#the text for the last two sections is missing from the website

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter X. Seventh Epoch. — The Credit.

1. — Origin and Development of the Idea of Credit

The point of departure of credit is money.

We have seen in chapter II how by a combination of happy circumstances, the value of gold and silver having been the first to be constituted, money became the symbol of all dubious and fluctuating values; that is to say, those not socially constituted or not officially established. It was there demonstrated how, if the value of all products were once determined and rendered highly exchangeable, acceptable, in a word, like money, in all payments, society would by that single fact arrive at the highest degree of economic development of which it is capable from the commercial point of view. Social economy would no longer be then, as it is today, in relation to exchange, in a state of simple formation; it would be in a state of perfection. Production would not be definitely organised, but exchange and circulation would, and it would suffice for the worker to produce, to produce incessantly, either in reducing his costs or in dividing his labour and discovering better processes, inventing new objects of consumption, opposing his rivals or resisting their attacks, for acquiring wealth and assuring his well being.

In the same chapter, we have pointed out the lack of intelligence of socialists in regard to money; and we have shown in going back, to the origin of this contrivance, that what we had to repress in the precious metals is not the use, but the privilege.

Indeed, in all possible societies, even communistic, there is need for a measure of exchange, otherwise either the right of the producer, or that of the consumer, is affected. Until values are generally constituted by some method of association, there is need that one certain product, selected from among all others, whose value seems to be the most authentic, the best defined, the least alterable, and which combines with this advantage durability and portability, be taken for the symbol, that is to say, both for the instrument of circulation and the standard of other values.

It is, then, inevitable that this truly privileged product should become the object of all the ambitions, the paradise in perspective of the worker, the palladium of monopoly; that, notwithstanding all warnings, this precious talisman should circulate from hand to hand, concealed from a jealous authority; that the greater part of the precious metals, serving as specie, should be thus diverted from their real use and become, in the form of money, idle capital, wealth outside of consumption; that, in this capacity as instrument of exchange, gold should be taken in its turn for an object of speculation and serve as the basis of a great commerce; that, finally, protected by public opinion, loaded with public favour, it should obtain power, and by the same stroke destroy the social fabric! The means of destroying this formidable force does not lie in the destruction of the medium — I almost said the depository; it is in generalising its principle. All these propositions are admitted as well demonstrated, and as strictly linked together, as the theorems of geometry.

Gold and silver, that is to say, the merchandise whose value was first constituted, being therefore taken as the standard of other values and as universal instruments of exchange, all commerce, all consumption, all production are dependent on them. Gold and silver, precisely because they have acquired in the highest degree the character of sociality and of justice, have become synonyms of power, of royalty, almost of divinity.

Gold and silver represent commercial life, intelligence and virtue. A chest full of specie is an arch saint, a magic urn that brings wealth, pleasure and glory to those who have the power to draw those things from it. If all the products of labour had the same exchange value as money, all the workers would enjoy the same advantages as the holders of money: everyone would have, in his ability to produce, an inexhaustible source of wealth. But the religion of money cannot be abolished, or, to better express it, the general constitution of values cannot function except by an effort of reason and of justice; until then it is inevitable that, as in polite society, the possession of money is a sure sign of wealth, the absence of money is an almost certain sign of poverty. Money being, then, the only value that bears the stamp of society, the only merchandise standard that is current in commerce, money is, according to the general view, the idol of the human species. The imagination attributing to the metal that which is the effect of the collective thought toward the metal, every one, instead of seeking well being at its true source, — that is to say, in the socialisation of all values, in the continuous creation of new monetary figures — busies himself exclusively in acquiring money, money, always money.

It was to respond to this universal demand for money, which was really but a demand for subsistence, a demand for exchange and for output, that, instead of aiming directly at the mark, a stop was made at the first term of the series, and, instead of making successively of each product a new money, the one thought was to multiply metallic money as much as possible, first by perfecting the process of its manufacture, then, by the facility of its emission, and finally by fictions. Obviously it was to mistake the principle of wealth, the character of money, the object of labour and the condition of exchange; it was a retrogression in civilisation to reconstitute value in the monarchical regime that was already beginning to change. Such is the mother idea which gave birth to the institutions of credit; and such is the fundamental prejudice, which error we need no longer demonstrate, which antagonises in their very conceptions all these institutions.

