#my only explanation is that when i heard the line in the light novel i thought it was a little gay

[sykostyles]

subject to change 1.0

wc: 6.4k summary: in which Y/N is a fairly inexperienced romance author, and Harry is a bookstore owner who happens to be a big fan. What happens when he offers her one night to experience some of the things she’s written about? part two

a/n: hi there! can you tell I'm ovulating? that is the only explanation I have for this one. big shouts to my mootite patootie @celestie0 for being a real girls girl and being my beta reader and personal hype woman! she read the whole thing and she doesn't even like Harry like that! Ellie is a real one. (check out her story kickoff rn!🔪)

cw: bdsm dynamics, impact play, breath play, spit play, cum play, anal, anal creampie, p in v, facefucking, mild shibari, bondage, use of sir, degradation, edging, spanking, choking, toy usage (vibrator, butt plug), overstimulation, there’s a lot okay reader be warned.

“Hey, Jenny!” Your voice echoed through the phone. Your publicist had a habit of calling when you were trying to get your daily rough drafting and editing done. Currently you’re staring at a manuscript of the follow up to your latest release, still unsure what to name it. 

“Y/N, I’m glad I caught you! I had something come up for you to start the press tour for your newest release!” Jenny, your publicist excitedly squeals through the phone. Her tone makes you peel the phone away from your ear for a split second. You glance over to your right to look at the book in question. “Little Freak” was your latest release. Another smutty romance novel full of things you’d never actually experienced; only dreamed about. You were experienced enough, but always craved more. But your books were a hit and people were snatching them up left and right.

“A press tour? I’ve never done anything like that.” You respond, balancing the phone between your cheek and shoulder, tapping away at your computer 

“I know, but it’s a signing! At this local shop downtown.” She explains, “The owner says they’d love to host in exchange for the publicity.”

“A signing?” you question. Never did you think a signing would be an event you’d have. ”People want to meet me?” 

“Oh yeah, girl. Loads of people.” She chuckles. “Do you know how many people have sent you fan mail saying you gave them a sexual awakening with your books? So many people want to meet you.” Her response makes you physically laugh. 

“Wow, I'm just writing about fantasies I have.” you chuckle, “But I’m so glad people are finding themselves.” 

“But about this signing!” She continues. “It’s booked for next weekend, but I’ll be going this weekend to meet with the owner and talk about the setup. You can be there if you want or you can just leave that to me.” She continues rambling about anything and everything pertaining to the signing. Ending the call she gives you the address and you tell her you’d meet her there on saturday. 

You loathed taking public transportation, and requesting a car for a short trip seemed pointless to you. So hoofing it, it was. Weaving your way through the city sidewalk, you’d located the shop rather easily. You were shocked you’d never heard of this place before. You’d been through here many times.

“Y/N, over here!” You hear Jenny yell from the corner of the store. It was really nice. Big floor to ceiling windows. Full mahogany bookshelves lining the walls and aisles. A giant seating area with plush chairs, couches and bean bags. A coffee and tea bar near the windows. String lights hang from the exposed rafters. The aroma of the store wafting scents of natural wood, patchouli and vanilla. There’s plants everywhere. The cash register tucked in the corner with a “Owners Picks” section right in front. Harry’s House in big yellow bubble letters on the wall. 

Your eyes just scan everywhere before they fall on Jenny, standing next to a man. A man with emerald eyes, dark chestnut curls, glasses pushed atop his head, and a smile plastered on his face.

“I can’t believe this place has been hiding here,” you state, walking towards her and the man. “Hi, I’m Y/N,” you’re holding your hand out to him. He eyes you before slipping his hand in yours and giving you a delicate shake. Your skin heats up at his touch.

“M’ Harry. S’nice to meet you,” he claims, “I haven’t opened yet. Your signing will be my grand opening.” He states, letting your hand go. What was that?

“That explains why I’ve never seen it before. It’s beautiful in here,” you gesture all around. “It’s so cozy.” Why do you want him to touch you again?

“That was the vision when I was planning everything. When I heard your team was looking for a place to host a signing, I knew it would be perfect for a grand opening as well.” Keep talking.

“You’ve heard of me?” you ask in disbelief with your eyebrow raised. He’s looking at you as if he’s ready to eat you alive. Please do.

“I’m quite a big fan, actually.” he chuckles, “I’ve read all of your releases so far. But, we can discuss that after. Jenny, do show us what your plan is.” He says, leading you both over to the seating area.

After your sit down meeting with Harry and Jenny, Jenny says she’s heading back to the office to send out the email to your team with the plan. Harry asked you if you’d stay to continue your conversation from earlier and go over more specifics, to which you happily obliged although you felt a tinge of nervousness once you were left alone with him.

You eye him as he prepares some tea for the both of you, getting a really good look this time. Glancing at the furrow in his eyebrows as he focuses on the task at hand. The fabric of his white dress shirt pulled taught across his shoulders as he moves around the space; the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The skin you can see is littered with black ink. The way the veins in his arms start to give you unholy thoughts about how they’d feel wrapped around your neck– 

“You’ll have to forgive my shortness earlier, I’m not used to men telling me they’re a fan of my work,” you chuckle, trying to steer your thoughts in a different direction.

“Ah, not to worry.​​​ It takes more than that to offend me,” he says, walking back to the couch you’re settled on; tea cups in hand. “But, indeed I am a huge fan,” he hands you one of the cups as he takes a seat on the other end of the couch. “I believe the first book of yours I read was Lingering Smoke,” he ponders for a moment, “Or no, it actually was Whipped & Chained,” his recall of your titles make you squirm.

“T-those are my two most popular titles,” you start to speak, praying he didn’t notice the way he made you stutter. He did. You clear your throat before continuing, “but my latest release is wiping the floor with both of those at this rate,” you say, regaining your composure. He offers you a smile. A salacious smile.

“I’m not surprised,” he says, eyeing the pink tinge on your cheeks, “I have read them all though,” he says, shifting his seating position on the couch to now fully face you, “they often give me,” his gaze boring into yours, “ideas,” he’s lifting his tea cup to his lips. You swear you feel a chill down your spine.

“Ideas?” you question, your eyes searching his. Are they darker?

“Ideas.” He affirms. “You should know though. You write about them.” He chuckles.

“I mean, I guess,” you shrug your shoulders, “I’m just writing fantasies I have,” you laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Fantasies? You mean you’ve never done those things? Felt those things?” He asks in disbelief.

You shake your head with a light laugh. “I seriously find that so hard to believe.”

“Please, my college boyfriend could never,” you chuckle, setting your tea cup on the coffee table. “I just drum up some ideas–as you so call them–and put it into a story. Nothing special.” He stares at you in disbelief again. 

“I jus–wow. I honestly expected you to be super well versed in those aspects. Pardon my assumption,” he says, holding his hands up.

“I mean, I guess it’s a pretty fair assumption, so no offense taken. Apparently I’ve given people sexual awakenings according to Jenny,” you laugh making him laugh this time. 

The awkward tension seems to dissipate with the shared laughter, but a different tension seems to linger. He seems so stone-like; like he only has one goal; and that goal is you. Truth be told, you’d happily oblige.

“Would you like to?” He asks, repositioning himself on the couch again, slightly closer to you.

“Like to?” you’re feigning ignorance. You know what he wants, but you're playing dumb.

“Experience those things.” He leans his arm over the back of the couch, taking in the obvious look of desire in your eyes.

“I mean, sure. Who wouldn’t?” You snort, looking over to him but he’s just staring at you. “Oh, you mean like, with you?” you ask slowly, still playing dumb.

He smiles that smile again, “Sure, why not?” He asks. “I’m game if you are.”

“Harry. Do you hear how crazy that sounds? We’ve known each other for half an hour.”

“So? We don’t have to see each other after. I don’t really do ‘feelings’ anyways.” he’s gesturing air quotes around feelings, his tone rather repulsed sounding. “This could be a one time thing. You get to experience some of the things you’ve written about, and I get my rocks off. A win/win situation if you ask me.” He says, gathering the tea cups and sauntering back over to the coffee station. 

“You sound so romantic, Harry,” you chuckle. Maybe this wouldn’t be a terrible idea. The last hookup you had was less than thrilling. And here you have a very attractive man offering exactly what you’ve been looking for. Regardless if it’s for one night, you’re willing to try.

“Interested?” He asks, leaning against the counter behind him.

“Sure. Why not,” You respond, mimicking his words back to him.

You make a mutual agreement to meet up and converse every day over the next week to discuss specifics, what each other's limits are—Harry all but told you he had none—and to remind you that this was all about you and what you wanted to experience. He gave you homework of coming up with what exactly you wanted. Your mind races as you think about what you’d want to experience first. There are so many options! 

He adored the look of mixed emotions on your face; the excitement, the apprehension. The enthusiasm in your voice but also the way you shied away when he asked you to list what you wanted, and how you wanted it. The way you sit on the couch in his bookstore with your legs crossed as you look down at the notebook in your lap. Ever the author; making a rough draft of these taboo acts you want this near stranger to do to you. Harry may not make it out of this alive if you keep looking at him with those eyes.

After your signing is when he’d bring your fantasies to life.

The spare key to his apartment was burning a hole in your hand as you made your way down the hall. You stood in front of the door a moment, contemplating one last time if this was what you wanted. He reminded you before you left the bookstore that there was no pressure. He would understand if he got home and you weren’t there. But you’re certain you want this. If nothing, you’ll get more fuel for your writing,

Once inside, you set his key on the counter before making your way to his bedroom so you could prepare for his arrival. Nerves are sneaking up on you but they’re overtaken by sheer excitement once you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror on the wall on the opposite side of his bed. You begin to undress, watching yourself in the mirror as you pull your dress down your shoulders, revealing the dark red lingerie set you wore for the occasion.

The sound of his front door opening causes your breath to catch in your throat. Finding your spot near the bed, your hands find the tops of your thighs as you kneel on the floor in anticipation of his arrival; eyes cast down like he directed. His footsteps draw closer, causing the butterflies to stir awake inside your gut. The bedroom door opens, but you keep your gaze down. The tops of his shoes come into your vision. “Eyes up.”

Your head snaps up in response, eyes meeting his dark gaze. That salacious grin being the star of the show. “Hmm,” he starts, sliding his thumb across your cheek as he takes hold of your chin, “Already so obedient,” he clicks his tongue, “I like that.” The mild praise makes you grin.

His free hand slides down to fumble with his belt buckle, the sound of the metal clinking together sending shockwaves straight between your legs. You feel the leather being slung around your neck and he sinches the sides together, tightening around your throat. 

Your breath hitches.

“Open,” he says. Your tongue immediately lulled out as you open your mouth, aiming to please him. You groan as a warm stream of spit falls onto your tongue and two of his fingers press down to smear it around the surface. “So pretty like this.”

A whimper escapes you in response.

“Do you remember your safewords?” You nod. “And what are you supposed to do if you’re unable to speak?” Reaching up, you tap his thigh three times. “What about if your wrists are bound?” You snap your fingers before resting your hand against your thigh again. Gurgling sounds fall from your lips as his fingers run over the back of your tongue. “Good girl,” he pushes a little further, “That’s a good girl,” he says as his fingers make their way down your throat, brushing against your gag reflex, causing you to gag slightly. “Ooh, a little training is needed I see,” he mocks.

Your core is on fire and he’s barely touched you. A few dirty words and his fingers in your throat and you’re ready to roll over and bark like a dog, Nevermind the fact that his belt is around your neck like a leash. 

Whimpers leave you at his chastisement, making him grin. Spit rolls down your chin; your hands reach up instinctively to grip the front of his thighs. “No touching,” he reminds you, making you timidly retract them. “Do I need to restrict your hands already?” You try to shake your head in his hold to say no, causing the belt to tighten. 

That was one of the only rules he gave you. “No touching, no kissing, and you have to ask me permission to cum.”

Tears burn in the seams of your eyes as he continues his exploration of the inside of your mouth; fingers prodigy at your gag reflex again. You cough and gag but he presses on just a little further until he feels you instinctively pull your head back. Harry withdraws his fingers as he watches you cough and heave. “Don’t know how you’re gonna take my cock, sweets,” he mocks you again, “you’re already a crying mess from two fingers.”

His words make you audibly groan. You want more. You need more. “Need it, sir,” you smile up at him. 

“I know, pup,” he’s cradling your face. He taps your cheek with those same two fingers, telling you to open again. “You’ll get it,” he spits on your tongue once more, “Now, remember to breathe through your nose this time,” he says before he slides his fingers back in your mouth.

Your ankles are secured to the posts of his headboard; wrists hooked to the leather belt around your waist, and your head hangs over the edge of his bed. Harry’s hands roam your upper body, groping your breasts and pinching your perked nipples. His cock sliding in and out of your throat at an agonizingly slow speed; savoring the feeling of your tongue gliding along the underside of his shaft. “Fuck, sweets,” he groans. A hand sliding up to lightly grip the sides of your neck, “haah, feel that?” he asks, squeezing the sides where your throat bulges, “feel me deep in your throat?”

Drool pours from the sides of your lips; the wet squelching sounds of his cock gliding in and out of your throat is like music to his ears. “This what you wanted?” he asks, pulling himself from your mouth, tapping his length on your lips. You writhe before him, trying to catch your breath. He rubs the tip of his cock over the apple of your cheek, smearing the drool and precum across the surface. “Asked you a question, pet,” he says, giving an open-palmed smack to your right breast, making you yelp.

“Y-yes, sir,” you breathe out, “T-this is what I w-wanted.” You wish you could clench your thighs together to feel some kind of friction. His condescending tone has a rush of arousal pooling between your legs.

“Yeah?” he mocks, “Wanted your throat fucked like some cheap whore?” He slides back in your mouth. A whimper escapes your lips as he reaches the back of your throat. Steadying your breathing through your nose, you focused on the task at hand; keeping your tongue flat and your cheeks hollow. You’re squeezing your fists together, creating crescent shaped indents on your palms. It’s like you can already feel him everywhere. You can’t wait to actually feel him everywhere. “Just wanted me to have my way with you?” he slides one hand down between your legs and swipes two of his fingers through your folds, “Such a dirty girl. So wet for me already,” your hips involuntarily buck at the contact with your neglected core, making him chuckle before shoving your hips back down onto the bed.

“Hold it,” he demands as he stills his hips with the tip of his cock nestled in the back of your throat. Five. Ten. The seconds tick by as he tests your breath holding ability. Fifteen. Twenty. You flex your hands before clasping them back shut; Harry keeping a close eye on them lest you need to perform a safeword act. Twenty five. Thirty. “Good,” he commends as he pulls out and you struggle to catch your breath. “Very good, Pup,” he taps your cheek with his fingertips.

Harry maneuvers himself around the bed, grabbing the spool of rope on the floor before moving to settle on his knees between your legs. He frees your left ankle before taking hold of your hips and pulling you towards him, letting your head rest on the mattress. “How’re you feeling up there?” he asks, smoothing his hands up your legs, over your hips and tummy, stopping and rubbing slow circles. 

“G-good, s-sir” you stammer out, still breathing deeply; flexing your hands to get the feeling back in them. You feel his hands grip under your knee, lifting your leg into a bend; foot flat on the mattress.

“Yeah?” he smirks, “What’s your color?” He grabs the spool of rope to his right, beginning to wrap the rope around your bent leg in a frog tie; the back of your calf is flush with the back of your thigh, forcing your leg to remain bent and open.

“Green,” rushes out before you even think about what he asked, you just want more.

Harry smiles at your response, finishing up the last bit on the knots. He runs the tips of his fingers over the rope before lifting himself on his knees to lean over you. “Good,” he smirks. Leaning forward, he braces his weight on one hand near your head. “Well just look at you,” he mocks. Your mascara is running, the lipstick you wore is smeared, and half dried patches of spit and precum litter your skin.

His other hand reaches up to lightly grip the sides of your face, turning your head from side to side in his hold as he really studies his handiwork. “Seems I’ve turned you into a little throat slut, huh?” His degrading words send shockwaves to your cunt. “But, let's see what else your holes are capable of,” He says with a firm smack to your cheek, causing your head to jerk to the left and a masochistic smile to form on your lips.  Harry slides off the bed before appearing above you again, a blindfold in hand. 

Your vision has been taken from you as well as your mobility. He has you exactly where he wants you; pliant and ready for him.

Harry settles between your legs again; teasing touches linger up your legs towards where you want him most. You feel two fingers spread your lips apart. “Hmm, such a wet little pussy. Were you feeling neglected down here while I was fucking your face?” he teases. You whimper in response, making him grin. Ghosting his fingertips over your sensitive bundle of nerves, he slides two of his fingers between your folds before dipping them inside and curving them upwards. A strangled moan falls from your lips. “Let me hear you,” he’s scissoring his fingers in and out of you, “Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

“G-god, sir. S-so good,” you whimper. “N-need more, please,” your skin begins to heat up; a thin layer of sweat forming. Chills follow; goosebumps littering the surface

“Oh, I’ll give you more,” he chuckles at you, bringing his free hand down in a firm smack on your clit, making you jolt. Reaching to his left, he picks up a wand vibrator, sets it against your clit and turns it on the lowest setting; gradually turning it higher in tandem with his fingers. He’s working you up to the peak of the mountain, steadily keeping you on your toes.

“Please, please, please, can i cum, sir?”

“No,” he’s retracting his fingers and the wand as he watches you whine and writhe before him.

“Hnng, sir, please,” you beg him. “Put it back, please,” Tears begin brimming in your eyes at the loss of stimulation.

“Silence,” he slaps down on your clit again making you yelp. “You cum when I say you can,” his tone firm, “Do you not remember that part of our conversations?” his hand comes down on the bundle again. Warm tears start dampening the blindfold held against your face. You nod your head. Smack. Again. “Words,” he prompts.

“I-I r-remember, Sir,” your voice wobbly, “I’m s-sorry,”

“I’ll bet you are. Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure it sticks in your empty little head,” another smack follows.

He’s got you on your knees now, left leg still frog tied and the other reattached to the bedpost, your back in a full arch. Your hands are stretched above your head; wrists tied together with leftover rope. His hands are anchored to your hips as he drives his cock in and out of your cunt. “Sh-shit,” he grunts, “this pussy feels so good; sucking me in like there’s no tomorrow,” One of his hands glides down to tickle the bottom of your foot, causing you to jolt and squirm in his hold. He grins at your attempt to escape the sensations.

“Hnngh, sir,” you groan, turning your head against the sheets. “Feels. So. Fucking. Good,” each word sounding pointed with each thrust of his hips. Your body is addicted to the dopamine rush; still holding on to the feeling of every orgasm he ripped from you with the vibrator before he decided you were ready for his cock. But not before he nestled a dark red, heart shaped plug into your ass to prep for later. You feel so deliriously full with both holes being stretched. 

Harry reaches up, gathering your hair in one of his hands before tugging you up to be flush with his front, keeping up the pace of his hips.

“Know it does, pet,” he switches his hold, gripping the front of your throat with one hand as he slides the other one down between your legs to rub fast circles on your clit. “Can feel you clenching down on me like a damn vice,” His grip tightens on your throat, his fingers speed up as you turn into a crying mess from his touch..

“G-gna cum,” you stammer,  “P-please, let me cum, s-sir,” 

“Cum,” he stills his hips against your ass, but continues his ministrations against your clit causing you to convulse against him’ your abdomen contracting with each wave of pleasure.

“S’too much, sir” you cry out, “Please! Too much!” you wiggle in his grasp. He squeezes the sides of your throat a little tighter as a warning.

“You know what to say to get me to stop,” he reminds you, continuing to massage the abused bundle. 

You choke out a whine in response, your body trembling with red hot pleasure. He knew you didn’t want him to stop. You knew what words to use to get him to slow down.

“Dirty girl. You’ll take anything I give you, huh?” he chastises you, his words scratch an itch in your brain and send you into a second orgasm. He continues to pull delicious sounds from you; all the sounds he’s become obsessed with. Tossing you back down onto the bed, he braces himself on either side of your head as he begins to piston his hips into you, fucking you into the mattress and siphoning every ounce of your orgasm he can out of you. “Such a good little slut, creaming all over this cock.”

