DL got scammed through this, the two longer dead Scar's putting on smiles and demanding two diamonds for the amazing tour they gave the other. And somehow DL couldn't help the laugh that crackled from his chest, the others couldn't stop their snickers either.

SL and LL get along well, but either refuse to acknowledge why or talk about their past. Just when the other appears they connect.

LiL!Scar being like the youngest child. Definitely does the most pranks and gets along like a fire with everyone, but 3rd!Scar encourages his chaos. These two have definitely set off fireworks for fun on the anniversaries of their own deaths(LiL starting this tradition because he simply can. Bdubs and Cleo would've loved to see the pretty lights).

DL being the dramatic middle child... somewhere in there. He ends up being the most reserved even when LiL arrives. He's scared of making many connections and accepts his cats as his soulmates and his only friends. Said cats are also how the other two bring DL out of his shell. Making tons of the toys for the kitters and bonding over their equal love of the little guys.

They all deserve a little happiness in their endings somehow! A nice afterlife where they can thrive together and enjoy some bits of it after realizing they all aren't out to get each other, they're simply just... dead. Now all they have are the alternate universe also dead versions of themselves(this being pointed out over a campfire would make them snort).