But, as we have often said, humanity, even when it yields to an imperfect idea, is not mistaken in its views. However, one sees, strange to say, that, in proceeding to the organisation of wealth by a retreat, it has operated as well, as usefully, as infallibly as possible, considering the condition of its evolutionary existence. The retrogressive organisation of credit as well as previous manifestations of economics, at the same time that it gave to industry new scope, had caused, it is true, an aggravation of poverty; but finally the social question appeared in a new light and the contradictions, better known today, give the hope of an immediate and complete solution.

Thus the ulterior object, hitherto unperceived, of credit is to constitute, with the aid and on the prototype of money, all the values still fluctuating whose immediate and avowed end is to furnish to that combination the supreme condition of order in society and of well being among the workers, by a still greater diffusion of metallic value. Money, the promoters of this new idea tell us, money is wealth; if then we can provide everybody with money, plenty of money, all will be rich: and it is by virtue of this syllogism that institutions of credit have developed everywhere.

But it is clear that, to the extent that the ulterior object of credit presents a logical, luminous and fruitful idea, conforms, in a word, to the law of progressive organisation, its immediate end, alone sought, alone desired, is full of illusion and, by its tendency toward the status quo, of perils. Since money as well as other merchandise is subject to the law of proportionality, if its quantity increases and if at the same time other products do not increase in proportion, money loses it value, and nothing, in the last analysis, is added to the social wealth; if, on the contrary, with specie production increasing everywhere, population following at the same rate, there is still no change in the respective position of the producers, in both cases, the solution required does not advance a single step. A priori, then, it is not true that the organisation of credit, in the terms in which it is proposed, contains the solution of the social problem.

After having related the development of and the reason for the existence of credit, we have to justify its appearance, that is to say, the rank to which it should be assigned in the category of science. It is here above all that we have to point out the lack of profundity and the incoherence of political economy.

Credit is at once the result and the contradiction of the theory of markets, since the last word, as we have seen, is the absolute freedom of trade.

I have said from the first that credit is the consequence of the theory of markets, and as such already contradictory.

At this point in this history of society, both real and fanciful, we have seen all the processes of organisation and the means of equilibrium tumble one upon the other and reproduce constantly, more arrogantly and more murderously than before, the antinomy of value. Arriving at the sixth phase of its evolution, social genius, obedient to the movement of expansion that pushes it, seeks abroad, in foreign commerce, the market, that is to say, the counterpoise which it lacks. Presently we shall see it, deceived in its hope, seek this counterpoise, this output, this guarantee of exchange that it must have at any price in domestic commerce, at home. By credit, society falls back in a manner on itself: it seems to have understood that production and consumption are for it identical and inadequate things; it is in itself, and not by indefinite ejaculations, that it ought to find the equilibrium.

[...]

Credit is the canonisation of money, the declaration of its royalty over all products whatsoever. In consequence, credit is the most formal denial of free trade, a flagrant justification on the part of the economists, of the balance of trade. Let the economists learn, then, to generalise their ideas, and let them tell us why, if it is immaterial for one nation to pay for the goods which it buys with money or with its own products, it always has need of money? How can it be that a nation which works, exhausts itself? Why is there always a demand from it for the only product that it does not consume, that is to say, money? How all the subtleties conceived up to this day for supplying the lack of money, such as bills of exchange, bank paper, paper money, do nothing but interpret and make this need more evident?

In truth, the free trade fanaticism, which today distinguishes the sect of economists, is not understandable, aside from the extraordinary efforts by which it tries to propagate the commerce of money and to multiply credit institutions

What then, once more, is credit? It is, answers the theory, a release of engaged value, which permits the making of this same value, which before was sluggish, circulable; or, to speak a language more simple: credit is the advance made by a capitalist, against a deposit of values of difficult exchange, of the merchandise the most susceptible of being exchanged, in consequence the most precious of all money, money which holds in suspense all exchangeable values, and without which they would themselves be struck down by the interdiction; money which measures, dominates and subordinates all other products; money with which alone one discharges one’s debts and frees oneself from one’s obligations; money which assures nations, as well as individuals, well being and independence; money, finally, that not only is power, but liberty, equality, property, everything.