His hips begin to slow as you come down and he runs one of his hands down the expanse of your back, before pushing and pulling on the plug.

“Oh, f-fuck, sir. That feels s-so go–ood,” your voice muffled by the comforter. “W-want you in my ass, sir. Please,” you say, turning your face against the mattress so he could hear you.

“Yeah? Wanna feel me stretch that tiny ass open?” he starts to pull on the plug, your hips jerk in reaction.

“Mhm, need it.” you mewl. “Please, sir,”

“I’ll give it to you, pet, don’t worry,” he says as he slowly pulls himself out of you. Harry stands from the bed before pulling you towards him. Maneuvering you to lay on your side with your back and butt facing him as he stands behind you. He smooths one hand up your side, groping your breasts, sliding further along to grip your chin. “Open,” he commands, just like earlier. Opening your mouth, you invite two fingers inside. “Suck.” You happily oblige; wrapping your tongue around his appendages. His other hand reaches down between you to grasp the edges of the plug as he eases it out, toying with you in the process. 

You whine at the empty feeling, but you’re too focused on his fingers in your mouth to really care. Feeling his free hand swipe between your cheeks, he pushes a finger inside, eliciting a gasp from your lips. He takes the opportunity to push his fingers further into your mouth and add a second finger into your ass; slowly pumping the two fingers in and out of the tight ring of muscles. Groans fall from you at the strange intrusion; but you’re craving more.

“M-more,” you moan, voice strained from his fingers pressing on your tongue.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to speak with your mouth full?” He sneers at you, retracting his fingers from your mouth before colliding his fingertips with your cheek.

You smile.

“S-sorry, sir. Feels s–so good. N-need more,” you’re pushing your hips back against the thrust of his fingers.

“Are you a little anal whore now too?” He chastises, but adds a third finger anyways, stretching you as best he can. 

“Mhm,” you whine. “Want your cock. Please, sir.” 

“Yeah, know you do,” he says as he withdraws his fingers slowly. He spits in his hand and wraps his fingers around the head of his cock, smearing the spit over the tip. He aligns himself with your tighter hole before beginning the tight press inside. “Just breathe,”

“Ngh, fuck,” you groan as he slowly inches inside. “Sh–shit,” your body tenses at the intrusion. It hurts so good. The stretch. The fill. Your head is spinning. More. More. More! 

“Mm, such a tight ass. Pulling me in so good,” he continues his shallow thrusts, easing his way inside until he’s fully sheathed. “T-there, we go.”

You’d never been comfortable enough to go beyond a plug in your ass with previous partners. Perhaps knowing you won’t see Harry after is what made you so feral for it this time around. You can’t describe the level of fullness you feel right now. His hands are gripped on your hip, thumbs digging into the supple flesh as he pulls you back to meet each thrust of his hips.

“S-sir,” you whisper out to him, your voice gone hoarse from screaming out in pleasure.

“What, pet?” he squeezes your hip, “you need something?”

“C-can you touch m-me, please?”

“This still isn’t enough for you? Such a greedy girl,” he brings his hand firmly down on your ass. Bringing his hand back, he lifts your leg from behind, tucking two fingers into your cunt; curling them to prod at that spot. 

“Oh, f–uck y-es, right– right there, sir,” your sobs of pleasure are going straight to his cock. “Pl-please, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smug grin etched onto his lips. “You want more?”

“Y-yes, please! Please, sir, more!” You aren’t sure what more he could give you but you’ll take whatever it is. You feel his fingers leave your cunt and his hips come to a halt against your ass. The sound of the wand vibrator coming to life fills your ears. He presses it against your sensitive clit, then tucks the end of the wand under the rope around your leg; keeping it firmly in place. You cry at the sensation. His fingers enter your pussy again, eliciting an animalistic like moan from your throat. “Oh–hngh–oh my god, sir, holy fuck.”

“That’s it,” he smacks down on your hip with his free hand, “Such a dirty little whore, just wants all of her holes filled like the girls she writes about in her dirty books.”

Your whimpers fill the air along with the sounds of sticky, squelching flesh and Harry’s grunts. You’ve never felt so full and empty at the same time in your life. The only thing you’re able to focus on is how good he’s making you feel. He’s kept true to his word; this was all about you and what you wanted. Every fantasy you told him over the week you met up with him at his book store, he brought to life. All of your senses are on fire, but all you can think about is how badly you want to cum.

“Sir, g’na cum! Please let me cum!” you scream. His fingers continue their assault on your g-spot, as he reaches down with his free hand to switch the vibrator to its highest setting before taking a firm grip on your throat and squeezing; sending you over the peak.

“Cum for me,” he demands, pulling the most intense orgasm you’ve ever felt in your life from you. A wet feeling forms between your legs and you hear Harry groan behind you. “Ohh, there’s a good girl. C’mon and keep squirting all over me, sweets,” his praises go straight between your legs as more moans and pleas escape from your throat. His fingers work overtime in your pussy; pulling every ounce of your arousal from you. The incessant buzzing of the wand on your clit puts stars in your vision and the feeling of his cock pounding in and out of your ass is the cherry on top. A second wave rushes over your senses, your body convulsing against Harry’s. “There she is,” he coos, “such a good, dirty girl.”

Harry eases his fingers from your core, and switches the wand off before untangling it from the rope and tosses it to the side. He grips your hip again with both hands as he pistons himself in and out of you, finally chasing his own orgasm. “Sh–shit, pet. Gonna cum. Where do you want it?” he pants out, digging his thumbs into the plush of your ass cheek.

“Pl–please cum in my ass, sir. Want it so bad,” you whine out, “Need it, please sir!”

“Calm down, gonna give you what you want, sweets.” His hips begin to stutter, grunts and groans fall from his lips along with cries of your name. He pushes in as far as he can as he empties himself into you–”Fuck, just like that, pet. S-so good”–before retracting his hips and pressing in again; fucking his release back into you. 

“So, was that everything you wanted?” Harry asked as he unties the knots that were keeping your leg bent. You’re lying flat on the mattress, a warm washcloth in your hand as you wipe your face.

“Mhm, and then some,” you smile at him.

“Yeah? Happy to be of service,” he chuckles, beginning to help stretch and massage the muscles in your leg. You wince at the feeling of his fingers kneading the more tender areas. His calloused hands rub and dig the knots left behind. “I’ll take that,” he says, holding his hand out for the washcloth. He rubs it over your sensitive areas, not pressing too hard; really taking his time cleaning up his mess. “I’m going to run you a bath, and make you something to eat,” he stands from the bed, tossing the washcloth into the hamper before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Your thoughts begin to take you hostage as he fiddles around in the bathroom. You’d just let basically a total stranger do unspeakable acts to you, and now you’re about to take a bath in his tub. He’s being sweet to you now, making sure you’re comfortable. But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to see you after today. 

Upon his return, he catches himself smiling at your naked form laying across his bed. Clearing his throat, he strides over to you and extends his hand. “Upsie daisy, sweets,” he chuckles at the pained look on your face after you take his hand and stand at full height. “How do those legs feel?” he teases.

“Shut up,” you stick your tongue out at him, “I just went through a lot,” you laugh with him.

“Indeed you did,” he smiles sweetly at you. A completely different kind of smile than he’d ever given you before. When he looked at you at the bookstore, it was like a hunter eyeing his prey. Now he’s looking at you as if you’re the reason the sun rises and sets every day. You’re trying really hard not to think too hard into it. 

“He’s just being nice after figuratively beating the shit out of me,” you think to yourself. 

“Are you going to get in with me?” you ask once you reach the edge of the tub. Your big doe eyes looking up at him so sweetly as the words leave your lips. He’d never done something like that before. He doesn’t do the sweet stuff. But with the way you’re looking at him now, how could he say no?

“D-do you want me to?” he asks quietly. 

You nod softly in response, “If I only get one night with you, I’d like to make the most of it,” you turn to step into the tub.

Harry’s heart pangs in his chest. He nods slowly and swallows the lump in his throat. Leaning forward, you allow him enough room to slip in behind you before you lean back against his chest. His arms warily make their way around your body as he pulls you back as close to him as possible. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” leaves you before you can even think about it.

“You’re asking if I had a good time making you bend and break at my will? Yeah I think I did,” he says, making you laugh. 

“Hey, I just wanted to make sure,” you say tilting your head to the side to look up at him. “I had a great time by the way.” you chuckle before turning back around.

“I’m glad. You did a great job,” He picks up the fresh washcloth he’s gotten for you, and dunks it in the water. “May I?” he asks, gesturing towards you.

“Sure,” you whisper, your cheeks turning a soft pink at the praise. He rubs the washcloth over the expanse of your chest and tummy; up your arms and down your legs, really taking his time helping you feel relaxed. “Thank you, Harry. For today.” you feel yourself lean into his hold.

“My pleasure, Y/N," he smiles against your temple.

“You sure you have everything?” Harry asks as he helps you put your jacket on, pulling your hair from underneath for you.

“I had everything the last three times you asked,” you giggle at him, the sound is like music to his ears. He’d do anything to hear it for just a little bit longer. He said he could do just one night. He swore he could. But why does the thought of you walking out his door make him feel like his chest is going to cave in?

“Just want to be sure,” He smiles that soft smile at you again, making your cheeks heat up. 

How dare he.

“Please, stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, unable to hide your discomfort anymore.

“How am I looking at you?” his voice quiet and sad.

“L-Like you actually care about me.” tears collect in your waterline, “You said so yourself, this was a one time thing. So, please, just stop looking at me like that. It’s very confusing.” The words poured out of you before you could stop them. He just stares at you with sad eyes. “T-Thank you again, Harry. I really appreciate your help.” You say, your voice shaking as you avoid eye contact. He’s studying your face; The hurt etched across your features. The same hurt he felt in his chest, but refused to show. “Good luck with your store,” you say as you pull the door shut behind you, leaving him in the silence of his empty apartment.

c/n: oh my what a ride, right? this is not the last of our brooding pair. you'll see the ending of their story soon!

please like &/or reblog if you enjoyed!

[shepherds-of-haven]

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting? and 9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

What font do you write in?

Nowadays, I write pretty much exclusively in 12 pt. Times New Roman (which I changed to be my default setting for all documents) because that or Courier New are pretty much the only accepted fonts you can use when submitting your manuscript anywhere, so I've just gotten used to using that! (I've heard some people use Arial nowadays, but sans serif fonts are not recommended because they impact readability, so I'd recommend sticking with one of the two traditional fonts just in case if you plan on submitting to publishers/editors anywhere.)

When I was younger, I took pains to write in a font that suited the story, so traditional Shepherds novels were in 10 pt. Sylfaen (and before that, 11 pt. Garamond), AUs were in Palotino Linotype, and until recently, my latest novel was actually in High Tower Text until I figured out it wasn't working for me and I've switched completely to Times New Roman!

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

Er, I don't think I do; like I don't believe that when someone dies, their ghost can hang around and talk to people or push chairs around and whatnot, and I believe that most supernatural phenomena probably has a rational explanation, even if our limited scientific or technical knowledge hasn't uncovered it fully yet: for example, ideas that ghost sightings can be attributed to infrasound.

However, when I'm home alone at night and I start thinking things like "wouldn't it be spooky if, while washing my face, I glanced up in the mirror and there was a scary reflection there? :D", I start acting like ghosts are real and are out to kill me and definitely turn all the lights on... So my actions don't always line up with what I think I believe, I guess lol! Thanks for your questions!

[docholligay]

House in Fata Morgana: The First Door--1603

I have never reviewed a visual novel before, but @iscahwynn made me a very generous offer and a long line of patience, knowing that we are trying something very new. To that end: Please don’t spoil me for the game at all! If you are reading this, I have only gotten through the part written above, and I don’t want to be corrected, even if I’m wrong, even if I’ve missed something, i don’t want to have anything confirmed or denied, and I don’t need any trigger warnings or extraneous explanation. Iscah would like my pure, naive experience of the game. Thank you!

Non-Spoilery: Holy shit, I don’t think I have consumed a visual novel with this kind of fervor. In fact, the only other visual novel I think of where I was like, ‘I have to keep reading what happens” was We Know the Devil, and while I would say that game whups on this one prose-wise (I can’t relate to a lot of what people love about WNTD, but holy shit was the prose some of the most beautiful game stuff I have ever read. I wished the whole time it was a short story or novella instead. Still do!) this one has a lot of plot driving through it and the writing is also very strong--I am used to a certain amount of ‘anime gotta anime’ writing styles, and there is none of that here. 

Spoilers below

I love a story that rewards patience. I could see some people saying that this moves too slowly, but I like to read a Meaty Tome, and so it doesn’t bother me to have to deal with a certain amount of setup, especially because I know this is a collection of short stories, sure, but it’s a collection of short stories taht are all driving at an ending. It might not even be fair to call them short stories so much as…episodes, maybe? I don’t know, they are connected but years apart. I guess i’m actually spitballing too much for having actually not played beyond chapter one. 

So i am 98.6% sure we are in England (please don’t tell me!) Given the references to the Thirty Years’ War, the Golden Age, and winter being a rainy season, all packed into one. Also Rhodes is a British name. I might be wrong but I would be surprised if I were. 

How do I organize this “progress reviewlet” or whatever I want to call it? Let’s just go with the flow.

Again, I love that this is unvoiced. It makes the game read so much more like a book to me, which makes me consume it voraciously, and also doesn’t take me out of the moment. Intensely aware that I am in the minority here, but when I’m reading something that I think probably takes place in late Elizabethan England, and I’m hearing Japanese, it takes me out of the immersion and it’s more like watching an anime, which is fine but doesn’t light up the same center of my brain, generally. Actually, the same would be true if it were English. I can’t mainline the story and let it play out in my mind the way it does when I read it. I read this like I do a visual novel, I barely pay attention to the art except in the “where is everyone standing” way, and that’s not even very helpful for this. So in reading it like a book, I feel like I saw Mell slap Nellie, I feel like I saw the light cross the White Haired Girl’s face as she failed to strangle Mell. It just makes the whole thing more immersive for me. 

Speaking of Nellie, what a wild ride that was. I mean, we knew something was going to be up with Nellie’s level of spoiled when we heard that they removed the thorns from the roses in the garden so she would never be pricked. In that moment, we learn something about the fact that Nellie doesn’t understand what consequences are, she never learns that the things we may want can hurt us. And so she keeps going for the exact things she wants, and she has no sense of danger or of the need for pragmatism, or anything beyond the desires and whims of a spoiled child. 

It truly says something about the quality of the writing that pretty much my most hated squick came up and all I could do was go, ‘Oh girl what happens next” and just kept clicking. I mean, the game very much tips its hand to it, it is not trying to shock you because that’s not the sort of game it is. It wants you to understand that this is who Nellie is and of course this is how she’s going to act. 

But for as monstrous as she is, you feel for her, or I do, when she says, not wrongly, that she was only ever, a “a doll for the family to play with” 

The idea of paintings being alive, of being changed as they are painted, that really stuck with me, and I know the painting was the small mystery within the bigger ones contained within the game, I can’t quite get anywhere with it, but I do agree that paintings have a quality of life to them. This is why it could be some future girl, it could be Nellie, it could be another person in another time. 

So witches. Let’s talk about this. I know that we have a lot of cross talk about the white haired girl, and if the white haired girl is the witch she takes herself to be or if she’s a hidden princess. And then we have the maid. These two are the unnamed characters within the story thus far, and I know they must be unnamed for a reason, but I didn’t really take the witch thing on its face until the rose turned in her hand. 

Oh, Doc, so you think there’s a real witch, and you think it’s the white haired girl? One, yes, I suppose I do and two, no, i suppose I don’t. Remember, the Maid is with her, and I’m also remembering the that the title of this game is The House at Fata Morgana, and I also know, being the one thing I know from the start being about fatas morgana, that they supposedly come from Morgan Le Fay, A WITCH. 

So, I’m wondering if the maid isn’t the witch, and if she isn’t creating all of this as an illusion, and IF she is creating all of this as an illusion, how much of it is the facts of that matter? Or the truth? Those are different things, but related. Is it all created of whole cloth? 

I mean, i feel like the game of the story has to clearly be about the White Haired girl and the Maid, I can look at a title card--OH SHIT AM I THE WHITE HAIRED GIRL?? (Please don’t tell me but do put a pin in it) that would make sense, we’re both the two unnamed characters, we’re on the title card. Hm. 

Is it better to know something, or to be happy? I mean, this is basically the core question and thesis of this segment, and it seems to lean heavily toward no. Everyone was happier not knowing, except, i do want to point out, Nellie. I’m not arguing she’d be happy knowing, she’s not, but I do want to say she would be UNHAPPY in either circumstance. 

I don’t agree with the maid that his error was his kindness. His kindness was not his fuckup. It was his desire, and his drive, that came outside of any thought of the family (especially rich considering how he lectures Nellie) to HAVE this girl who captured him in her own flame. She didn’t even mean to, like the candle means no harm to the moth. But kindness, no, kindness was not the issue. 

But I do love when she says that we have to follow the paths we’ve begun to trod down. He can’t change any of it, and so he has to go forward. 

In all, I liked this section, I have no idea how it will stack up against the others but I can see it laying building blocks for the future of the story. 

While being cautious of spoilers, please, if you have any questions, i’ll try to answer!

[writeforfandoms]

The Hunter

Find my masterlist

Okay so I wrote this in like 30 minutes, it just demanded to be written. Some mild spoilers and disclaimer below:

This is using things I read and research did probably ten plus years ago at this point. This is not a topic I have revisited in years, and I have no idea why tonight. So. The Wild Hunt is based on actual folklore, and my version of it is based on folklore and mashed together with some urban fantasy and fantasy novels I’ve read over the years along similar themes. 

Also yes I am dropping you into this with minimal explanation and throwing you basically into the middle of an AU. 

If y’all want a Vibe to listen to while you read, the song is The Hunter by Alpine Universe. Gets about 60% of the vibe I wanted for this. 

gn!reader

Warnings: Terror, hunting, panic attack.

Word count: 1006

Your head jerked up from your book when you heard the hunting horns. You felt the blood drain from your face, leaving you light-headed.

"No," you whispered, scrambling to your feet, book falling to the floor. The horns were still distant but growing louder, and you just heard the baying of the first hound. 

Hands shaking, you grabbed your phone and called the one person that could help you. 

"'Lo?" Came the sleep-rumbled answer. 

"Marcus," you whispered frantically. The horns were growing louder, the baying chilling your blood even as your heart raced. "Marcus I can hear the horns, they're coming for me, I can't leave–"

"Wait, slow down," Marcus interrupted, sounding suddenly a lot more alert. "You hear horns?"

"Marcus, I hear hunting horns." The distinction was very important, even as a louder blast from one made you clench your jaw so hard your teeth ached. "They're coming."

"The fuck they are," Marcus growled, possessive and inhuman and angry. "Stay with me, stay on the line. Nothing will happen to you. I swear, they will not hurt you."

"Okay." You closed your eyes tightly, nearly hyperventilating when you could hear the barking of more hounds. "They're coming, Marcus. They're coming for me."

"Not tonight they aren't." Marcus sounded so sure of himself, so confident, even with rage in his voice. "Just hang on for me, darling." 

You whimpered softly, opening your eyes to look out the window. The moon hung low in the sky, deep gold and full and heavy. A good hunting moon, you'd have joked not that long ago. 

Hoofbeats against bare earth distracted you, and you looked away from the moon, towards the forest. Shadows shifted and swirled, points of light too distant and too low to be stars shining through the darkness. 

The Hunt was coming for you tonight. 

You gasped and dropped to the flor, shaking all over now. 

"Darling, talk to me." Marcus sounded as stressed as you'd ever heard him, voice clipped. 

"I can't see them yet," you managed to choke out, free hand pressing hard against your chest. "Fuck, I can hear them so clearly now. I can hear their hordes and their hounds and their horns…" You trailed off, gasping for breath as the horns grew ever louder, ever closer. 

Marcus swore in no language you recognized. "Hang on, darling. Just stay with me. I'm almost there." 

"No," you whispered, crumbling into a ball on the floor. "No, no, no…" 

"They're not for you," Marcus vowed. "They won't get you." 

"No." You shook your head, pressing your phone too hard into your head, heart pounding so hard that it hurt. "I can't… I can't…"

"You can and you will," Marcus growled. "You will. Just wait." 

You cried out when you felt the earth trembling under you, ever so slightly shaking your house. The Hunt was so close now, but you didn't dare open your eyes to look. That would only make things worse. 

A different horn cut through your blind panic. A car horn. It was enough to make you breathe in and open your eyes. Light flooded your living room through the window, far too much for the late night, and you pulled yourself shakily to your feet, holding onto the windowsill to help you. Your phone lay forgotten at your feet. 

Marcus stood between your house and the forest, back-lit by his car's headlights. He had both swords drawn, the flaming steel held easily in his hands as he faced the Hunt. 

And he did face the Hunt. You could see them now, slowed to a walk with this obstacle between them and their target for the night. The head of the Hunt nudged his mount ahead of the others. His horse was pitch-black and wore the skull of some enormous stag as a sort of halter, antlers spread out far beyond anything you'd ever seen. The rider was not much better, garbed only in blood and hides and a stag helm of his own. 

The rider halted several feet from Marcus, and the voice that came from under the stag skull made you wince in mingled pain and terror. Marcus answered, voice cold and furious, which was when you realized you had no idea what language they were speaking. 

The rider made an inhuman noise, the growl of some great beast, and his mount stepped closer to the house. 

Marcus merely raised his swords higher, fingers firm and sure around the hilts. 

And then… it all stopped. The rider halted. The hounds stopped baying, though they still paced the edges of the pack of Hunters, eager and restless. There was more speech between the rider and Marcus, none of which you understood. 

But it ended with the rider turning away, and Marcus lowering his swords, though he didn't sheath them yet. 

The Hunt was silent as it departed, no more horns ringing in your ears, the baying silenced. 

And then they were gone. Marcus finally sheathed his swords again and turned towards the house. 

Still shaking, you opened the door for him. "Marcus?" You asked tentatively. "How… what…?"

"They won't bother you again," Marcus murmured, both hands lifting to cup your cheeks. "You're safe now." 

You gasped in one breath, two, and broke. Marcus reeled you in, letting you hide in the safety of his chest as you cried. 

"Shh," he murmured, stroking your hair. "You're alright, darling. Let me take care of the car. I'll stay the night tonight, okay?" When you chanced a look up at him, wiping tears from your eyes, he looked determined, lips thinned to almost nothing. "I'll explain everything in the morning." 

"Are you sure?" You croaked. You meant him staying. You meant if you were safe. You meant… all of it, really. 

"I'm sure." He tipped your chin up to kiss your forehead. "Go put the kettle on. I'll be right there." 

Taking a deep breath, still shaky but willing to try, you obeyed. 

The silence of your home after midnight had never sounded so sweet. 

[arcanumart]

Simply having Vincent smile at him made Reim feel as if it was a bit hard to breathe. 4.20.22

[beccascribbles]

kageyama is failing english so he asks you to tutor him. neither of you were expecting the relationship that formed between you as a result.

warnings - swearing, kissing scene, contains a fair bit of angst

word count - 6.3k

a/n - this was originally meant to be a fluffy oneshot where kageyama falls for the person he asked to tutor him. however, it didn’t really end up that way exactly. i hope you enjoy anyway!

read the sequel - ‘selfish when it comes to you’

It was with hands trembling that he approached your desk, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the small group huddled by the door. Hinata waved his hands in a 'go' gesture, encouraging him to approach you, while Yamaguchi gave him a thumbs up. Tsukishima, despite declaring he was not interested in Kageyama's educational escapades, had come to watch. He just wanted to see the boy fail. Raising an eyebrow, you looked up at the black-haired boy that you had immediately recognised as Kageyama. Who could forget that face when you had watched him get stopped in the corridor to be handed small gifts by blushing girls, and then watched him hand them over to the energetic ginger at his side?

"Can I help you, Kageyama?" you questioned, shocking the poor boy. Nervously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, avoiding making eye contact with you. His expression was tense, and you were almost certain this was something he had been forced to do. A glance at the doorway confirmed this, his small group of friends unable to move out of view fast enough. Although, truth be told, Tsukishima had not even bothered to hide. It had been Yamaguchi pulling him out of sight behind the wall.

"Um..." he stammered, face burning a bright red. To think he could look so at home on a volleyball court but so awkward when tasked with an actual conversation was laughable to you. "Um, I, um, heard that you were really smart from Tsukishima, and Hinata was pretty much singing your praises earlier this week when you helped him study before a test..."

He trailed off, looking behind him again. You could not help but wonder as to what kind of emotional support he was seeking from them. Hinata was snickering as he whispered something to Yamaguchi, who was red from holding in his laughter. Meanwhile, Tsukishima was just smirking at the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Yeah, I heard Hinata passed that test," you said, leaning around Kageyama to shout to the hallway. "Well done, Hinata! I knew you could do it."

"You really helped, l/n," he shouted back, beaming at you. "If you hadn't broken down the concepts in such an easy way, I never would have been able to understand it."

Kageyama cleared his throat in an attempt to bring your attention back to him. His hands were now stuffed in the pockets of his trousers, and he was focused on some point above your head.

"Yes?"

"I-I was wondering if you would be able to tutor me in English," he stated, stumbling and tripping over his words. A loud snicker from the hallway caused him to spin and glare at the taller boy, who just snickered louder. When he moved as if he were about to head towards him, you reached out and clasped his wrist, stilling him.

"I would love to tutor you. When are you free? We can work around your schedule as much as possible. I know how busy you are, what with volleyball practice and all."

"Does this Saturday work?"

And that was how you found yourself sitting beside the black-haired boy at nine o'clock that Saturday morning. Textbooks, along with his workbook, were strewn along the desk in front of you.

Currently, you were going over what he had covered in class that week to attempt to pick out some weak points. It was clear to you that his memory was good. When you had quizzed him, he was able to recite the grammar rules perfectly. His spelling was so accurate it made you slightly envious. But, when it came to the application of those facts, he was clueless. You read the sentence one last time.

"Can you tell me why this is wrong?" you asked, indicating it on the page with a point of your pen. He looked down at the page, brows furrowing in concentration as he read.

"I think my spelling is correct," he stated, looking over at you for reassurance. You nodded your head, urging him to continue. "Is the word order incorrect?"

You again nodded your head. "Yep, that's correct. Well done, Kageyama! Now, can you tell me why the word order is incorrect?"

He rubbed the back of his head, returning to studying the sentence. His pen followed along with the line of writing. "Instead of using the English sentence structure of subject-verb-object, I used the Japanese sentence structure."

You smiled, extremely pleased at his ability to critique his own work so confidently. "Good. Remind me what the Japanese sentence structure is."

"Subject-object-verb," he replied with a confidence that you weren't expecting.

The rest of the session continued in a similar pattern, with you getting him to critique what was wrong in his own work. You thought that by helping him see what he was doing wrong currently, he would be able to learn from his mistakes and stop himself from making them in the future. This seemed to be having the desired effect, with the pause he needed to work it out shortening the longer you worked.

You glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. It was twelve o'clock. "Alright, I think it's time to wrap this up for now. Can you do the same time next week?"

He nodded in affirmation, beginning to gather up the textbooks to return them to the shelf they had been taken from. You hadn't really needed them due to his knowledge of the basics, so they had simply been on the table to take up space. While he put the books away, you gathered your stuff together to put in your bag, also putting his stuff in a neat pile that he could pack away when he returned. Upon his return, he quickly packed them away, slinging his bag over his shoulder once be had finished. Awkwardly, he pulled at the strap.

"Would you like to get some lunch?" he asked, gaze settling on a slight crack in the wall behind you. "Just as a thanks for helping. Not like as a date or anything."

"Relax," you laughed, patting his arm lightly as you walked past him. "I didn't think it was a date and, now that you mentioned it, I would love to get lunch with you."

It took him a moment to process your words, and the fact that you were already walking towards the exit. Hurriedly, he walked after you, his long strides easily allowing him to catch up. You turned to him with a wide grin, "So, what's the plan? You got a specific place in mind?"

He found himself returning your grin. It was infectious. "Not really. But I'll think of something."

From your first tutoring session onward, it became something of a routine to get lunch together afterwards, leading to the formation of an easy friendship. While Kageyama could still be slightly awkward at times, his habit of blushing furiously had diminished slightly. He genuinely enjoyed the conversations with you. You listened with rapt attention when he ranted about volleyball, a fact that warmed him to his core. It was rare to talk to someone who didn't automatically act uninterested when the topic turned to what he was passionate about. But you admired that passion. You encouraged it. And, like you encouraged his passion, he encouraged yours.

At one of your lunches together, you had let it slip that you were currently working on a novel, just a light-hearted way for you to let your creativity flow. It had never been your intention to write for someone else to enjoy. It was just an escape for you, something you found enjoyment in. Something you were passionate about. Your novel was only a passion project.

"Tomorrow, I'm probably just going to work on my novel," you said in response to Kageyama's question. He had just finished telling you his plans for Sunday (it consisted of a lot of volleyball specific training to fine tune his skills as a setter, and also a run - which he had invited you to join him on one time only for you to immediately refuse) and then enquired after yours.

"Your novel?" he questioned. "You're writing a book?"

"No, no, it's nothing serious," you chuckled awkwardly. This time it was you desperately trying not to make eye contact. "It's only for fun. Like a little passion project."

"For fun?" he said, searching for your gaze across the table. Finally, your eyes dropped to meet his deep blue eyes. "I think it's really cool that you've got something you're passionate about."

Those were almost the exact same words you had said to Kageyama when he had tripped his way through an apology after going on about volleyball for an hour.

"Oh..."

It came out on an exhalation of breath. For most of your life, you had hidden the books you had written, terrified of judgement. Yet here Kageyama was telling you that it was cool. "Um, I can show it to you if you want. Maybe you could read it? Tell me what you think?"

He nodded his head in response. "What's it about?"

You launched into an explanation, not only outlining the plot, but also providing him with the main character's backstory, along with their planned arc. He just listened, nodding his head. The way you were so animated pulled him in, making him admire you even more as a person. It was hard to find people with a true passion, and here were two people with a lot of it.

The friendship you formed was so easy and comfortable to be in for the both of you that you gravitated towards each other. At school, it became rare to see you apart during the break times. It wasn't uncommon for Kageyama to show up outside your class with two cartoons of milk, one for you and the other for him, before you followed him out to the courtyard where you would just sit and chat. Sometimes, you would poke your head into their volleyball practice if you had stayed late in the library. It was always to say goodbye to him but ended with him telling you to wait for him so he could walk home with you. On those days, Daichi always thanked you for stopping Kageyama from practising more.

During the weekends, your tutoring sessions had now moved from the neutral ground of the library to one of your houses. He would host one week, with you hosting the next. If it were at his house, you could guarantee that you would be roped in to helping him with some form of volleyball practice after, leaving you sweaty and in need of a shower. Therefore, Kageyama now had a drawer in his room specifically for you to leave spare clothes in. If it was at your house, after tutoring, you read the next part of your novel to him as he listened, his head resting against your thigh. He would always give you his opinion, managing to explain why he had liked certain parts. Then, you would convince him to watch a film with you. Sometimes it would be a comedy, other times it would be a volleyball documentary.

When Hinata had found out that you had a drawer of your things at Kageyama's place, he had become almost unbearable.

Kageyama had let it slip while he was talking to you about your plans for the weekend, telling you it wasn't necessary to bring any more spare clothes when you visited due to the amount already occupying the drawer. Hinata had chosen that moment to walk up to you.

"Why would Kageyama have your clothes at his?" asked Hinata. Both you and Kageyama paused, sharing a look that Hinata automatically read the wrong way. "Oh my god! Are you dating? No way! There's no way Kageyama would ever find some who would want to date him."

"No!"

"We're not dating!"

You both snapped in unison, blushing profusely. Kageyama glared at the smaller boy, "We're just friends, boke. Stop making a big deal out of nothing."

By the time you were in your third year, everyone just assumed you were dating. You attended all his volleyball games wearing his jersey, would occasionally wait for him to finish practice before going home together and were always with each other. He supported you, always there to cheer you on at a school related event or writing competition. He had, after all, been the one who had encouraged you to enter your first writing contest, where you had won runner-up. The photo of you grinning while holding your certificate was one of his favourites. It was also his lock screen photo. Coincidentally, your lock screen was also a photo of him. It was after he was told that he would be representing Japan in the u19s team. He had looked so happy in that moment that you still felt proud of him whenever you saw the photo. You were also both very affectionate with each other considering you were ‘only’ friends. After breaking through the initial awkwardness he felt at physical closeness, being close to you, touching you, brought him reassurance. He would always have an arm slung over your shoulder as you walked. When sitting, he would always be pressed against you, his body warm where it touched yours. In private, it was common for you just to cuddle. As you watched a film, he would have his arms wrapped around you as you rested on his chest.

There was also the small fact that neither of you had entertained the idea of dating someone during high school. Both of you had been asked out multiple times, only for the answer to be no. It was easy for people to assume Kageyama was just too focused on volleyball to be in a relationship that would require so much of his attention. In your case, people found it odd that you had not even gone on a date. Naturally, they just assumed that Kageyama was your boyfriend, so the confessions of love stopped for the both of you. You were not oblivious as to why they had stopped but decided not to deny the claims. It was easier for people to think you were in a relationship.

Kageyama, as much as he hated himself for it, would sometimes find himself wishing that were the case. He could not deny that he was attracted to you. Wherever you were, his eyes were drawn to you. They would follow you around a room, enticed by the way you moved. And, when you were finally close enough to touch, he was unable to stop himself from reaching out and pulling you towards him. It was definite that his own actions had fuelled the rumours. Most of your potential suitors had been on the receiving end of a cold glare from the setter at your side. However, despite this desire for you, he told himself he would never act on it. This was partly due to volleyball. He could admit that your friendship was distracting enough, able to pull him away from the sport with ease. Entering a relationship with you would make it harder, and he could not let that happen. Volleyball was the most important thing in his life. You would always be second, as much as he might want you or need you to be there with him.

For the most part, you were unaware of his feelings. Or, at the very least, you acted like you were. You could acknowledge that he was both overly protective and affection with you considering he claimed to only view you as a close friend. The glares he directed at people had not gone unnoticed by you, especially as they had always been accompanied by the tightening of his arm around you. Equally, you could not deny that his behaviour towards you made you feel giddy. You could not deny that feeling his arm wrap around you to pull you against him made your heart race, or how the sight of him made your breath catch. You could not deny that having his support meant everything to you. But you also could not deny that his attachment to volleyball would override any feelings towards you, no matter how strong they were.

“You need to tell him to stop,” Ichika said, giving you a pointed look. She could see how much you cared for him, how much this affection for him was slowly destroying you. “The way he’s acting is unacceptable. If he’s not going to date you himself, he should stop being so damn possessive.”

You looked up from your coffee. Her words had struck a chord in you. You knew his behaviour was unacceptable, but you let it continue in the hope that it would transform into what you wanted: for Kageyama to finally act on his feelings for you. “Don’t you think I know that? I know it’s bad. I know I should tell him to stop. But I can’t help thinking that if I let it continue, he may finally realise what’s been staring us in the face for the past two-and a-bit years.”

You were so close to breaking. You could feel your eyes beginning to burn from suppressed tears. Again, you looked down at your coffee, hoping that focusing on a specific point would stop the tears from forcing their way out. Ichika reached out a hand to touch yours gently.

“Come on, y/n,” she practically pleaded. “This isn’t healthy, and you know it. The relationship you have with Kageyama now isn’t good for either of you. You can’t let him control you like this.”

“Control me?” you snapped, pulling your hand out of your friend’s hold. “He’s not controlling me. He would never do that to me. You know as well as me that he struggles with his feelings and how to express them. If I told him how I felt, I know he’d stop. But I don’t want him to. If I tell him, he’ll pull away. I’d rather keep him like this than risk not having him at all.”

“y/n, sit back down,” said Ichika, looking up at you. During your rant, you had risen from your seat. You were visibly shaking, whether from anger at what your friend was insinuating or frustration at the truth of your relationship with Kageyama you could not tell. The tears you had worked so hard to suppress were freely rolling down your cheeks.

“No,” you said, turning to walk away. “I think I’m going to go home. I don’t really feel like talking anymore. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

You walked out, hands fumbling for your phone. As much as he was the cause for your tears right now, it was his comfort you craved. So, you called him. He picked up on the first ring, sounding breathless as if you had interrupted his training. His greeting was unusually harsh. Shit. You had forgotten that the volleyball team had arranged an extra practice session today to prepare for nationals.

“Tobio...” you said, voice cracking. It was clear you were crying. Your voice was thick with emotion. All he could hear were your sobs in his ear. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were busy. I’ll just call... actually, I don’t know who else I’d call.”

Your laugh was bitter, and the concern he felt for you hit him with so much force he almost keeled over. You had not even told him what you needed yet, and he was already beginning to gather all of his things together. “What is it, y/n? What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m walking to yours from the cafe close by.” Another sob escaped your lips. “I just need to see you.”

He remembered you telling him that you had planned to meet Ichika there for a drink and a chat. You were unsure as to why she had wanted to have a chat, and he could clearly recall you saying that your friend looked very serious when she had asked to meet up. “I’ll be home soon. Just use the key I gave you to go in... What did Ichika tell you?”

That caused you to pause. He heard your breathing still through the phone. What could Ichika possibly have said that would have made you so upset? You interrupted his chain of thought when you spoke again. “It’s not important, Tobio.”

“Not important?” he snapped, fist clenching around his phone. “If it’s not important, then why are you fucking cry? Why did you call me during volleyball practice?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. The sound made his heart crack, almost breaking through his sudden haze of anger. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. It’s not a big deal. I’m just getting upset over nothing.”

“Fine.” His voice had changed again, becoming cold. “If it’s nothing, I’ll see you when I finish practice.”

You heard the stuff he had begun to gather clatter to the floor before he hung up. He chucked his phone back in his open bag, turning to face his friends. The rest of the team were still training, but they had stopped, turning to look at him as soon as he had begun to collect his things, the concern evident in his voice and the lines of his body.

“What was that about, Kageyama?” asked Hinata, looking at his friend with concern. Though his voice had been cold before he had hung up on you, Hinata could still see the conflict on his friend’s face. Concern for you was evident in the set of his face, but his need to improve outweighed your obvious need for him in that moment. “l/n is clearly really upset. Why are you still here?”

“You can go to her if you want,” said Yamaguchi. “You know Coach won’t mind. Plus, recently, you’ve been spending more time here than usual. Missing the end of this practice session won’t affect you at all.”

“Let’s just get back to practice.”

Kageyama walked back over to serve again, ignoring the concerned looks his friends shared. Even Tsukishima was worried, his eyes scanning Kageyama as if trying to gauge his emotional state. Throughout the rest of training, guilt gnawed at Kageyama’s conscience. His mind kept drifting to you, your sobs, the way your voice cracked. But he was too stubborn to leave now, too obsessed with improving in volleyball to waste his concern on you. However, as soon as training ended, he was the first to leave, sprinting out of the school.

Before heading home, he grabbed some of your favourite comfort foods, barely even acknowledging that it was physically impossible to eat the amount of food he had shoved into his bag in one sitting. When he entered his house, he headed straight to his room, knowing that was where you were most likely to be.

What he was not expecting was the sight that greeted him. You were curled up on his bed, hugging his pillow to your chest. But that was not what sent a spike of hot desire running through him. You were only wearing his jumper, your clothes neatly folded on the floor at the foot of his bed. In your curled-up position, his jumper just covered your arse, leaving your bare legs on display. It was clear you were fast asleep. With a sigh, he placed the bag of food gently on the floor before reaching for a blanket and placing it over your sleeping form. He brushed a kiss to the top of your head. Then, he left the room to wash.

Once he returned, dressed more comfortably topless and in a pair of loose-fitting joggers, he made his way back over to you, sitting beside your sleeping form on his bed. He brushed your hair away from your face, treasuring the soft feel of your skin against the pads of his fingers. He wanted to lie down with you, to pull you against his chest and curl around you. He wanted to protect you from everything that could hurt you, not realising the main person responsible for that was him, no matter how much you struggled to admit it. But something stopped him from lying down beside you and holding you in his arms.