This is what the human species, by an unanimous consent, has understood; that which the economists know better than anyone, but what they never have ceased combating with a comical stubbornness, to sustain I know not what fantasy of liberalism in contradiction to their most loudly confessed principles. Credit was invented to assist labour, to bring into the hands of the worker the instrument that destroys him, money: and they proceed from there to maintain that, among manufacturing nations, the advantage of money in exchange is nothing; but that it is insignificant in balancing their accounts in merchandise or specie: that it is low prices alone that they have to consider!

But if it is true that, in international commerce, the precious metals have lost their preponderance, this means that, in international commerce, all values have reached the same degree of determination, and like money, are equally acceptable; in other words, that the law of exchange is found, and labour is organised, among the various nations. Then, let them formulate this law; let them explain that organisation, and, instead of talking of credit and forging new chains for the labouring class, let them teach, by an application of the principle of international equilibrium, all the manufacturers who ruin themselves because they are not exchanging, teach those workers, who die of hunger because they have no work, how their products, how the work of their hands are values which they can use for their consumption, as well as if they were bank-bills or money. What! this principle which, following the economists, rules the trade of nations, is inapplicable to private industry! How is this? Why? Some reasons, some proofs, in the name of God.

Contradiction in the idea itself of credit, contradiction in the project of organizing credit, contradiction between the theory of credit and that of free trade: is this all for which we have to reproach the economists?

To the thought of organizing credit, the economists add another idea no less illogical. It is that of making the State organizer and prince of credit. “It is for the State,” said the celebrated John Law, before the creation of national workshops and of the republicanization of industry, “it is for the State to give credit and not to receive it.” Superb maxim, made to please all those who revolt against financial feudalism, and who would replace it by the omnipotence of government; but it is an equivocal maxim, interpreted in opposite senses by two kinds of persons; on one side the politicians of the public treasury and of the budget, who resort to any means to bring the people’s money into the coffers of the State, because they alone can do so; on the other side, the partisans of initiative—I almost said of governmental confiscation—by which the community alone can profit.

But science does not inquire what pleases, it seeks what is possible; and all our feelings against bankers, our absolutist and communist tendencies, cannot prevail in its eyes upon the inmost reason of things. Now the idea of deriving all credit from the State, and consequently all guaranties, can be expressed in the following question:

The State, an unproductive organism, an entity without property and without capital, cannot offer anything as security for a mortgage except its budget; always a borrower, always bankrupt, always in debt, it cannot involve itself, without involving everyone with it. In consequence, the lenders themselves, outside of it, finally developed spontaneously all the institutions of credit. The State, by its resources its guaranty, its initiative, the solidarity that it imposes, can it become the universal partner, the author of credit? And if it could, would society tolerate it?

If this question were answered in the affirmative, it would follow that the State possesses the means to answer the prayer of society manifested by credit, when, renouncing its utopia of enfranchising the proletariat by the freedom of trade, and turning suddenly around, it seeks to re-establish the equilibrium between production and consumption by a return of capital to the laborer who has produced it. The State in constituting credit would have obtained the equivalent of the constitution of values; the economic problem would be settled, labor freed, poverty diminished.

The proposition to make the State at once source and distributor of credit, notwithstanding its despotico-communistic tendency, is, therefore, of supreme importance, and merits all our attention.

To treat it, not to the extent that it merits (because at the point where we have arrived, the economic questions have no limit). but with profundity and generality, which alone can supply all the details, we shall divide it into two periods: one, which includes all the past of the State relatively to credit; the other, which will have for its object to determine what the theory of credit means, and in consequence what can be expected of an organization of credit, either by the State or by free capital.

If to appreciate the power of organization which it has pleased the economists, in recent times, to attribute to the State in the matter of credit after having refused to do so in the matter of industry, it sufficed to invoke precedents, our case against our adversaries would be simple, requiring only that instead of arguments we oppose them with what would affect them more—experience.

It is proved, we would tell them, by experience, that the State has no property, no capital, nothing, in a word, on which it can base its letters of credit. All that it possesses, in movable and immovable values, have long been pledged: the debts that it has contracted are over and above its assets, and consequently the nation pays in France over four billions interest on it. If, therefore, the State were to become the organizer of credit, the banker, it cannot become such with its own resources, but rather with the money of its customers; from which we must conclude that, in the system of the organization of credit by the State, by virtue of a certain imaginary or assumed solidarity, what belongs to the citizens belongs to the State, but not reciprocally; and that the governor of Louis XV was correct in saying to that prince, in showing him his realm; “All this, sire, belongs to you.”

[...]

Not only is property a nullity in the State; with it production no longer exists. The State is unproductive; through it no industry is exercised whose anticipated benefits could give value and security to its bills. It is thereafter universally recognized that all that is produced by the State, whether in works of public utility, or in objects of domestic or personal consumption, costs three times as much as ~t is worth. In a word, the State, as the unproductive organ of the government, as producer, lives only on subventions. How, by what magic virtue, by what unheard of transformation, can it become all at once the dispenser of capital, since it does not have a single centime? How could the State, absolutely unproductive, to whom, accordingly, savings arc essentially antipathetic, become the national banker, the universal partner?

2. — Development of credit institutions

3. — Credit's falsehoods and contradictions

[applyfreephoneusa]

How to Get a Free Government Phone in 2025 – Step-by-Step Guide That Works

Life today runs through your phone: job searches, doctor appointments, school updates, and emergency calls. If you’re struggling to afford one, free government phones exist to keep you connected. This guide explains exactly how to get yours in 2025 – no confusing jargon, just clear steps from start to finish.

Why Free Government Phones Exist

Imagine being unable to call 911 during an emergency, missing a job interview because you couldn’t receive emails, or losing touch with family. That’s the reality for millions of low-income Americans. These programs began decades ago to ensure everyone has access to essential communication. They’re funded through small fees on phone bills – not taxpayer dollars – and serve as a true lifeline for seniors, veterans, families, and people between jobs. You’re not taking a handout; you’re using a service designed for you.

Programs Offering Free Phones in 2025

Two programs exist, but only one reliably offers free phones right now:

Lifeline

The core program providing free smartphones and monthly service.

Includes unlimited talk, text, and 4.5GB–25GB of data (varies by state).

Covers both wireless service and home internet discounts in some cases.

Affordable Connectivity Program (ACP)

Important Update: As of June 2025, the ACP is paused due to lack of congressional funding.

While it previously offered extra internet discounts, it currently does not provide free phones.

Focus your energy on Lifeline – it’s fully operational and accepting applications.

Who Qualifies for a Free Phone? (2025 Rules)

You likely qualify if anyone in your household participates in federal assistance programs or meets income limits. Let’s break it down:

Qualifying Through Programs (Simplest Path): If you or someone in your home receives benefits like:

Medicaid

SNAP (Food Stamps)

SSI (Supplemental Security Income)

Section 8 Housing or Federal Public Housing Assistance

Veterans Pension or Survivors Pension Benefits ...you automatically meet eligibility requirements. Your benefit letter is your golden ticket.

Qualifying Through Income: If your household income is at or below 135% of the Federal Poverty Guidelines, you qualify. Here’s what that looked like for 2025:

1 person: $15,650 per year or less

2 people: $21,150 per year or less

3 people: $26,650 per year or less

Each additional person: Add $5,500

(Alaska and Hawaii have slightly higher limits – check your state’s exact figures.)

Key Rules to Remember:

One phone per household: Everyone shares one Lifeline benefit.

Active use required: Make at least one call/text every 30 days.

Yearly renewal: You must confirm your eligibility annually.

Documents You’ll Need to Apply

Gather these before starting your application to avoid delays:

Proof of Identity:

Driver’s license, state ID, passport, or birth certificate.

Proof of Eligibility:

Program-based: A current benefit award letter (dated within the last 12 months).

Income-based: Recent tax returns, three consecutive pay stubs, or a Social Security benefits statement.

Proof of Address:

Utility bill, lease agreement, mortgage statement, or official government mail.

Stuck?

Visit your local library: Staff often help with scanning/photocopying documents.

Contact community centers: Many offer free assistance gathering paperwork.

Your Step-by-Step Application Guide

Applying takes 20-45 minutes. Follow these steps:

Find a Reputable Provider:

Start at the official Lifeline website to search providers by zip code.

Major nationwide providers include Assurance Wireless, SafeLink, and Q Link Wireless.

If you prefer guided help, you can also apply for a free government phone through this trusted provider.

Apply Online (Fastest & Easiest):

Go directly to your chosen provider’s website.