He had added to your hurt. His sudden anger had not been towards you, though it had been directed your way. Though he had not meant to hurt you then, he knew that he had. But he also knew that incident would not be held against him. It was when he had deliberately made his voice go cold, telling you that he would not be there to comfort you anytime soon. In the back of his head, he knew you were clearly not upset about nothing, that it was important. Hearing you talk like that after interrupting his practice, however, had made him snap. He should not have done it. He should have come running to you. If he was not so obsessed with volleyball...

Kageyama pulled away from you, getting up from the bed. As he turned away to search for a futon to put on the floor, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You croaked softly, “Tobio, can you hold me?”

And your relationship continued in much the same way, the incident of that day largely forgotten, your feelings on the matter remained suppressed. Both of you only had eyes for each other, but neither of you were inclined to speak those feelings aloud. Finally, you graduated from Karasuno, both still firmly attached to each other.

All those hidden feelings eventually fulminated at the graduation party Hinata had decided to host, inviting former members of the Karasuno Volleyball Club along with people from rival teams. Kageyama had asked you to come with him, so you had entered the party on his arm to chorus of ‘so you’re finally together?’ and statements echoing that sentiment. You had had to shake your head, forcing a smile on your face as you jokingly dismissed the claims.

“No, we’re just friends,” you said. “This boy has only got one thing on his mind and that’s volleyball.”

You were unaware of how incorrect that statement was. Since he had secured a spot with the Schweiden Adlers following graduation, his mind had been drifting to you more often. Truth be told, you were often all he could think about - your figure, your touch, your smile. As selfish as it was, he wanted you like this, with him, for as long as you would have him.

Kageyama forced a laugh at your words, not seeing the hurt look in your eyes as he unwittingly agreed with your statement.

“I don’t know why you’re not dating yet,” sighed Sugawara, swaying slightly as he walked up to you. “After he called asking me for advice, I thought he was finally aware of his attraction for you.”

“What?” You blinked at Sugawara, needing a moment to digest his words. Then you spun to face Kageyama. “You what?”

“I’m not attracted to you, y/n,” spat Kageyama, shrugging you off him. “You know as well as I do. We’re only friends... and that’s all we’re ever going to be.”

“Hey...” said Sugawara, fumbling for a way to stop this from escalating. It was clear that Kageyama’s words stemmed from his fear that acting on his feelings would affect his volleyball in some way. Meanwhile, you looked close to crumbling, Kageyama’s last statement highlighting how pointless your feelings towards him were. “Maybe you two should walk away before this escalates.”

“You know what, Kageyama?” you snapped back, the emotions you had been holding back bursting out of you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and your fingernails bit into the skin of your palm. “Fuck off. I’m done with this, whatever this is.”

With that, you spun around, storming further into the party. Kageyama quickly lost sight of your figure in the sea of volleyball players. His cheeks felt wet. He was shaking, all control over his body gone as he launched a punch at the wall to his left. Skin ruptured. Glancing down at his fist revealed split knuckles and blood welling up from the cracks.

“Fuck.”

You pushed through the people, desperately searching for anything to help you feel less empty inside. Less broken. Alcohol. That was your answer. Your gaze landed on a table that looked close to collapsing due to the amounts of bottles on it. No one would miss one measly bottle. Not fully aware of who might be watching you, you grabbed the largest one, took off the cap, and drank from it deeply. The liquid burned your throat, a welcoming distraction from the numbness you were currently drowning in.

This time you pushed through the crowd holding the neck of a bottle, looking for somewhere to collapse. Your eyes landed on the open back door. Perfect. The cool air against your skin made you shiver, causing you to pull the jacket tighter around your form. You studied the black denim. It was Kageyama’s jacket. A bitter laugh escaped your mouth. How fucking typical that you were still relying on him to help you, even if it was just his jacket. Actions guided by nothing more than hatred at your own inability to do anything without him, you ripped it off you, throwing it down beside you.

Without his jacket to ward against the chill, you realised how cold it was. You simply shrugged, raising the bottle to your lips in the hopes that the bite of the alcohol would fight away the cold. When a jacket dropped on your shoulders, you barely registered it.

“l/n, come inside,” said the voice beside you. Vaguely, you recognised it as Tsukishima’s. Blearily, you tilted your head to look up at him. “It’s cold. You’re going to catch a fever or something.”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” you slurred, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his jacket. It was warm. You snuggled further into the warmth. He just rolled his eyes at you, grabbing you from underneath your arms and pulling you to your feet. You stumbled into him, feeling wobbly and unfocused. “Shit, I think I’m drunk.”

“Nope, you’re obviously completely sober.” His voice was dry, the sarcasm in his tone clear. You shot him a glare, poking your tongue out at him. He observed with a hint of superiority in his tone of voice, “Now, that was childish.”

“I don’t care,” you pouted. “I’m drunk and upset.”

Wrapping an arm around his, you leaned on him heavily as he walked with you back into the party. Barely audible above the noise, you mumbled, “I want Tobio. I really love him… Why does he always hurt me?”

To be honest, hearing you like this made Tsukishima’s chest ache. He had his doubts about your relationship with Kageyama, had taken to observing the dynamic between you two. For quite some time, he had seen the hurt that waited just beneath the surface, the way your eyes would suddenly become unfocused when you came to watch Kageyama practice. It was clear you were thinking back to that day, the way he had addressed you so coldly and emphasised the importance of volleyball over your well-being.

Kageyama watched you with Tsukishima from across the room, his right-hand throbbing with pain. After Daichi had helped Kageyama clean it up, he had told him to go home. Kageyama had refused. Despite the words you had spat at him, he could not leave until he knew you were safe. He had watched you, watched as you attempted to drown your sorrows in alcohol. He knew he probably should have approached you, offered to take you home before you got too drunk. It was clearly past that point now. You were clinging onto Tsukishima as if your life depended on it. This made him grit his teeth in annoyance. It should have been him there to support you. Although, if he had not lost his temper with you earlier simply because he was in love with you, none of this would have happened.

He strode across the room towards Tsukishima, powered by some urge to be the one to take care of you like he had been doing since that first tutoring session. “I’m going to take y/n home.”

“Do you really think she wants to be anywhere near you right now?” questioned Tsukishima, glancing down at you briefly. At the sound of Kageyama’s voice, you had let out a breathy moan, fingers twitching on his arm as if you wanted to reach out to him.

“Tobio…” you mumbled, clearly drunk. You removed your arm from Tsukishima’s, reaching out for Kageyama. “I need you. Please. Don’t leave me. I need you.”

I need you.

The words rang around his head as he curled a protective arm around your waist. You were turned into him, nose pressed against the material of his shirt. One of your hands gripped his shirt tightly, fingers curling in the thin material. He began to walk away with you towards his car. Even if this whole situation had not happened, it was still his turn to be the designated driver.

Silently, he helped you into the passenger seat, buckling your seat belt and brushing a soft kiss to your cheek before shutting the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He opened the door, sliding into the seat and looking over at you once more to double-check that you were strapped in. Much to his surprise (and slight annoyance), you had decided to unbuckle the seat belt. He huffed, leaning over to grab the belt, “Seriously, y/n.”

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, stilling his movement. Slowly, you brought his hand down to rest on the smooth skin of your exposed thigh. Kageyama froze, his gaze flickering to yours. Your face was so close to his he could feel the heat of your breath against his lips. Gently, almost teasingly, you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. He let loose a breath he did not realise he had been holding, allowing the pad of his thumb to begin rubbing smooth circles on your thigh. While his fingers dance across your skin, you grazed your finger along his jawline, the other hand reaching up to tangle in his hair. Unable to help yourself, feeling needy, just wanting him, you leant in, letting your lips brush against his. Once. Twice. On the third time, Kageyama’s restraint broke, the hand on your thigh tightening while the other went to the nape of your neck, pulling you into him harshly.

His lips pushed against yours, the swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip enough for you to open for him. He tasted you. Greedily. Hungrily. His tongue tangling with yours teasingly as the kiss deepened. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you from your seat beside him. You clambered over the gear stick, falling into his lap. The kiss broke momentarily as you adjusted your position, straddling him, both hands clutching onto his black hair. You did not have to wait long until his lips were back on yours, hands trailing down to grasp at your arse as he strained upwards in his seat to push his clothed centre into yours. The moan you let out against his lips did not go unnoticed, and he ground upwards into you, eliciting another soft groan. You pulled away slightly, stuttering out his name, “T-T-Tobio. Fuck.”

Your breath carried with it the stench of alcohol, seeming to pull him to his sense. Suddenly he released you, causing you to flop forward against him, hands still clutching his hair. Your head was pressed against his shoulder. “Tobio?”

He lifted you off him, returning you to your seat beside him. Without looking at you, he put your seat belt back on, trying to avoid touching you, afraid the feel of your skin and the way you were looking at him, eyes dark with desire, would cause him to snap again.

“Tobio?” you questioned again, voice painfully soft, as if you feared his reaction. “Do you not want me?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Fuck. Of course, I want you. You don’t know how much I crave you. How much my thoughts end up drifting to you.”

“Then why’d you stop?”

“Because I can’t,” he said, the words physical paining him to speak. “You’re a distraction. One I can’t afford as much as I want it.”

A broken sob escaped your lips. But he did not reach over to offer you comfort, as much as he might have wanted to. And, although that night ended with you sleeping at his house, the next morning, there was a noticeable wall up between you. The once easy affection you shared was unwanted, Kageyama maintaining physical distance with you as much as possible.

And, though it pained you to admit, your relationship was never the same after that. It was never easy. It was never comfortable. It was tense, awkward even. Though you parted ways as friends, him going to the Schweiden Adlers and you off to university, it was as if a fundamental part of your relationship was broken. It was unlikely that part could ever be repaired.

[agallimaufryofoddments]

Lasersight’s Translation of Narita’s 2020 “Baccano! 193X Cherry Blossom Circus” short story

Many of you have already seen my scans of Narita’s two short stories that were included in the KADOKAWA Light Novel EXPO 2020 Official Memorial Book. Some of you may not have yet seen or read the translations of both that are now out.

@lasersight has sent me their translation of the Baccano! short story, the title of which she has translated as “Baccano! 193X Cherry Blossom Circus.” I am sharing the story on their behalf per their request. (Though, should they decide to share the story in their own post after all, I’ll gleefully pass that post along). 

HERE is the Google Doc link containing the translation, as provided by Tumblr user Lasersight.

I suppose I should copy the text below a [Read More] cut in case the link is inaccessible/goes down, but be sure to check the link first; after all, it can be edited/updated as needed. For another translation of the story, as well as a translation of the Durarara!! x Baccano! crossover, see @sawagiacademy‘s blog (posts to be reblogged). All three of these links, as well as @houjicha​’s summary of both stories, can be found in the main reblog chain of the original scans post.

In the meantime, definitely stop by lasersight’s blog for some great Baccano! fanart you may have missed (me: “look at all this excellent content I’ve been missing out on due to the thesis crisis!”); don’t forget to thank them while there!

TEXT BELOW IS AN UNEDITED COPY OF THE TRANSLATION VERSION ACCESSED ON JUNE 11, 2021, AS PROVIDED IN LASERSIGHT’S DOC

Baccano! 193X Cherry Blossom Circus

By Ryohgo Narita Illustration: Katsumi Enami

Night had well and truly fallen on the Washington riverside.

Gazing upwards from a street lined by many trees, a group of women were engaged in conversation.

“Ehh? They were blooming last time I came…” pouted a dejected Miria Harvent. 

Beside her, Nice Holystone interjected.

“Looks like they’ve already fallen, hey?”

The flowers must have been in full bloom just a few days ago, but now, they were almost completely gone. On the barren branches, only a few green buds remained.

“It’s because the wind was super strong yesterday. We should have gotten here 107,200 seconds earlier.”

“Hyaha!”

Nice’s friends Melody and Chaini were also staring up at the trees, muttering words that may or may not have made any sense.

“Last time, when I heard about these cherry blossoms from Mr. Yaguruma... I came to see them and they were so beautiful… I just wanted to show you all…”

“Oh, I’ve heard about these too. Apparently twenty years ago, 2000 cherry blossom trees were sent over from Japan…”

“Even before then! Way, way before then, people spent years and years trying to plant them, you know! The very first 2000 trees the Japanese sent over caught diseases on the ship and had to be burned….”

At Miria’s despondent words, Nice smiled quietly and returned her gaze to the trees that surrounded them.

“These trees have some real history…”

In order to deal with certain business matters, the group had arrived in Washington D.C. Having set off on a different path from Jacuzzi and Isaac due to various circumstances, it was only the women who were now gazing at the row of cherry blossom trees.

“Isaac told me that people gather under these trees, because cherry blossom pollen can be used as medicine!”

“Pollen as medicine? I wonder if that’s some sort of Chinese herbal remedy…”

As Nice tilted her head, pondering this over, Melody stepped in.

“It’s what’s inside the pollen. It’s called ephedrine. It works wonders on your bronchial tube, and some people say it also acts as a stimulant. Well, the amount of ephedrine in cherry blossom pollen is less than significant, but still,” she spoke, casually.

Spurred on by the long-winded explanation, Miria once again recalled a conversation she had with Isaac.

“And! Listen, listen - the leaves are poisonous! That’s why people come to look at the flowers, but no one ever comes to look at the leaves!”

“Ah, that would be the coumarin. It’s been said that once dissolved in rain, this substance can make other plants wither, but as for humans, as long as you don’t consume too much of it, you’ll be fine. If you do, it’ll have negative effects on your liver and kidney.”

“You sure know a lot about some weird things, Melody. Miria, so do you…” Nice mused, marvelling at the strangeness of her friends.

Taking little notice of Nice’s bewilderment, Miria continued with her spiel.

“But! If you use it in a certain way, that poison can become medicine, too! Ain’t that incredible? Reborn, like a phoenix! It’s the circle of life!”

Despite her bout of dejection at the fallen flowers just minutes earlier, Miria seemed to be back to her cheerful self.

Relieved, Nice turned towards the other woman they were travelling with.

“Chané. Is something wrong? You look serious.”

“......”

Having been listening to their conversation in silence, the woman in the black dress - Chané Laforet - was staring at the darkness that enveloped the opposite side of the riverbank.

Suddenly, from that darkness, a group of what could only be described as street scoundrels emerged, marching towards them with weapons in hand as if ready to start a fight.

“...Ah. Our location’s been exposed, has it? I hope Jacuzzi and the others got away safely…” Nice sighed.

If one were to describe the women’s current situation in a string of words, “About To Be Killed By A Local Gang In The Middle Of Their Business Operations” would likely suffice.

In any case, it was a situation they were all too familiar with, and as always, Nice snapped into action.

“I wouldn’t want to damage the trees… ‘bout this much should do it. Alright.”

Having promptly lit the fuse on a handmade firecracker she’d pulled out from who knows where, Nice lobbed it at the approaching rascals with no hesitation. Their cries rang out from the blast that followed. And then---

“Ah…!”

Miria let out a cry of surprise, leading Melody and the others to turn towards where she was looking.

Upon doing so, the group laid eyes upon the river beside them, which the rays of the blast had put into full view. It was draped in a stunning pink carpet - one made of the very petals that had fallen just before they’d arrived.

“Wow, Nice! We got to see the flowers, after all, thanks to you!” Miria rejoiced innocently, impassive to the sound of the reverberating blast. “I wanna show Isaac and Jacuzzi!” 

Beside her, Nice wore an enraptured smile.

“That ephedrine’s got me all worked up, too.”

“Oh, that’s definitely not the ephedrine. If you’re all worked up, it’s probably because of the bomb you threw 28 seconds ago.”

Ignoring Melody’s words, Nice started throwing even more bombs at their enemies.

“We’ve gotta come back and see the flowers properly next year, so make sure you all stay alive, okay!” she shouted, the cheerful smile on her face illuminated by the blast.

The women began running, as the petals on the ground drifted through the dust and smoke. In that moment, it was as if they themselves were petals dancing in the breeze. 

But unlike the flowers, their spirits would never fall.

Along with the times, they’d continue to bloom.

[scrapbook-imagines]

DBD Reunion with S/O

Throughout its existence, the Entity has spectated the suffering of others with sadistic delight. It rarely grew bored of the constant loop of trials between survivors and killers. If It did, It would always add another pair in the mix — or in other cases, just one. The Entity was very familiar with how involving a loved one could create tremendous drama; it was always refreshing to see the killer torn between love and duty—the power imbalance that they previously enjoyed could make them so predictable at times, which does become stale eventually. So, while the Entity could relate in their shared interest of inflicting pain unto others, the killers needed to be reminded that they were also pawns in Its game.

The Trapper (Evan MacMillan)

The future seemed so prosperous when you two first met. Being born into a moderately wealthy family, there were many expectations of you, as you were the only child your mother could carry to term. Your family was disappointed with your sex; worried that their fortune would slip away, as no one would be able to seriously consider doing business with a woman. The only solution, it would seem, was to marry you off with someone of equal or higher class. A man who would ensure the future of your family’s business.

You wished your parents would be angry with you over something you could control, but unfortunately their disappointment never really faded, even when you tried your best to please them. Your family made its wealth from selling furs, so from a young age you were allowed to operate a gun and became a very good shot. Your hunting skills were on par with your male employees as you grew up, yet despite your obvious talents, people could still not look past your sex and that paranoia of losing wealth made your parents arrange a marriage between you and a man named Evan MacMillan.

Neither of you were particularly pleased to hear this news, until you met one another at your debutante ball. You were formally introduced and it seemed you were both enamored by each other’s presence. When left alone to chat, the conversation was surprisingly dynamic. Evan was never much of a fan of too timid a woman, as they were quite the bore. You enjoyed challenging him; there was always a spark of excitement when you saw that dangerous gleam in his eye, clearly accepting it.

You treaded the line well for him; you were clearly a capable woman who could be quite the tease, but stepped back whenever he needed to do something. Your home was quite a distance away from his estate, and it would have been rather improper to have you stay with him in his estate without being married, so you two only visited each other in-between the months before your scheduled wedding day. Not that that day would ever come, as it was pushed back as his father’s health deteriorated—along with Evan’s state of mind. You were stunned when you heard the news of the hundreds of men buried alive in the mines, Archie MacMillan’s body being discovered in the basement of the estate, and the disappearance of your fiancee. Why?

When you were taken by the Entity, you were placed in what looked like the MacMillan estate. Or what remained of it, as chunks of bricks were missing and the trees of a once luscious woods were now shriveled up. You were unaware of the trial that was going on, but you weren’t too far of a distance to catch glimpse of someone else. Their clothing was strange, but you figured they might know what was happening. Or to at least be able to point you to the nearest town.

They took a step, you heard a mechanical snap followed by a scream.

You stopped in your tracks and hid, startled but realizing that they’d stepped on a bear trap. Sighing with relief (you knew how to deal with those), you approached the poor thing again and were quick to help the whimpering survivor. You were able to get just a brief explanation, even if you didn’t entirely believe it, from the stranger. Though your skepticism was tested when you saw the killer in the wicked mask.

He paused in his tracks, silently cocking his head to the side as if confused by the sight before him. The injured survivor limped away as quick as they could, leaving you behind with the bloodied piece of metal and the attention of a homicidal maniac. After a brief stare down, his relaxed pace from before picked up and you immediately ran out of there. He tunneled you, ignoring the generators lighting up one by one until the doors were able to be unlocked. You weren’t sure you could keep running like this, and the space between you and him decreased enough where he could down you.

He was impressed by your ability to dodge his cleverly hidden traps, but damn woman were such a pain to catch. He was careful scooping you up into his arms— a luxury he never spared to anyone else. He finally spoke, your name leaving his lips as the rumble of a door opening rang throughout the area.

“..Evan?”

Bright crimson streaks glowed beneath the dirt as he slowly carried you to a hook (it was his duty, after all, and he could only show you small mercies in these trials). The man of your past explained almost everything, but it was all happening so fast and—An unbearable pain seared through your shoulder as he quickly placed you on a hook. He visibly tensed at your scream: “Why?”

This is how things are here, my beloved.

He pretended not to see another survivor crouching beside one of the dead trees, walking away from your sobbing form and appear as though he was trying to wrangle others. He heard flesh being removed from the metal, turning slightly to see you being led to the gates.

The Entity was displeased with his performance and Evan snapped back that he was unprepared to see you there.

——

After your reunion, you reconciled feelings of betrayal and took this obstacle in stride. The next trial with Evan, or the Trapper as he had become known, was different. In fact, every trial with him became a test of each other’s abilities. You would evade his traps so often that he learned to hide them in sneaky and unpredictable places. You learned how to disarm them quickly, and if you did set one off, you could hold in your scream half the time and never even alert him.

When you were in the campsite and he went to go get you, there wasn’t much of a choice for you. You were still angry with him at first, and you were purposefully spiteful in every action during each game before this. He stole you away regardless, acting almost like the gentleman he was in the past. His apologies were genuine and you recognize that he was a stickler for following the terms of a deal, so while forgiveness wasn’t immediate, you did eventually concede: “You’re lucky I can’t have a gun here, Mr. MacMillan.”

You suspected that Evan was behind the fact that whenever you were in a trial with a killer that wasn’t him, they never seemed to spot you. Actually— there have been moments when they turned the corner, looked at you point blank, and turned away!

A/N: wow this ended up a lot longer than I intended. I originally wanted to write this cheeky survivor ( only that way because they knew the killer before) scenario for almost all the original dbd characters but this became a novel and I still think I made it too short.

[arazialotis]

Long Distance

Pairing: Dean × Reader

Word Count: Around 1700

Summary: Dean and Y/N have been separated during the holidays due to a string of hunts but Dean has a thought to make the distance seem not so far apart.

Warnings: Language, General SPN spooky stuff

This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as hobby. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

-----

Nights came early this time of year, each day growing darker a little earlier. It was hard to fight off the fatigue that crept in every passing moment. Even harder so with Dean out of town on another string of hunts. You sat in the picture window curled up in a fuzzy blanket with a warm cup of tea and a new book. Though you had a corner lamp turned on, the Christmas lights outside bounced off the white snow, illuminating the world and keeping the dark at bay. 

Your phone had occasionally been buzzing as Dean updated you on his progress in a new town. You did what you could to not worry, to have faith, but each day he was gone you needed distractions to keep your mind off it. And of course, communication. The longer he went without an update, the more your stomach turned. 

Though you were entranced with the novel, methodically flipping pages and on the edge of your seat, as soon as the phone sounded, you threw the book down only focusing on him. 

You answered with a pant of excitement. “Hey babe.” 

Dean’s smile practically shined through the receiver. “Evenin’ Y/N. Man it's good to hear your voice.” 

“Yours too.” You echoed setting your tea down on the ledge as you started pacing the floor. “How’s the first day been?”

“Ah, you know, just getting settled and the feel for things. Wish I had your mind here to sort things out but this has been a long stretch, it’s starting to drag. It was good for you to stay home.” He paused waiting for a reply. “This’ll be the last one, promise.” 

“Don’t say that.” You chided knowing fully well he easily broke these promises. “You are doing good work. If you need to keep going, that’s alright. Just promise me you’ll come home eventually.” “You know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“And besides.” You sighed. “I’m still here virtually, put me together the case details tonight and I’ll scour over them.”

Dean’s blush heated up the air around you as he shamefully admitted. “I already sent them to Sam.” 

“Ugh! What? God Da…” Dean’s chuckle cut you off. You rubbed your brow reminding yourself it wasn’t a competition. “I want to help too.” You whined. 

“Okay, okay.” His voice faded. “I’m sending them now.” 

You looked at your phone waiting for the email to come through. A few moments passed and it eventually did. He had sent over a few news articles, pdfs, and a word doc of his own notes. 

“Hmmm… it’s definitely a werewolf.” You teased. “Shut up.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid enough to get stumped by an oversized rabid poodle.” 

“I’ll shoot you some real ideas by tomorrow at the latest.”

 “Don’t feel rushed, I got some pretty good leads to follow up on tomorrow.” He assured. “Alright, enough work talk. What about you? How was Thanksgiving?” 

“I mean, it wasn’t the same without you and everyone else. But uh, I still tried to make the most of it. Brussels, beans, wild rice, potatoes…” You listed. “Mashed?” Dean interrupted. 

“Pfft. Of course. Cranberries. Oh, I did a cornish hen cause like, what the fuck am I going to do with a whole turkey? I already have enough leftovers to last me ‘til Christmas. Tell me you had something more than deli meat turkey.”

“Don’t worry about me babe.” He lightly chuckled. “Denny’s got me covered.” 

“Dean.” You scolded.

“Pie? Please tell me you had pie.” He begged. 

“No way I’m having pie without you.”  

“But.. But… Thanksgiving.” Dean pouted. 

You giggled at his adorable antics. “There’s one waiting in the freezer for when you get back.” “Yes! Cherry?” He pleaded. 

“Of course…” You giggled together until a knock sounded at the door. “Hey, hold on a sec.” 

“What is it?” Dean’s voice grew concerned. He heard the door open, a soft thank you, and the door closing before a bit of rustling. “Oh, nothing.” You fiddled with the box and the phone. “Just looks like a package for you.” Dean licked his lips with anticipation. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it for me?” You wrinkled your nose, unsure if you wanted to. “Really?” 

“I’m sure.” 

You grabbed a kitchen knife to hack away at the tape. Dean sat down on the motel bed anxiously waiting for you to find what was inside. 

“It’s um… it’s.” You pulled it out further inspecting it. “It’s a lamp?” 

Dean grinned ear to ear waiting for you to figure it out. “A long distance lamp? What?” “I found it online. You have one and I have one.” He explained. “I felt bad the last hunt with the bad reception. My lamp will light up when you touch it and vice versa.” 

“What?” You squealed. 

“Yeah. It’s an early Christmas gift.” Your heart melted.  “Go plug it in.” He ordered before you could respond. 

“Dean…” His thoughtfulness nearly brought you to tears. “Go!” He repeated before you got too sappy. 

After a few minutes of him guiding you through the set up, you were ready to test it out. “Okay, ready?” He asked, his hand hovering over the lamp on his end. 

“Yes.” You sat on the floor staring at the dark lamp. “Nothings happening.” You sighed. “Oh, wait!” It was dim at first but slowly turned into a green glow reminding you of his eyes. “Oh my gosh.”

“Your turn.” You pressed the top of yours sending him a warm purple glow. You could hear his smile over the phone. 

“See, now we can talk to each other even without the phones.” 

“Dean. This is… it’s… thank you.” Was all you could muster to say. “I’ll keep it by my bed so I can say good night and good morning.” “Me too sweetheart.” Dean agreed. “And in case anything happens to my phone or I get stuck in another dead area, you’ll know not to worry.”

The two of you spent another good hour talking; tentatively setting up holiday plans, explaining the unexpected twist in your book, and thrilling him with all the juicy details of exactly what you were going to do to him when he finally did make it home. You read a few more pages before finally calling it a night. Tucked into a bundle of blankets, you reached to your nightstand sending him a final thought of the night. A few moments later came the dim green glow. Though it was just a light, it made you feel as though he was there, his arms wrapped around you making your heart warm. 

When Dean awoke the next morning, the lamp next to him was already glowing purple. He smiled, typical that you would be the first to rise. After a yawn and deep stretch, he sent the thought back to you before going to freshen up and shower. The hot water and steam soothed his sore muscles and the tension he held in his shoulders if only for a brief minute. Towel wrapped around his waist and clean shaven, he came back out to get dressed in a suit for the day only to find the light had not faded. With another chuckle he assumed you must have been on the same schedule and sent another touch back before heading out for the day. 

From the morning, he was in a sprint; talking with the local police department, interviewing witnesses, consoling family members. Dutifully, he kept you updated on his progress hoping to hear back from you soon on any thoughts yet you were quiet. He wondered if he had mixed up your work schedule again. Having gone nonstop throughout the day, he opted for an early dinner back at the hotel room. 

Entering back to the room with his Chinese takeout, he immediately noticed the lamp was still on. He set down his food on the table and pulled out his phone. 

‘The lamp doesn’t need to fully replace the phones.’ He texted you, adding a little laughing emoji hoping you wouldn’t be offended by him calling out your silence today. 

He popped open his laptop and dug into the Mongolian beef hoping to review any ideas you had come up with. But you hadn’t emailed him like you said. It was still early enough in the day, and especially if you had worked, maybe hadn’t had time to get around to it. He pulled up Sam’s email instead, reviewing notes and potential leads. 

An hour had passed and the light still glowed purple. Thinking it must be broken, Dean meandered over to the plug resetting it. The only other explanation would be your hand on top of it consistently which didn’t make any sense. The lamp powered back up and momentarily was dark before the purple hue came through again. 

“This is weird.” Dean muttered to himself. 

He walked back over to the table and grabbed his phone and dialed your number. After two rings, it answered. 

Dean chuckled, thankful to finally have gotten you. “Either these things are malfunctioning or you must really miss me.” He heard a deep breath from the other side of the line. 

“Y/N?” His voice dropped. “Sweetheart, are you there?” A sinister voice crackled on the other end. “It’s been a long time Dean.” 

Dean’s heart dropped to his stomach. Panic and anger rose to his chest. It was a voice he could never forget. “Alastair.” 

“Now I was hoping to find you home when I stopped by but this pretty little lady said you were out on business.” Alastair's voice delightfully slithered. 

His jaw clenched. “If you’ve touched a single hair on her head, I swear to God…” Dean spat. 

Amusement rose into laughter. “What makes you assume I could harm such a delicate creature. Her neck as easy to snap as a sparrow's."

“You better pray that's not what I find when I get back.” Dean threatened already furiously packing his bag. 

“Its not her I want, it’s you.” Alastair clarified. “But I guess that all depends on how long you take getting back home Dean. I might become bored.” 

-----

TAGS:

Forevers: @mogaruke @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @jotink78@blushingdean @sup3r-pott3r-lock3d @dancingalone21@carryonmyswansong @atc74 @superapplepie @cassieraider@adaliamalfoy @iwriteaboutdean @spnbaby-67@monkeymcpoopoo @adoptdontshoppets @maddiepants@onceuponathreetwoone @thisismysecrethappyplace

Dean x Reader: @akshi8278 @boxywrites @its-not-a-tulpa @tacklesackles @aubreystilinski @iamabeautifulperson18@jerkbitchidjitassbutt @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @ria132love​

[myriadlabrynth]

Kiridai vs Type of Girl They Like

With more explanation. All just my opinions, and headcanons (Not the most in depth analysis because they are overall self-explanatory)

Hanamiya - Stupid Girls

There are a few ways to look at this

We know from the light novel with Imayoshi(Chapter 6 of Replace V), and also the online-gaming drama cd(Knb Season 2 Drama Cd 4), Hanamiya puts up this facade as this friendly and humble guy. Whether this is something he does all the time or only sometimes, is up for debate.

A stupid girl would be someone who still falls for this facade. Since there are of course girls who already know what Hanamiya is really like. Unlike the early years of middle school, where most people thought Hanamiya was this nice kid, his reputation is now well known(he’s the “bad boy” for a reason). So all things considered, you might have to be really stupid, or just blissfully ignorant(so still stupid to Hanamiya)to fall for the facade still.

Another way to look at it is, you know how people say “Are you stupid?!” when they do something risky? Same type of deal here.

It’s not just with brains, it’s also a girl who is too brave to an idiotic degree. Or perhaps impulsive. Someone who stands up to him,who doesn’t quite know what they’re getting into when they confront him. It would be someone who did figure it out. They know Hanamiya is not a good person, but they were merely scratching the surface, and they’ll learn that eventually.

Either interpretation, it’s simply good entertainment for him really, especially the ecstasy he gets when the girl eventually realizes exactly who they are dealing with.

I think his type being “stupid girls” would imply he’s not really going into relationships, expecting anything serious? To give an exact quote from the knb 3ds game(knb: miracles to victory)in his conversation with Moriyama:(translation by grimmfeather)

“ I’m completely focused on basketball right now. I want to lay every moment of my high school years on the line, put my best foot forward every day, and win with the rest of my team… That’s why I don’t even have time to think about love and whatnot at the moment.”

(I haven’t actually heard the voice acting for this part, so idk if he said it in his fake nice persona, but regardless, most of this is probably half-heartedly said, especially the “best foot forward everyday and win with the rest of my team”, but the gist of it is true, about not thinking about love)

I think if he was actually serious, he would prefer someone with some degree of intelligence, not a complete lost cause. But who knows, life might/probably will throw him a curve ball.

Since he’s not expecting any relationship to go very far, he is caught off guard if/when one actually works out

Also side note, regarding the light novel with Imayoshi,  can I just say how concerning it is that Hanamiya has apparently been doing rough play since he was twelve years old???? And possibly earlier??

Seto - Intelligent Girls

The opposite of Hanamiya obviously. I mentioned that there are girls who already know what Hanamiya is like, regardless of the phony nice persona,  that is an example of who Seto would prefer.

Just someone who is smart enough to see through it(since Hanamiya’s nice act is apparently pretty convincing, though Seto saw right through it just like Imayoshi did), especially if it's a girl who is meeting Hanamiya for the first time and doesn’t know anything about him. The girls who do know Hanamiya’s nature, knew  from word of mouth, not from actually interacting with Hanamiya.

Seto isn’t really someone who wants to be in a relationship anytime soon, but Seto would see yet another girl who is fooled by Hanamiya and think “Well I know I wouldn’t want a girl that’s that dumb“ that would be why his preference is someone smart.

I mean I’m not saying that the only girls that Seto would be interested in are the ones who go through hanamiya first, but they would certainly intrigue him.

It’s interesting to think about what else Seto considers to be “marks of intelligence” though, since his intelligence is on another level.

Romantic or not, Seto generally is more drawn towards intelligent individuals.(which is part of why he has his eye on Imayoshi, according to Kurofes)He just likes having someone who he can have an intellectual conversation with, it's part of why he gets along well with Hanamiya. Simple small talk doesn’t really bode well, or won’t get you very far.

Cause the things he finds interesting, other people might not understand or know anything about.

Furuhashi - Masochists/Someone with Masochistic Tendencies

It reminds me of the shoujo manga Ookami Shoujo to Kuroo Ouji.Basically the guy is an ass to this girl, even when they start dating.

And the girl was described as a “Masochist”, because she puts up with the guy’s rude and sadistic tendencies. And basically one of the reasons why the relationship worked is because the girl kind of just accepted the way the guy was(and the guy ended up softening up on his own anyway). Other girls would run away or call him a jerk, and never try talking to him again. But this girl was persistent and stuck around and didn’t try to change him. The Guy just needed someone who would accept him for who he is, cause he was just the way he is.(a very watered down version of the manga, idk if i’d recommend it, but it’s out there.)

(Now that I think about it, the manga fits Hanamiya’s situation too...cause the guy puts up a kind “prince-like” facade, and finds enjoyment when the numerous girls he meets sees his true nature…..hm)

ANYWAY, this is how i’d describe Furuhashi’s preference as well. Him being a sadist is just the way he is, and he’s not going to change for anyone. He may soften up a bit, but he’ll be the same guy overall.

Masochist in this sense, would mean someone who would accept Furuhashi for who he is, a sadist. They wouldn’t expect him to change for them. Someone who will love him for him.

To actively choose to still be with him, despite everything may be considered “Masochistic”

He gets pissed when girls try to change him. When they think that just because they’re dating,he’s supposed to change who he is. Because he would think that the girl never actually loved “him”, they were just painting a fake version in their head and tried to make it a reality. Or mold him into their ideal boyfriend. I think Furuhashi has trust issues because of past experiences.

And yeah sure, we can also look at it in the typical sense as well (in a perhaps ‘nsfw’ type of way ) He gets great joy from the things he gets to do on the basketball team, and that he is able to get off scot-free. So of course he would want other means to be able to do similar things, when he eventually leaves basketball.

He’s intrigued at the idea that someone would enjoy being hurt(cause he’s used to being met with anger)

But I think there’s more to it than that.

Hara - Girls with Pretty Legs

Not much to it really. It means exactly what it says.

Interesting that Hara’s preference is the only one of Kiridai that is a physical attribute.

He’s actually one of four(I think) knb characters whose preference is physical attributes (the other ones are Aomine and Murasakibara, and kinda Tsugawa)

This would mean Hara is someone who is (usually) attracted to one’s appearance first, before their personality.

It’s really just legs that Hara finds to be pretty. Doesn’t have to be slender or anything like that.

Huge fan of thigh highs of course, especially when they’re visibly squeezing the thigh, even if it's barely(he’ll notice)

He's the type of guy who sees those pics of girls with thigh highs just barely squeezing the thighs, it’s barely noticeable, and says they’re “thicc”

If we’re thinking about personality traits that Hara would prefer, if there were any, it would be someone who is a bit laid back just like him.

Someone who understands his jokes, won’t be like a “stick in the mud”.

But at the same time, I can see Hara being interested in someone a bit more serious(not too much), because those people are more fun to mess with and tease lol

Yamazaki - Cheerful Girls

So pure…

A girl with an infectious smile. He would try his best and do all he can to see that smile over and over again. They would be a  ray of sun in a room and happy-go-lucky

I think it could provide a nice break from his time in the team?

Constantly seeing bruised and sometimes bleeding players takes a toll on Yamazaki, who barely supports it. The vibes of the team are overall dark and can be overwhelming.

A cheerful girl gives him a break from that and the boost of serotonin he needs.

Just someone who is positive cause he doesn’t always want to think about crushing other players or other people’s demise.

I can see Yamazaki having a crush on a girl who is super friendly to him but he always thinks “She’s nice to me, but she’s nice to everyone so there’s no way she likes me in ‘that way’”

The girl would be someone who accepts his “loudness”, for lack of better word? I can see Yamazaki holding back to try to seem more “presentable”. The girl would be someone who Yamazaki is comfortable with being himself.

Can I just reiterate how cute Yamazaki’s preference in girls is….we have stupid girls, intelligent girls, masochists, girls with pretty legs, and Yamazaki is here like “I like cheerful girls…”

An angel indeed….

[oscopelabs]

It’s Arrested Development: How ‘High Fidelity’ Has Endured Beyond Its Cultural Sell-By Date by Vikram Murthi

It’s easy to forget now that at the beginning of 2020, before the pandemic had taken hold of our consciousness, for a brief moment, High Fidelity was back. Not only did Nick Hornby’s debut novel and Stephen Frears’ film adaptation celebrate major milestones this year — 25th and 20th anniversaries, respectively — but a TV adaptation premiered on Hulu in February. In light of all of these arbitrary signposts, multiple thinkpieces and remembrances litigated Hornby’s original text on familiar, predictable grounds. Is the novel/film’s protagonist Rob actually an asshole? (Sure.) Does Hornby uphold his character’s callous attitudes towards women? (Not really.) Hasn’t the story’s gatekeeping, anti-poptimist approach to artistic taste culturally run its course? (Probably.) Why do we need to revisit this story about this person right now? (Fair question!)

Despite reasonable objections on grounds of relevancy, enough good will for the core narrative—record store owner seeks out a series of exes to determine a pattern of behavior following a devastating breakup—apparently exists to help produce a gender-flipped streaming show featuring updated musical references and starring a decidedly not-middle-aged Zoë Kravitz. I only made it through six of ten episodes in its first (and only) season, but I was surprised by how closely the show hewed to High Fidelity’s film adaptation, to the point of re-staging numerous scenes down to character blocking and swiping large swaths of dialogue wholesale. (Similarly, the film adaptation hewed quite close to the novel, with most of the dialogue ripped straight from Hornby.) Admittedly, the series features a more diverse cast than the film, centering different experiences and broadly acknowledging some criticisms of the source material regarding its ostensibly exclusionary worldview. Nevertheless, it seemed like a self-defeating move for the show to line itself so definitively with a text that many consider hopelessly problematic, especially considering the potential to repurpose its premise as a springboard for more contemporary ideas.

High Fidelity’s endurance as both a piece of IP and a flashpoint for media discourse is mildly baffling for obvious reasons. For one thing, its cultural milieu is actually dated. Even correcting for vinyl’s recent financial resurgence, the idea of snooty record store clerks passing judgment on customer preferences has more or less gone the way of the dodo. With the Internet came the democratization of access, ensuring that the cultivation of personal taste is no longer laborious or expensive, or could even be considered particularly impressive (if it ever could have been). Secondly, as one might imagine, some of Hornby’s insights into heterosexual relationships and the differences between men and women, even presented through the flawed, self-deprecating interiority of High Fidelity’s main character, are indeed reductive. Frears’ film actually strips away the vast majority of Hornby’s weaker commentary, but the novel does include such cringeworthy bits like, “What’s the deal with foreplay?” that are best left alone.

Accounting for all of that, though, it’s remarkable how many misreadings of Hornby’s text have been accepted as conventional wisdom. It’s taken as a given by many that the novel and film earnestly preach the notion that what you like is more important than what you are like when, in fact, the narrative arc is constructed around reaching the opposite conclusion. (The last lines of the novel and film are, literally, “…I start to compile in my head a compilation tape for her, something that's full of stuff she's heard of, and full of stuff she'd play. Tonight, for the first time ever, I can sort of see how it's done.”) That’s relatively minor compared to the constant refrain that Rob’s narcissism goes uncriticized, even though the story’s thematic and emotional potency derives from what the audience perceives that Rob cannot. To put it bluntly, High Fidelity’s central irony revolves around a man who listens to music for a living being unable to hear the women in his life.

While Hornby’s prose immerses the reader in Rob’s interior monologue, providing ample room for the character to spout internal justifications of his behavior, the novel hardly obscures or conceals this conclusion. Moreover, the film makes it unavoidably explicit in numerous scenes. Rob (John Cusack) triumphantly pantomimes Rocky Balboa’s boxing routine soundtracked to Queen’s “We Are The Champions” after his ex-girlfriend Laura (Iben Hjejle) confirms she hasn’t yet slept with her new boyfriend Ray (Tim Robbins), but doesn’t hear the part where she says she prefers to sleep next to him. When Laura informs Rob that she did eventually sleep with Ray, Rob completely falls apart. In an earlier, more pointed scene, Rob goes out with his ex-girlfriend from high school (Joelle Carter) to ask why she chose to have sex with an obnoxious classmate instead of him. She venomously informs him that he actually broke up with her because she was too prudish, an abrupt, cruel bit of business we actually witness at the film’s beginning. It was in her moment of heartbroken vulnerability that she agreed to quickly sleep with someone else (“It wasn’t rape because I technically said, ‘Okay,’ but it wasn’t far off,” she sneers), which ultimately put her off sex until after college. Rob doesn’t hear this explanation or the damning portrait of his teenaged self. Instead, he’s delighted to learn that he wasn’t actually dumped.

These are evidently low character moments, one’s that are comedic in their depiction of blinkeredness but whose emotional takeaways are crystal clear, and one’s that have been written about before. My personal pick from the film, though, comes late when Rob attends Laura’s father’s funeral. He sits in the back and, in typical fashion, turns to the camera to deliver a list of songs to play at his funeral, concluding with his professed wish that “some beautiful, tearful woman would insist on ‘You’re The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me’ by Gladys Knight.” It’s a really galling, egotistical moment that still makes me wince despite having seen the movie umpteen times. Yet, it’s immediately followed by the casket being lowered to the ground as Laura’s sobs ring out in the church. In a movie defined by John Cusack’s vocal timbre, it’s one of the few times when he completely shuts up. From two-thirds down the center aisle, Frears’ camera pushes into Cusack’s face until tears in his eyes are visible, but what you really see is an appropriately guilt-ridden, ashamed expression.

However, none of this evidence carries any weight if your objection to High Fidelity is that Rob suffers no material consequences for his behavior. While Rob is frequently called out for his actions, he is never actively punished. He doesn’t, say, receive a restraining order for continually calling Laura after they’ve broken up or end up alone mending a permanent broken heart because of his past relationships. By the end, Rob and Laura get back together and Rob even starts an independent record label on the side. It’s a stretch to characterize Hornby’s High Fidelity as a redemption tale, but it is a sideways rehabilitation narrative with a happy ending that arises at least partly out of mutual exhaustion.

Those two elements—Rob’s asshole recovery and the exhausted happy ending—rarely seem to factor into High Fidelity discourse. Granted, there’s credence to the idea that, socially and culturally, people have less patience for the personality types depicted in High Fidelity, and thus are less inclined to extend them forgiveness, let alone anything resembling retribution. I suppose that’s a valid reaction, one against which I have no interest in arguing, but it’s somewhat ironic that High Fidelity has endured for reasons that have nothing to do with its conclusions regarding inflexible personal principles and the folly of escapism. Both the book and film are specifically about someone who slowly comes to terms with accepting reality rather than live in a world mediated by pop cultural fantasies whose unrealistic expectations have only caused personal suffering. It’s not unfair to characterize this as a fairly obvious epiphany, but considering we currently live in a world dominated by virtual echo chambers with an entertainment culture committed to validating arrested adolescence, it retroactively counts as “mature” and holds more weight than it otherwise should.

Near the end of High Fidelity, the book, after Rob and Laura have gotten back together in the aftermath of Laura’s father’s death, Hornby includes a chapter featuring five conversations between the couple unpacking the state of their relationship. During the third conversation, Rob and Laura fight about how she doesn’t care about music as strongly as he does, catalyzed by Rob’s objection to Laura liking both Solomon Burke and Art Garfunkel, which, in his mind, is a contradiction in terms. Laura finally admits that not only does she not really care about the difference between them, but that most people outside of his immediate circle of two don’t care about the difference, and that this mentality is indicative of a larger problem. It’s part of what keeps him stuck in his head and reluctant to commit to anything. “I’m just trying to wake you up,” she says. “I'm just trying to show you that you've lived half your life, but for all you've got to show for it you might as well be nineteen, and I'm not talking about money or property or furniture.”

I fell for High Fidelity (first the movie, then the book) as a younger man for the reasons I assume most sensitive-cum-oblivious, culturally preoccupied straight guys do: it accurately pinpoints a pattern of music consumption and organizationally anal-retentive behavior with which I’m intimately familiar. I spent the vast majority of my early years listening to and cataloguing albums, and when I arrived at college, I quickly fell in with a small group of like-minded music obsessives. We had very serious, very prolonged discussions filled with impossibly strong opinions about our favorite artists and records. Few new releases came and went without them being scrutinized by us, the unappreciated scholars of all that is righteous. List-making wasn’t in vogue, but there wasn’t a song that passed us by that we didn’t judge or size up. I was exposed to more music during this relatively short period of time than I likely will ever absorb again. Some of these times were the most engaging and fun of my life, and I still enjoy discussing and sharing music with close friends, but I’m not such a true believer to fully feel comfortable with this behavior. It’s not entirely healthy on its own and definitely alienating to others, and there comes a point when you hear yourself the way a stranger might, or maybe even catch a glimpse of someone’s eyes when you’re midst rant about some stupid album, and realize, “That’s all there is of me. There isn’t anything else.”

This is what Rob proclaims to Laura in the conversation when she tells him she was more interested in music during their courtship than she is now. It’s a patently self-pitying statement on his part that doesn’t go unchallenged by her in the moment or bear fruit in the rest of the novel. Yet, it’s this type of uncomfortably relatable sentiment that goes under-discussed. If High Fidelity will continue to have a life well after its cultural moment has passed, then it’s worth addressing what it offers on its own terms. Near the end of the book, Laura introduces Rob to another couple with whom he gets along quite well. When the evening comes to an end, she tells him to take a look at their record collection, and it’s predictably filled with artists he doesn’t care for, e.g. Billy Joel, Simply Red, Meat Loaf. “'Everybody's faith needs testing from time to time,” Laura tells him later when they’re alone. Amidst Rob’s self-loathing and sullen pettiness, Hornby argues that one should contribute in some way rather than only consume and that, at some point, it’s time to put away childish ideas in order to get the most out of life. It’s an entirely untrendy argument, one that goes against the nostalgic spirit of superhero films and reboot culture, but it doesn’t lack merit. Accepting that some values aren’t conducive to a full life, especially when it’s shared with someone else, doesn’t have to mean abandoning interests or becoming an entirely different person. It just means that letting go isn’t an admission of defeat.

It’s why I’ve always found the proposal scene in the film to be quite moving, albeit maybe not specifically romantic. It plays out similarly in both the book and the film, but the film has the added benefit of Cusack and Hjejle’s performances to amplify the vulnerability and shared understanding. Laura meets Rob for a drink in the afternoon where he sheepishly asks if she would like to get married. Laura bursts out laughing and says that he isn’t the safest bet considering he was making mixtapes for some reporter a few days prior. When asked what brought this on, Rob notes that he’s sick of thinking about love and settling down and marriage and wants to think about something else. (“I changed my mind. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I do. I will,” she sarcastically replies.) He goes on to say that he’s tired of fantasizing about other women because the fantasies have nothing to do with them and everything to do with himself and that it doesn’t exist never mind delivering on its promise. “I’m tired of it,” he says, “and I’m tired of everything else for that matter, but I don’t ever seem to get tired of you.”

This sort of anti-Jerry Maguire line would be callous if Laura didn’t basically say the same thing to him when they got back together. (“I’m too tired not to be with you.”) It’s possible to read this as an act of mutual settling, but I always thought Hornby’s point was personal growth and accepting one’s situation were intertwined. The key moment in High Fidelity, the film, comes when Laura finds Rob’s list of top five dream jobs. (In the book, Laura makes Rob compile the list.) At the bottom of the list, after such standard choices like music journalist and record producer, lies architect, a job that Rob isn’t entirely sure about anyway. (“I did put it at number five!” he insists.) Laura asks Rob the obvious question: wouldn’t you rather own your own record store than hypothetically be an architect, a job you’re not particularly enthused with anyway?

It’s Laura who convinces Rob that living the fifth-best version of your life can actually be pretty satisfying and doesn’t have to be treated like a cruel fate worse than death. Similarly, Rob and Laura both make the active decision to try to work things out instead of starting over with someone else. Laura’s apathy may have reunited them, and Rob’s apathy might have kept him from running, but it’s their shared history that keeps them together. More than the music and the romance, High Fidelity follows the necessary decisions and compromises one has to maneuver in order to grow instead of regress. “I've been letting the weather and my stomach muscles and a great chord change in a Pretenders single make up my mind for me, and I want to do it for myself,” Rob says near the end of Hornby’s novel. High Fidelity’s emotional potency lies in taking that sentiment seriously.

[aworldinsideaperson]

It Was always You (Chapter One)

George WeasleyxRavenclaw!OC FanFiction

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Panic Attack! Dementors! Mentions of food, mentions of babies? That’s all I can think of but if there is anything else let me know

Story Summary: Cerridwen has known the Weasley family all of her life. Attached at the hips of Fred and George for as long as she could remember has built a strong and lasting friendship that stretches across House lines and stands the test and trials they all face. But how long until “Just Friends” turns into something more, because it always turns into something more.

Chapter Summary: The start of the school year can always be stressful, Cerridwen starts the school year with all the regular stress of starting her fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry along with the added stressors of her father’s escape from Azkaban.

A/N: This is the thing I’ve been working on for months! This is chapter one of... a lot. Thank you @izzytheninja​ for listening to me rant and talk about this story and these characters nonstop for MONTHS I hope you guys like it!

The sun shone brightly through the curtains of the Burrow’s living room. On the couch a very young dark haired woman sat with a small baby in her arms, to one side of her sat a redheaded woman in her late twenties looking down at the baby in the arms of her neighbor and friend, Elinor McNally. On the other side of Elinor was a small red haired boy with light freckles dotting his skin. The fifteen month old stood beside Elinor looking down at the bundle in her arms.

“Baby.” He said, giving Elinor a quizzical look, his small head moved a little to one side.

His mother, Molly, nodded. “Yes George, it’s a baby.”

“Would you like to hold her?” Elinor smiled, her voice soft but George nodded. “Alright well, go sit in your Mum’s lap.” Molly took George in her arms and settled him down into her lap, his arms held out wide as he looked at Elinor with his big brown eyes. She turned and placed the small bundle into George’s arms with Molly's significant support and watched as he looked down at the baby wrapped up in her blanket. “Her name is Cerridwen.”

September 1st

14 Years Later

A ripple of silence washed over the platform as Cerridwen and her family stepped onto it, whispers following them with each group they passed. She heard her last name whispered in accompaniment with her father’s first. Though she had hoped that the news wouldn’t ruin her school year as she felt all the eyes on her she was sure this was only the beginning. Hugging her mother and stepfather goodbye she moved as quickly as she could to get onto the train and away from the prying eyes of her fellow classmates and their parents that held them just a little bit tighter as they looked at her.

Cerridwen settled into a compartment and took a sleek black cat from the travel crate she’d been placed in that morning as well as a book from another small bag settling down to continue reading the muggle romance novel she’d started the morning prior. With the cat snuggled into her left side between her thigh and the wall of the compartment and her book in her right hand she began to twirl strands of her dark hair in her left as her mind wandered to her friends, hoping that even if the rest of the school would hate her she could still count on her two best friends. With her mind drifting to the two the door of her compartment slid open and two identical red haired young men peaked in.

“Cerridwen Black, you are a hard girl to find!”. George said, he and his twin walked into the compartment bags in hand.

Cerri stood to hug the two boys, “Well Georgie did you look with your eyes open or closed?” She chuckled, wrapping her arms around Fred and then George.

Fred looked to his twin then back at Cerri. “You know what, I think that might have been the problem.” They all laughed and Cerri reached up to ruffle Fred’s hair.

“You’re telling me Molly let both of you leave the house with these mops on your head?” She laughed as Fred swatted her hand away.

“We hid all the scissors.” They chuckled and the three of them settled into a comfortable conversation as the train took off from the station.

“How was the rest of your summer Cerri?” Fred asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Well you’d already know if either of you had bothered to write me this summer.”

“Hey! I wrote you once and George wrote you two very long letters.” Fred smirked, eyeing his brother as a light blush dusted his cheeks.

“Three letters from the two of you the whole time you were gone is unacceptable!” Her voice was firm but a smile spread across her face before letting out a small laugh. “Honestly though, if you couldn’t tell on the platform, the only thing worse than the last six weeks of my life is going to be every minute until they catch my dad.” The twins went silent, looking away from her. “Oh come on, I know you guys know there isn’t any sense trying to pretend it’s not happening.” George then turned his head an mumbled under his breath; “What was that George?”

He sighed and spoke again. “Mum and Dad told us we shouldn’t talk about it.”

“You know, in case it upset you or something.” Fred finished with a sympathetic look to his friend.

“I do want to talk about it though seeing as it’s all anyone else will probably talk about.” As she looked up Cerri saw a few third years looking into their compartment as they walked past but when Cerri looked at them they fled quickly.

“Alright, so talk?” Fred offered.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you just said!”

“I know what I said! I don’t know, I just,” Her voice petered off as she

sighed. “They’ve been sending dementors to the house, and ministry officials have been by every few days to ask if we’ve seen him.”

“And, have you? Seen him I mean.” George asked in a tentative voice

“That’s the worst part, I haven’t.”

“Well he probably knows that’s the first place they’d start looking. He’s just trying to play it safe!”

“But wouldn’t it be worth the risk? To see your only child? To see me? Has he not missed me these last 12 years? Does he even remember who I am? Or,” She paused, taking a deep breath and looking down into her lap with sad eyes. “Or is he the person everyone says he is, and not the person my mum has always talked about.” Cerri’s eyes welled up with tears as she fiddled with her fingers in her lap. George slid across the seat and moved closer to her as he put his arms around Cerri he held her close, rubbing his hand up and down her arm soothingly as he closed his eyes and rested his cheek to the top of her head.

Tears gently tipped out onto her cheeks as she sniffled into George’s arms, Fred watching them awkwardly until they felt the train jerk to a stop. The air felt cold and when they looked out the window they could see frost begin to build and Cerri knew what was to come as she pulled closer to George’s side.

The lights flickered and went out, Cerri buried her face into George’s shoulder as she attempted to bring her knees closer into her body while darkness enveloped them. The cat jumped down and scurried beneath the seat; the twins could see their breath as the air became colder, their eyes trained on Cerri, her breathing becoming shallow as more tears sprung to her eyes and her worst moments pushing to the forefront of her mind; the day she was ripped from her father’s arms as he was carted off to Azkaban playing on repeat like a broken record, she heard the door slide open and she could no longer breath. She gasped for air, tears draining from her eyes as she attempted to pull in a single breath but the air around her felt solid. George attempted to tighten his grip around her but Cerri pushed away, pushing herself into the corner of the seat and bringing her knees to her chest and pulling herself into a ball as she choked on air, the scene in her brain playing over and over again, her heart fluttering inside of her chest, sobbing as her whole body shook.

Then the lights were back and the air was warm and Cerri sucked in her first breath in what, her mind, was hours as she continued to shake. George reached this hand out to place it on her knee and Fred kneeled beside her to place his hand between her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“Cerri?” George coxed gently, “Cerri, can you say something?”

She shook her head, still pressed into her legs.

“Do you want us to get you some help?” Fred offered and Cerri nodded once. With that Fred jumped from her place on the floor and popped out the door as the train again began to move.

A few seconds pass, George still has his hand on Cerri’s knee as he watches her shakes become less prominent and her sniffles more defined. “Do you want me to talk?” He offered, when Cerri gave a curt nod George sighed. “I wanted to write you more this summer,” He started. “But Fred gave me a bit of a hard time, and once Bill over heard him he and Charlie started in on me a bit.” He gave a soft chuckle. “I should have written to you more anyway.” George gave an exasperated sigh just as the compartment door slid open and Fred stepped back inside followed by a tall gangly looking man with dark hair and a pale, sallow, sunken and marked face.

He knelt beside the dark haired girl and placed a hand on her back. “Dear?” He questioned softly and Cerri lifted her head, her eyes wide and mouth open as she looked at the man before her and a smile came to his lips. “Hello sweetpea.” And with that he and Cerri flung their arms around each other in a tight embrace.

The twins shared an identical look of confusion as they watched the two separate and the man had their friend a small piece of Chocolate. “That should help dear.” He offered as he stood only to sit on the bench seat across from her as she nibbled on the sweet.

“Do you two..” Fred looked between Cerri and the older man.

“Know each other?” George finished and Cerri looked over at him with her big blue eyes still brimming with tears and she nodded.

Finally able to speak she gave an explanation. “This is my uncle Remmy; he’s my,” She took in a long sharky breath as she tried to continue but the man across from her took over.

“Godfather.” He finished. “But you’ll all be calling me Professor this year.” Remus reached out to shake hands with the boys inside the compartment. The three of them watched as Cerri’s breathing evened out and her shaking began to calm. “Alright, well since you’re doing better I’m going to go check on the rest of the students.” Remus smiled and stood, patting Cerri on the head as he walked toward the door.

“Thank you Uncle Remmy.”

“It’s professor now.”

“Thank you Professor Uncle Remmy.”

Remus shook his head as a smile came to his lips and he walked out the door.

“You feeling better?”

“A bit yeah,” Cerri let out another shaky breath and opened her mouth again before being interrupted by the glass door sliding open and a head of dark curly hair popped in.

“Cerri are you alright?” Miranda mason burst her way into the compartment, brown eyes wide and filled with concern she pushed Fred out of the way, causing him to stumble and fall back into the seat mumbling something to the extent of ‘no no I wasn’t standing there’ with a roll of his eyes.

Miranda sat on the floor beside Cerri, reaching up to stroke her hair. “How could they send those things onto the train that’s completely mental! I came as soon as I was able,” She sighs and rolls her eyes before beginning to ramble. “you know how emotional and clingy Cho can get, I tried to look for you on the platform but I couldn’t find you and then I got caught in with Roger, he asked about you by the way… again, and then Cho saw us and before I knew it the compartment was full and you know trying to get away from Roger can be,”

Cerri clamped a hand over Miranda’s mouth. “Breath,” Cerri laughed lightly, “I’m alright and I know us ravenclaws are terrors at times.” She took her hand away and placed them both back in her lap and Miranda reached over to place her hand on her wrist. The girls looked at each other and smiled.

“We should go change into our robes.” Miranda stood up and walked to the door before turning back. “And hello boys.” She then turned again and slid out of the compartment.

“She is so weird.” George started.

“And oh so hot.” Added Fred.

Cerri rolled her eyes and took another deep breath before standing and fishing her robes out of her bag. “I have a very particular taste in friendships.” She spoke with a smile looking at the two in the compartment. “You should get changed while I’m gone.” And with that she walked out of the compartment to change.

The strares of the crowd on the platform had been bad; but nothing would hold a candle to the way the great hall felt with so many eyes on her. She was sure Ravenclaw table had never gotten so much attention and even trying to bury herself between Miranda and Cho, Cerri could still sense the eyes glancing and staring in her direction, their whispering and stares continued through the sorting until Dumbledore rose and silence fell over the room as he began to speak.

“Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become too befuddled by our excellent feast…

“As you will all be aware, after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, Who are here on Ministry of Magic business.

“They are stationed at every entrance of the grounds, and while they are with us I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises or even invisibility cloaks. It is not in the nature of a dementors to understand pleading or excuse. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors.

“On a happier note, I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. First, professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of defense against the dark arts teacher.

“As for our new appointment, well, I am sorry to tell you that professor Kettleburn, our care of magical creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his game keeping duties.

“Well, I think that is everything of importance, Let the feast begin!” Dumbledore gave his last exclamation and with a wave food filled the tables as they did every year and in a moment all felt right. Cerri could no longer feel eyes on her, Cho smiled at her from across the table as they filled their plates, Miranda spoke animatedly about how hot her summer fling had been. It was as every other welcome feast had been, full of smiles and happiness. Until Cerri heard a near shout.

“Why do you think they’ve sent dementors here?” Asked a small girl toward the end of the table.

An older Ravenclaw responded quickly. “They’re trying to catch-” The older girl, Penelope Clearwater, cut herself off; her eyes drifting down the table to Cerri before she whispered. Cerri couldn’t hear but she knew what Penelope was telling the young girl. They’re trying to catch a criminal. They’re trying to catch a fellow Ravenclaws father. They’re trying to catch HER father. They’re trying to catch Sirius Black.

[haberdashing]

Transparent Closet

Jon and Georgie, both of whom are bi, come out to one another... in a way.

Written as part of @jonsimsbipride for the prompt “Solidarity”. Inspired by this post, though it portrays Jon as pan while this fic has him as bi.

on AO3

One of Jon and Georgie’s first dates was watching a series of mediocre supernatural-themed horror films together.

One of the things they’d first bonded over was their shared interest in the supernatural, after all (though Jon had never dared tell her of his first-hand experience with such things... and years down the line, Jon would learn that Georgie hadn’t dared share her own with him either), and what were schlocky movies for if not watching them together with someone you care about and talking trash loudly enough that the actual movie could barely be heard?

The lights were turned down (though not entirely off), Jon and Georgie sat pressed against each other on a couch that was either too small or just the right size depending on one’s perspective, and the movie marathon began.

After the night in question was over, Jon quickly forgot most of the details of the movies they chose to watch then--the titles, the storylines, even the number of movies they managed to fit in before conking out for the night--but one bit from the marathon stuck with him.

There was a lead actress in one of the movies who was pretty, but in a way that was clearly Hollywood trying to make her appear down-to-earth. The woman in question wore full makeup in every scene and was skinny and conventionally attractive and wore clothes clearly fitted precisely to her body shape, but her long brown hair looked a bit untamed and there was a speck of dirt placed just so on her cheek, so clearly she was just a regular person, right?

(In Jon’s opinion, the attempt fell well short of the mark, but he wasn’t terribly surprised; what Hollywood executives thought was normal and what regular people thought was normal were clearly two different things. Regardless, the actress didn’t strike Jon as his type.)

A few minutes into the movie, screams came from within a mansion that had been rumored to be haunted, and while most of the characters froze up or ran away, the lead actress took off her high heels and ran towards the mansion, her bare feet squelching in the mud with every step.

When that happened, Georgie tapped Jon’s arm and said in a stage whisper (as if they were in a movie theatre with others to disturb with their speech, instead of it just being the two of them snuggled up on that small couch), “Sorry, Jon, think we’re gonna have to break up now, that woman just earned my hand in marriage right there.”

Jon diverted his attention from the movie and looked over at Georgie, and he saw on her face when the realization hit her that she’d never actually confessed her attraction to women before. She didn’t look scared that Jon would reject her for it, though--that was one thing Jon always admired about Georgie, that she was never scared, never filled with the fear that consumed Jon’s own mind so frequently. But she watched Jon’s reaction to her statement almost as closely as he was watching her now.

“Surely we can work out an arrangement.” Jon replied after a brief moment. “She can have you on the weekends, perhaps?”

That careful scrutiny apparent on Georgie’s face melted away in an instant, replaced with a gentle smile. “Don’t be selfish, Jon. You can have me on the weekends. She gets the weekdays.”

“It’s hard not to be selfish when something so precious is at stake.” Jon reached for Georgie’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “But you’re right, fair is fair. Switch off every other week, then?”

“Hmm...” Georgie pressed the hand that wasn’t being held by Jon against her chin, as if she were deep in thought.

“And she can have you for the holidays.”

“Alright, sold.” Georgie pressed her lips against Jon’s cheek, and though the contact only lasted a moment, the warmth from the kiss was still enough to carry Jon through the rest of the night, his mind now filled with anything but the cinematic schlock still playing in front of him.

.

Jon was sitting on Georgie’s couch, listening to her rant about her troubles with a recent biology assignment, before she suddenly switched gears and asked, “So what have you been working on lately, Jon? Can’t be as bad as all that...”

Jon didn’t need to think twice about which of his assignments to discuss, not when one of them always seemed to be in the back of his mind at any given moment. “No, it’s quite interesting, actually. I’ve been working on an analysis of the book A Separate Peace--have you ever read it?”

Georgie hesitated for a moment, wrinkling her nose in thought before shaking her head in response. “The name sounds familiar, but I’ve never read it, no.”

“Alright, so-”

Just those two words emerging from Jon’s mouth were enough to put a wry smile on Georgie’s face--she knew what was coming, knew that Jon was getting ready to ramble on about one of his latest interests, and it warmed Jon’s heart to think that she was clearly looking forward to such rambling, a far cry from how his grandmother’s eyes had always glazed over when he’d tried to explain his passions to her.

“It’s about the narrator, Gene, returning to a boarding school he used to go to and reflecting on his time there, and specifically on his relationship with another student there, Finny--er, not relationship like that, they were friends and, and rivals... though actually, maybe like that too? There do seem to be certain- certain undertones, though maybe that’s just me projecting on Gene a bit too much there...”

Georgie raised an eyebrow. “Would you want to have a relationship with Finny, then?”

Jon looked down at the couch to avoid Georgie’s gaze. “Well, uh, I doubt Finny’d be interested in me to begin with, he seems out of my league...”

“You underestimate yourself, Jon.” Jon looked back up at Georgie just in time to catch the playful twinkle in her eye. “Besides, it’s a hypothetical. If the option were available, would you date Finny?”

“And if we weren’t already dating?”

Georgie let out a snort of amusement. “And if we weren’t already dating, too. Don’t worry, Jon, I’m not going to get mad if you’d date a fictional character.”

Jon thought about it for a moment. “...probably, yes, I would. Though he’s, uh, he’s sixteen. And dead by the end of the novel. So...”

Jon could swear he saw Georgie’s face blanche for a moment, but it was fleeting enough that he wasn’t sure it wasn’t just his imagination running wild or a trick of the light; the color returned to Georgie’s face in an instant, and any uncertainty in her expression was replaced by an exaggerated wrinkling of her nose. “That does tend to put a damper on potential relationships, doesn’t it?”

“Just a little bit.” Jon said, a bit of laughter sneaking into his voice.

“So how did this Finny die, anyway?”

“Well, it’s pretty much the climax of the novel, so to get into that, I’ll have to explain the rest of it first-”

Jon launched into a detailed explanation of the plot of A Separate Peace, and Georgie watched him with interest the entire time.

.

Jon didn’t entirely realize the implications of him admitting that he’d date Finny if given a chance until later in the night, when Georgie brought it up again during a lull in the conversation.

“So, if you’d date Finny-”

“Given all those hypothetical caveats, yes.”

“Right. And you’re dating me-”

Jon raised an eyebrow, schooling his face into his best semblance of surprise. “I certainly hope we’ve established that much.”

Georgie swatted at Jon with one hand, though the motion was slow and gentle and ended up coming just short of actually making contact with him.

“So you’re into both guys and girls, then. Do you identify as bi then, or pan, or-”

“Bi, yeah.”

Georgie’s face lit up at the words, her mouth stretching into a wide grin. “Same here! High-five? Wait, no--bi-five!”

Jon and Georgie both giggled a bit at that pun, and when Georgie extended her hand in Jon’s direction, Jon high-fived it without hesitation.

“Say, come next Pride, you can use the face paint I’ve got if you want, if it’s got cooties I dare say you’d have them already...”

Jon shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not exactly a fan of face paint.”

“Really?” Georgie wrinkled her nose. “Ah well, more for me, then. I do have some old pins you could have if you want, too!”

“Only if you’re sure you don’t want them.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to spare. Fun fact, covering a hat entirely with pins is not nearly as fun or practical as it sounds. Learned that one from experience.”

“Wait, you’ve got a hat covered with pins and you’ve been hiding it from me this whole time?”

“I used to have a hat covered with pins. Ended up taking them all off, and I had to throw out the cap underneath because it was so riddled with holes, and now I’ve just got all these pins hanging around...”

As Georgie kept talking about how she’d covered a hat with pins before and why she ended up taking them all off, a smile sneaked its way onto Jon’s face.

[hollyethecurious]

CS AU: Dreaming You Into Reality (2/?)

Summary: Emma had heard of lucid dreams, but had never experienced one for herself. Disappointment over realizing the truth weighed her heart down into her stomach. If she was dreaming then that meant the man she’d been dancing with before wasn’t real. He was nothing more than a figment of her imagination… Who knew she had such a vivid imagination?

A/N: This is all @therealstartraveller776​‘s fault. She shared this post in the cssns Discord, and the last lines haunted me until I had to write something. Naturally, after I posted part one with no intentions of adding to it, there were demands requests for more. All y’all are the worst enablers ever, and I positively love them for that! So, here we are. I’m thinking there will one more part to this, but it could end up being two. Only the muse knows for sure.

Shout out to @kmomof4​ for looking this over for me, and to @artistic-writer​ who listens to me whine as I attempt to make fic art. Love you both!!

Rated M / ~3k words / Available on ao3 and ff.net / Part One

~/~

Part Two

The amber liquid swirled in her glass, the ice tinkling against its sides before Emma brought it up to her lips. Her eyes continued to scan the club for a specific head of mussed, dark hair and a pair of brilliant forget-me-not eyes. Even under the dimmed lights, she knew his gaze would find her, but with each second ticking by as the bass reverberated through the mahogany bar at her back, Emma feared her previous dream truly had been a one time thing.

The night was still young, though. Maybe she just needed to focus more? This was her dream after all. She ought to be able to control it. Mindlessly toying with the swan pendant hanging from the chain around her neck, Emma closed her eyes and focused her attention on her mystery dream man. The buttery feel of his leather coat, the vibrantly embroidered vest, the blanket of chest hair that beckoned from the open collar of his shirt, the lilt of his accent, the way his tongue swept over his lips when his brows arched high and teased her with a suggestive waggle.

Emma could feel the change of her surroundings. Like the last time, she became aware of new sounds and smells, even the feel of her wardrobe as it shifted from modern club clothes to something… more restrictive. Her eyes opened, and she looked down to find herself tightly corseted in something straight off of a bodice ripper romance novel cover, casting her as the saucy bar wench. Raucous laughter caused her head to snap up. The tavern she found herself in accommodated a handful of tables, with only a few of them taken up by a rabbled variety. When her eyes met the blue hue she’d been searching for in the club, Emma made her way over, drawn to him without thought until she stood before him.

“Swan,” he exhaled with an awed tone while standing from the table.

Emma cocked her head and pinched her brows at him. “How did you… I thought you didn’t know my name?”

His eyes widened, a look of astonishment besetting his features. “That’s actually your name?”

“If you didn’t know it was my name, then why did you--”

“Your necklace,” he supplied, gesturing to her cleavage. “You were wearing it last we met and I sort of,” he reached up and scratched behind his ear, the tips of which were beginning to tinge pink, “likened you to the motif upon it.”

Emma nodded and wet her lips. It made sense, she supposed. Not that she was ready to fully buy into the idea that he wasn’t actually a figment of her imagination. She’d spent the last several days attempting to find some sort of logical explanation for the mask appearing on her headboard, mulling it over during stakeouts in her cramped bug. Keeping odd hours during her current case, she’d had to rely on sleeping pills to help her get to sleep which usually meant a dreamless one. Tonight she’d foregone the pill, hoping to meet her mystery dream man and maybe get some answers… as well as little relief to the frustrations that had been building a little more each time she’d thought of him during her waking hours.

“Have a seat, love,” he offered, waiting for her to sink down on the bench before following suit. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No,” she declined before he could signal one of the tavern girls. “Not tonight.”

“Why?” he purred seductively. “Afraid you’ll find me even more irresistible after a few libations?”

It was Emma’s turn to flush pink, remembering their last encounter with him hot and heavy in her hand. Her blush deepened and the heat of it spread through her body, settling in her core at the hope they might get a bit further tonight.

“I already had a drink,” she told him. “At the club we were in at the beginning of the last dream. I was hoping to meet you there again.”

He flashed her a smug sort of grin, clearly pleased that she had wanted to see him again, but his look then shifted, his gaze falling to the table between them. “I tried to get back there, but without your name it proved…” His words fell away and his brows scrunched together. Snapping his head up, he asked, “How did you get here, Swan?”

Emma reached up and stroked her pendant as she tried to recall how she’d come to be in the tavern. “I just… tried to focus on you. How you were the last time I saw you. In all your,” releasing her necklace she gestured towards him, “pirate leather glory.”

He chuckled at that, his eyes crinkling at their corners and sending another flare of want over Emma’s skin. A moment later, his pensive expression returned. Cocking his head to one side, he pressed his tongue along the backside of his teeth, working something out in his mind before relaying the inner workings to her.

“I was thinking of you as well,” he mused. “When my efforts to locate the club, as you call it, failed, I imagined you here.” His eyes landed on her, his gaze taking in her appearance with a bit more scrutiny. “I thought of you dressed just so,” he murmured with a hesitant note of amazement. “Invoking the nickname I’d given you, not knowing it was your true name, and then… there you were.”

Emma had no idea why he seemed to be getting all worked up. What did it matter how she arrived in the tavern? She was here now, and ready for him to get her out of this blasted corset he’d, apparently, put her in.

“Come with me!”

Taking her hand he practically yanked her up off the bench and out the tavern door, his steps hurried with an excited gleam in his eye. “The dreamscape is my reality,” he told her. “With fixed rules for those of us imprisoned here, but malleable for visitors like you.” He wound them further through the dark streets, the evening air cooling around them as a briny bite infiltrated her sinuses. “It’s been long rumored that we can occasionally change our reality with the assistance of an outsider, reshape it how we choose as if we had control of the dream ourselves. I think that might have happened last time, too. When we shifted from the club to the ballroom. I’d been to that castle before, you see. And I was thinking how stunning you’d be, that you’d cut quite the figure in a dress meant for a princess, when we were suddenly transported there. That’s when I started to suspect you might be my way out. I just needed your name to set things in motion.”

“What are you talking about?” Emma asked, winded. “Where are we going?”

“To the harbor,” he replied, just as they made their way around one final corner that revealed the open expanse of ocean past the vacant piers stretching out towards the waves. Spinning towards her, he asked, “What does every true pirate captain need in order to master the sea?”

“Um… a ship?”

“Exactly,” he said with a giddy sort of expression. “Imagine a ship, Swan. A sleek ship with two masts and billowing sails.” He took her hands in his and gave her a pleading look. She sighed and rolled her eyes before closing them, bringing the image to mind. “Don’t resist, love. I’m going to make some changes.” Emma scrunched her brows together, unsure what he meant until the image in her head began to shift, coming into vivid focus with details she never would have thought to give it, seeing as she had little to no knowledge of old timey sailing vessels. “Open your eyes, but keep that ship locked in your mind, just as it is now, then imagine it docked in the water.”

Emma did as instructed and her jaw dropped when the exact ship she’d been visualizing appeared, bobbing and swaying lightly on the evening tide. A moment later she gasped when she was suddenly lifted off her feet, wrapped tightly in her pirate’s arms and swung around from his elation. When he set her down, his hands placing themselves at her waist to ensure her stability, her breath caught at the look in his too blue eyes.

“Thank you, Swan,” he exhaled. “Thank you for giving her back to me.”

His lips were on hers before she could take in a proper breath, but she couldn’t be bothered to care. What was oxygen, anyway, when his lips were as soft and supple as she remembered, his kiss just the right side of demanding when his hand came up to caress the side of her face, using the slightest bit of pressure to change the angle of her head so he could deepen it before his tongue won entrance past her lips. The slick heat of it sliding against her own had her moaning in tandem with his own desperate sounds.

Sounds that tempted her to imagine them back in her bedroom and resume what they’d started in the previous dream.

Before she could make that dream a reality, he pulled back. His hair was a riotous mess from her fingers, though she hadn’t even been aware she’d buried them within those luscious locks, his lips red and kiss swollen, and his eyes a deep midnight shade of desire, pupils blown wide and lids low over his hooded gaze that made her skin prickle in the most delicious way.

“Come, love,” he said, taking her hand. “Allow me to show you my ship, then perhaps we could continue this over a nightcap?”

Bottom lip secured between her teeth, an action that only seemed to darken his gaze, Emma nodded. “Lead the way, Captain.” Before he could do just that, she tugged on his hand drawing his attention back to her. “You know, you never did tell me your name.”

“Apologies, love. Where are my manners.” Lowering himself into a formal bow over her hand, he kissed it lightly then flicked his eyes back up to her, murmuring, “Captain Killian Jones. At your service, Miss Swan.”

“Emma,” she said. “My name is Emma. Emma Swan.”

“A pleasure… Emma.”

The sound of her name on his breath sent a shiver of wonder down her spine, rippling its way over every inch of flesh until they reached his ship and stepped aboard. Every fiber of his being seemed to relax the moment he was reunited with his ship, his hand lovingly gliding along the rails and wrapping themselves around the spokes of the wheel.

“Hello, love,” he murmured, softly. “It’s so bloody fantastic to have you back in my loving arms.”

“You do know she’s just a ship, right,” Emma teased on a small giggle, earning her a scandalized look.

“She’s not just a ship,” he insisted. “She’s all I had after my brother died. Being separated from her, my one last love, has been…” He trailed off, shaking himself and wrapping his arms around Emma with a chagrined smile on his lips. “Forgive me, Swan. It’s just been an age since I’ve seen the old girl. I’ve missed all she represents. The freedom.” His arms tightened and his expression shifted once more. “But it’s bad form to neglect one’s guest, and a woman as beautiful and wondrous as you deserves my full and prompt attention.”

Emma’s hands slid up his waistcoat, her fingers curling through his chest hair before finding their way around his neck. “I believe a nightcap was promised?”

“Aye, love,” he breathed. “Let’s see what sort of spirits your dream has provided.”

Assisting her down the hatch that led to the captain’s quarters, Emma cursed the tangled mass of skirts threatening her descent until they finally managed to trip her up, sending her flying. Fortunately, Killian managed to catch her. Hands braced at his shoulders, his grip splayed at her waist and back, their breaths mingling between them while their eyes flicked back and forth between one another’s until both pairs settled on the other’s mouth.

“To hell with the nightcap,” Emma muttered.

Their teeth clicked together from the ferocity of the moment, with sloppy, uncoordinated nips and flicks of tongue as they both fought to rid the other of their garments. Emma sighed in euphoric relief when the damned corset was finally ripped off her body, causing a growl to release from deep within Killian’s chest. He hoisted her up by the backs of her thighs and she wasted no time wrapping her legs over his hips. Not even waiting until they reached his bunk, his mouth latched onto her breast, his teeth and tongue lavishing sweet anguish over her nipple.

When he deposited her onto the soft mattress a chuckle rumbled up his chest. “I don’t seem to remember my bed being this… accommodating for two.” His brow and lip were arched in matching fashion, teasing her for the modification she’d clearly made to the dreamscape as he stripped off the last remaining garment between them before climbing onto the bed and hovering over her prone form. “Can’t say as I mind, though.”

He kissed her again, deep and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. They both knew better, though. All too soon the dream would end, and for all either of them knew this might be the last time they ever met in the dreamscape that was becoming more real to Emma with each passing moment. It wasn’t, though, and she didn’t want to waste a second of her slumber.

Canting her hips up into his, they both groaned at the feel of her center sliding over his hardened cock, as velvety and firm as she remembered.

“Tell me you want this,” he pleaded. Waiting for her assurance even as he lined himself up at her entrance.

“I want this,” she told him. “I want you.”

Her breath left her when he pushed his way in, the burn and stretch of his sizable cock everything she’d imagined and so much more. It took a few tender thrusts before he managed to bury himself to the hilt, sinking into her until every last inch of him was fully encased in her tight heat. Hitching her legs up to wrap around his hips, Killian began a steady pace, increasing in speed and intensity until he found the spot that made Emma’s eyes roll back and back arch off the bed.

“So bloody beautiful,” he praised on panted breaths. “I can’t wait to see you come. Come for me, Swan. Come on my cock. Let me see how glorious you are when you fall.”

Emma wasn’t sure if it was his words, or the way his hair had fallen over his eyes which were now clamped shut in pained concentration as he tried to stall his own release until she found hers, or the way he expertly worked her body, seeming to know exactly how to make her reach that peak of desperate ecstacy in a way no lover ever had before. An ecstasy that was nearly ruined when a treacherous little voice sounded off in her head, nearly drowned out by the litany of sounds accompanying her orgasm. Nearly, but not completely. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Not when Killian followed her over the edge a moment later, coming in hot spurts that splashed her walls while his features displayed the most erotic expression she’d ever seen, almost making her come again.

Collapsing together, a heap of sweaty, panting, thoroughly satisfied limbs jumbled together, they both softly smiled at one another when their eyes finally opened and met.

“That was…”

“Mhmm.”

“Bloody hell.”

“And hot damn.”

Attempting to maneuver them into a more comfortable configuration, the brief loss of Killian’s body heat had Emma shivering against the cold that had seeped into his cabin.

“Are you cold, love?”

“Just a little.”

The whimper that escaped her when he left the bed turned into a whine when he coaxed her up into a seated position.

“Here, Swan. Put this on.”

Emma slid her arms into the billowy softness of Killian’s shirt as he helped slide it over her head then nestled back on the mattress, beckoning him to join her. Wrapped in one another’s arms once more, the bliss of their activities began to ebb away as they both silently recognized how short their time together was. Emma could almost feel the vestiges of the dream giving away at the corners of her subconscious, the pull of wakefulness looming just beyond the intimacy of the captain’s quarters.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and Emma chided herself. It wasn’t like any of this was actually real. He was in her head. A fantasy she’d concocted in her dreams. That voice had been right. The only reason he knew how to please her so well, how to touch her and make love to her like no one else was because she’d made him up in her own mind. He wasn’t real. This wasn’t real, so there was no use crying over it ending.

“You still think I’m a figment of your imagination, don’t you?” he questioned softly, breaking the tension that had charged the atmosphere.

“How could you not be,” Emma sniffed. “You said I could make you real, but when I wake up you’ll be gone. I’ll be back in my own bed, alone.” Anger for allowing herself to open up and actually feel something for a man totally unattainable forced Emma to sit up once more, wrenching herself from Killian’s embrace. “I should go. This was stupid. You’re nothing more than a subconscious need for me to let off some steam.” Try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to move off the edge of the bed, so when Killian gently took her hand in his and pleaded with her to stay, she laid back down and nuzzled into his chest.

“We’ll find each other again, Emma. I promise you that,” he murmured against her forehead where his lips rested. “You’ll see. Now that we have each other’s name, it’ll be easier. We can find a way to make me real again.”

“Again?” She tilted her head back so she could see his face, but it was already beginning to dissolve with the crumbling dreamscape around her. “What do you mean, again?”

Wakefulness came before he could answer. Morning light filtered into her room, illuminating the barren space beside her and causing a sob to catch in the back of her throat. Reaching out to slide her hand over the cold sheet she startled at the fabric covering her arm. The sheer, smoke like linen of Killian’s shirt still clung to her body and filled her sinuses with his scent of salt and leather and spice. Somehow, like the mask, his shirt had transcended the dreamscape and entered her reality, becoming tangible. Becoming real. And if a mask and shirt could do that…

Maybe she could make Killian real, too.

Part Three 

[ilooklikeaburntchickenugget]

Tour Mom: Chapter 1

Quick A/N: I write fanfic on Wattpad pretty frequently, but I’ve decided to start it on Tumblr too. This page will primarily be MCR fanfic, which I’ve actually never written before so, we’ll see how this goes. Also, this fic takes place during the Black Parade era.

Warnings: None, except swearing if that counts.

Premise of series: fem!Reader x Gerard, basically following the relationship. But it’s a lot like the MCR x fem!Reader.

Word count: 1799

Gerard Way. Front man of the iconic 2000s rock band, My Chemical Romance. Known by many as one of the creators of the new era of rock, consisting of emo and punk themes. Having a unique voice with even uniquer songs and sounds paved the path for him to become a household names, in homes who had good taste in music. To you, he was your best friend of going on a decade, and boyfriend for half of those years.

Mikey Way. Bassist and shy guy within the band. Until you got to know him, then he became a chatter box. He could go on for hours and hours about whatever he thought of. His thoughts were basic, yet some were intriguing and could actually spark a decent conversation. Also, he was basically your brother. Your relationship with Gerard only grew that bond.

Ray Toro. Lead guitarist and the soft, nice guy of the band. Also, your best friend while touring. Ray was one of the kindest people you had ever met, he would give up all he had for the people he cared about. His hair was also great, which automatically made his better. He was, to be honest, the only other completely stable and mature individual beside you, and even then sometimes none of you could act like the civil adults you legally were. You and he would also secretly watch Food Network together.

Frank Iero. The absolute most chaotic, most childish, and most loveable individual. Guitarist for MCR, you and Frank got along very well. Usually he was busy eating something or making some dark jokes, either way he used his time in the most Frank way possible. He was secretly one of the sweetest people alive and breathing, always being able to lighten up someone’s day when it was needed most.

And then there was you. And Bob, but he was kinda irrelevant to be honest. He just kinda stayed in his lane, and you and him got along just fine. But back to you. You were technically not apart of the band, but behind the scenes you basically were. Most notably, you were Gerard’s girlfriend. But you were also the one that managed to keep the boys in line when you were away from home. You had to remind these full grown men to shower daily, to eat three meals, and to continue working on songs and not just sit and watch movies or TV all day. Without you, the tour would have been a mess behind the scenes.

“Mikey!” You called from the living room of the cramped bus.

“Yeah?” He called back from his bunk bed.

“Have you showered today?” You inquired. There was a pause which is all you needed to come to a conclusion. You sighed, “Go take a shower Mikey.” He lightly groaned, reluctantly rolling out from the mattress and walking to the even more cramped bathroom.

“Fine.” He grabbed a towel and new clothes, walking in and locking the door. Frank walked by, mouthing you a ‘thank you’. He was always big on hygiene, so were you, and so anytime you knew one of the boys had gone even a few hours past daily showering, you directed them to clean up. And they always did, reluctantly usually.

You were casually reading a book on the couch when Ray sat next to you, turning on the TV. So of course, you joined him. About 15 minutes later, after investing in one of the various cable channels you could find, you looked up to see Gerard staring you two down.

Initially, he was extremely jealous of the relationship you and Ray had. He was worried that you and Ray were more than just friends, which of course you weren’t. But, you and he had reassured your boyfriend that it was no more than just a close friendship. “Are you jealous again, Gee?” You pouted, almost making fun of him. Ray smirked. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not jealous as much as I am worried.” Gerard now came up to you two, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you.

“Worried about what?” You looked up at him.

“That you two will run off into the sunset or some fucking fairytale shit like that.” Now it was time for you to roll your eyes.

“You’re very melodramatic sometimes, Gerard.” You told him, “We’ve been dating for five years and you still have suspicion that I’m going to run off with one of your friends.” Gerard was always extremely laid back. That was unless it was on the topic of you. Then he was protective and extremely alert. 

You two were both very independent people, and your relationship reflected that. You two were never touchy feely, or too close, or too protective. Your romance  functioned much like a friendship, which you both preferred. “You know I’ll always love you, Gee. And only you.” You lightly smiled up at him, and he sighed giving in.

“I love you too.” He got up, walking back to his bunk where you knew he would probably work on some more sketched for the various comic works he had going.

Mikey finally reemerged from his shower in new clothes, heading to the small mini fridge and grabbing some carrots. “You eat all the damn food Mikey,” Frank complained from his bunk.

“I’m hungry.” He whined, taking a bite from one of the mini orange ones.

“I wish I had Mikey’s metabolism,” You began, “Eat whatever the hell you want and not gain an ounce.” “I know right,” Ray added on, “That would be nice.”

“What’re we talking about?” Gerard shouted from his bed.

“Mikey’s metabolism. And him stealing all the food.” Frank replied.

“Oh yeah, Mikey does have a great metabolism.”

“Speaking of, what do you guys want for dinner?” You asked, “I’m texting Brian right now.” Brian, as in the manager of course.

“Burgers.” Mikey and Gerard said at the same time. You looked at Ray for his opinion. “I’m good with that.” “So am I!” Frank called out.

“Me too.” Bob finally spoke up.

“So you’re not dead?” Frank responded, looking over to his bunk. You snorted.

“Alright, I’ll let him know so we can stop somewhere.” After shooting a quick text you got up heading to your own bunk to find yet another book, or graphic novel to read. Yours was right under Gerard’s, because that only made sense.

“What’cha doin?” Gerard poked his head down to see you. You rolled your eyes knowing he would pester you just to annoy you.

“You’re a pain in my ass.” You smiled at him, grabbing one of the Watchmen comics Gerard had generously lead to you, after nearly forcing you to finally read it.

You and Gerard actually met in a comic book store, you working there when you two were in college. A friendship sparked out of that, and later evolved to a romance. He scoffed as if in offense, resorting back to his top bunk. “If you’re going to be aggressive then I just won’t even try.”

“I’m not being aggressive,” You told him, “I’m being honest.” You could practically hear the eye roll from your boyfriend.

“Hey Mikey,” He had the audacity to bring his brother into it, “Am I a pain the the ass?” “Absolutely.” It took the man less than a second to answer, as if waiting to tell him, which let’s be honest, he probably was. You couldn’t help but give a soft chuckle, then giving a high five to Mikey as he walked past you to his own bed.

“Alright, the diner we’re stopping at is in about two hours you guys.” You said out loud, reading from the text Brian had sent you just a moment ago.

So for about an hour you all stayed relatively silent, shocking for all of you, except Bob. And sometimes Mikey, depending on his mood really. But for awhile you occasionally heard huffs and groans from above you. “Hey Gee?” You asked.

“Hm?” He responded.

“What’re you working on?” You heard him sigh.

“Concepts.” “Yeah, but what sort of concepts?”

“Just for a new comic.” “Lemme see.” You rose your hand up to take it, which he handed to you.

“These look great.” You complimented, skimming your fingers over the bright array of colors on his paper. “What’s the idea?” You asked.

“I’m thinking of the groups being called the Killjoys,” He began, going into a long shortened explanation.

“I love it.” You said and handed it back to him, “I think it’ll go a long way.” “Thanks.” He said and presumably continued.

Another hour of reading and light conversation passed before you finally reached one of the various road side diners you all ate at. Brian had ordered ahead, so everyone just ran in to grab their order, him of course paying. No time could be wasted on the road.

So there, the six of you sat on the couches in the tightly cramped bus, eating out of plastic containers. Gerard reached over, ripping off a piece of one of your chicken tenders, and dunking it in the ranch you got. You immediately fought back taking a bite of his burger and placing it right back.

“I can’t fucking wail ‘till we’re in a hotel.” Frank said out of the blue. Everyone nodded and hummed agreeing, too busy with their food to talk back.

“When’re we in one next?” You asked. It was rare when you were ever in one, and usually after extended periods of time and when shows were spaced out longer than one to two days you got that luxury.

“4 shows, so 6 days.”

“Finally.” Mikey almost murmured.

“Now Gerard can fuck Y/N senseless in peace and quiet.” Franks smirked. You chocked on your food as Gerard confidently nodded.

“Hell yeah.” You slapped his arm.

“Don’t deny it Y/N,” Frank said again, “It’s bound to happen.” You rolled your eyes.

“You’re absurd.” You got up to throw away your now empty food container, going to wash your hands briefly, and climbing in bed as the guys cleaned up their own food.

It was already late, and despite the even later curfews everyone had, most of the last hours of the night were all spent in your personal cubbies doing whatever you all pleased.

“Goodnight, babe.” You heard Gerard above you.

“Night, Gee.” You smiled.

“Goodnight, baby.” You heard Frank yell from his own cubby which prompted a lot of soft chuckling and laughter.

“Love you too, Frank.” You responded.

“Not even an ‘I love you’ to your actual boyfriend?” Gerard poked his head down. You rolled your eyes, giving him a peck on the lips despite how his face was upside down.

“I love you.”

[25yearsofcrying]

Julie and The Phantoms

Summary: Trying my own hand at JATP novelization, using the show rather than the novel or the scripts. I’m sure it’s been done before but there’s never enough Julie and the Phantoms, right? If nothing else, I have an excuse to rewatch every single scene of the show all over again.

CHAPTER 3: till our stars collided

Julie

Sitting at the kitchen table, I try to focus on homework. With no more music program in my future, I have no choice but to make school my priority. Maybe I could be a teacher one day. English, perhaps? Definitely not math. No option sounds pleasant.

I can’t stop thinking about the disappointment in Mrs. Harrison face and even less about that in Flynn’s. I don’t even want to imagine Dad’s expression when I tell him. I’ll have to tell him. He has always been so supportive that I know it’ll be devastating for him and I want to delay that moment I see his face crumple. I am not worried about him being upset with me, I am worried about him being sad.

Just as I am thinking about it more than my homework, I hear Dad come down the stairs. “Oh, good, you’re home!” he says and goes on before I can react: “I was just about to go watch your brother’s game. I’ve had photo shoots all day, didn’t even get a chance to eat.” He stops at the fridge but then abandons that trajectory to come sit next to me. “But--- I got a phone call today.”

My heart sinks. That much for telling him later. Hopefully, going to my younger brother Carlos’ game will remind him that he still has one child to be proud of. “Yeah, I figured as much,” I say with a sigh.

But Dad surprises me by not saying anything about the music program. “Yeah. Well, it was my Realtor friend.”

“Oh, that.”

We’ve been talking about selling the house. Both Carlos and I grew up here, so it would be a huge change, but staying here has been painful. For me, especially. Everything in the house reminds me of Mom. Selling has been our tia’s idea. She thinks that we need a fresh start to help us move on and perhaps she is right.

“Yeah, and she says if we are serious about selling the house, then she wants me to take some pictures for the website.” Dad is a professional photographer. In L.A., that job keeps him busy. “Which means we have to do a lot of cleaning and get rid of some stuff. And maybe you can… tackle Mom’s studio? You are the expert.”  The studio is the main source of what haunts me. I’ve spent so many hours there as a child, but I haven’t been able to set a foot in since Mom passed. It’s a separate building behind the house, which makes avoiding it easy, but I am always aware it’s there. It’s still filled with all of Mom’s stuff, all her instruments and music-related memorabilia. Most of our history. “You know, your brother an I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

I take a shaky breath.

Dad hurries to reassure me: “It’s okay, honey. If you’re not ready, I---”

But I need to do something. If the fiasco at school today taught me anything, it’s that I need to move on. “No, it’s alright,” I say and offer Dad a crooked smile. “Maybe I’ll try tonight.”

Dad nods and gives me an encouraging nod. “Don’t forget the loft,” he adds before getting up. “You know, those old instruments that were there when we moved in? They need a new home.”

“Mom would like that.”

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It takes me a few moments of hesitation, but I make it through the double door of the studio. It looks eerily like the last time I’ve been here. Dad has covered the piano with a white sheet so it looks even more ghostly in here and he’s been watering the plants so they’ve grown. Other than that, it’s still the bright same space. The fold out couch, the instruments, the chairs hanging from the ceiling.

I walk around. What is worse, the traces of Mom in every corner or her absence? She should be here and I feel closer to her than ever since her death, but it hurts almost as badly as on the day she died.

Pulling the sheet off the piano helps a little. I take a note of sheet music on top of it, but I can’t bring myself to examine it closer. I am not ready yet to see her last piece of music.

Instead, I head up to the loft. The stuff stored there are from before we’ve moved in and none of them carry memories for me. They should be easier to go through than anything on the ground level. It’s a strange mixture of things. Bags and backpacks, instruments and boxes. I notice drumsticks peeking from a box and I glance in and my gaze lands on a CD. The cover looks homemade and for a moment I think it might be a leftover from one of Mom’s old bands, but I don’t recognize anything about it.

And yet it speaks to me.

I pull it out and take it down to the CD player. I turn it on and take a seat on the couch.

Rock music begins to play.

I’ve never heard this song, but I feel it. I am nodding along, even catch myself smiling. The guitars, the drums, it’s pretty great.

A strange, creepy noise interrupts the music. It’s not coming from the CD player but from everywhere. It’s deafening.

A flash of light follows.

And then, to the sound of me gasping, three guys pop into existence. Right in front of me. They materialize from the thin air.

“How did we get back here?” one of them asks.

I scream.

The guys scream, too. There’s three of them, a brown-haired one in a muscle t-shirt, a dark-haired one in a classic rock getup, and a tall blond one in a pink hoodie.

I don’t notice much more than that, because I’m getting off the couch and running out the door and I’m still screaming.

Outside, I almost collide with Dad and Carlos, both of them startled to witness me freak out.

“Whoa! Slow down,” says Dad, lifting his hands defensively. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I have!”

Because that’s the only reasonable explanation. If you consider seeing ghosts reasonable. My brother seems pleased with this, but my heart is pounding like crazy and all I shout is: “Run!”

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In the safety of my room, I consider texting Flynn. An emergency text. Before I can send one, however, there is a knock on my door and Dad appears in the doorway. “Hey!” he says carefully. “I just want to make sure you are okay.”

I give him a hesitant look. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I know it’s crazy, but I know what I saw. There is no way to explain the phenomenon away. It’s not like I can pretend those three teenagers were a trick of the light. They spoke!

“Honey, of course I do,” Dad says and he is full of understanding. I have to admit one thing: Ray Molina is a supportive father and always has been. That’s why disappointing him always hurts. “Mija, I see your mom all the time.”

“This isn’t like that.” I wish it was my Mom I’ve seen. I wouldn’t be screaming then. I wouldn’t be running away.

“I know, it’s different for all of us.”

He doesn’t get it. Dad might be supportive, but he’s come equipped with his own conclusion. “Dad, you’re not listening to me. I saw something out there.” The frustration is audible in my voice.

“All right. Ok.” He is confused but nodding along. “Ok. Tell me what you saw. It’s just you and me here.”

I sigh. “You sound just like Dr. Turner.” For almost the entire year since Mom’s death, I’ve been seeing a therapist. It has been helpful, I can’t argue with that, but this is not a problem for that kind of a professional. An exorcist, maybe.

But Dad says: “Well, maybe seeing Dr. Turner again isn’t such a bad idea…”

“Dad!” It’s clear he is not going to be helpful in this matter. “Can we just drop it?”

He gives me a concerned look but nods. “Alright. Dropped.” He accompanies it with a gesture of drawing a line under the matter. “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

I wait for him to leave my room before I consider my next steps. I am on my own.

The only shield and weapon I have available hangs on my wall. My cross. It’s just the size for my hand and I grab it. Time to face my fears.