Fill out the digital form – you’ll need your full name, address, date of birth, and last 4 digits of your SSN.

Upload photos or scans of your documents right there on the site.

Apply by Mail (If No Internet):

Download and print the Lifeline application form.

Make copies of your documents (never send originals!).

Mail everything to: Lifeline Support Center PO Box 1000 Horseheads, NY 14845

Phone Application (Limited Providers):

Call providers like Assurance Wireless at 1-888-898-4888 to apply verbally.

Wait for Approval & Choose Your Phone:

Most online apps get approved within 24-72 hours. Mail apps take 1-2 weeks.

Once approved, you’ll select your free phone. Some providers let you upgrade for $10-$50.

What Kind of Phone Will You Get?

Real talk: You’ll likely get a new Android smartphone – not a flip phone or refurbished device. Common models include:

TCL 20XE

Samsung Galaxy A03s

Nokia G300

Key features:

4G/5G connectivity

Decent cameras

Preloaded with essential apps (email, maps, contacts)

Can you get an iPhone?

Rare, but possible: Providers like AirTalk Wireless occasionally offer older iPhone models (e.g., iPhone SE, iPhone 7).

Usually requires a small co-pay ($30-$50) and depends on state availability.

Service includes:

Unlimited nationwide talk & text

4.5GB–25GB of monthly data (varies by state/provider)

Free hotspot capability

International calling to select countries

How Long the Whole Process Takes

Approval: 1–4 business days (online) / 7–14 days (mail).

Shipping: 3–7 business days via USPS or FedEx.

Total Timeline: 7–14 days from application to phone-in-hand.

Pro Tip: Save the provider’s customer service number. Call them if your status doesn’t update after 5 days.

How to Spot & Avoid Scams

Scammers prey on people seeking free phones. Protect yourself:

Never pay fees: Legit providers won’t ask for credit cards or upfront payments.

Beware "exclusive offers": Ignore texts/emails claiming you’ve "won" a free iPhone.

Check state availability: If a provider claims to serve your state, verify it on the official Lifeline website.

Guard your SSN: Only share the last 4 digits after you’ve verified the provider’s legitimacy.

Report fraud: Call the Lifeline Fraud Hotline at 1-855-4LL-SCAM (1-855-455-7226).

Where to Apply Safely in 2025

Only use these trusted sources:

Lifeline’s Official Site: The safest starting point.

Major Providers’ Websites:

Assurance Wireless

SafeLink Wireless

Q Link Wireless

StandUp Wireless

Community Partners:

Public libraries

Local nonprofits (e.g., United Way affiliates)

Tribal assistance offices

Don’t Wait – Your Connection Matters

Every day without a phone puts you at a disadvantage – missed job calls, inaccessible telehealth, or being unable to reach loved ones. The process is simpler than it looks: Confirm your eligibility, gather your papers, and apply. Within weeks, you could have a reliable smartphone with free monthly service.

Would you be ready to get started? Apply for a free government phone through this trusted provider or visit the official Lifeline website today. This isn’t charity – it’s a tool you’ve earned. Stay safe, stay connected, and take that first step now.

[manonamora-if]

May Check-In

This is a bit late, because I've been debugging the past two days.

So I bought Tropico 6 during the last Steam sale. If you haven't seen me posting for a while, blame by wish to be a benevolent dictator of a fake Caribbean island.

Onto the usual index:

Recap of last month’s progress

IF Events in the Next Month (I won't do this anymore)

Plan for the next month

Still long post under the break. If you want a mini version, head on over to itch.io as usual!

April Progress

From last month, what did we do:

Play more games: ✅

I started so good, finishing reviewing the SeedComp! entries, as well as the Revival Jam and had started on the Spring Thing... then I got distracted by the TALJ and Tropico... I also need to update @manonamora-if-reviews at some point... It's at least 100 reviews behind.

Finish the Code of Ch5✅ of Harcourt and edit the Ending Chapter ✅

YES! IT IS DONE! I have finally fixed those godamn doors in the maze that were giving me so much trouble. Also MelS has gotten my edits on all the Chapters/files (and was given extra comments because I also fixed some code in previous chapters). He is hard at work dying editing the missing text.

The only thing left for me is to: - add the maze visuals (map, book/letter formatting) - settle on a design for the final maze puzzle (need to so some research) - include the missing chapter/text (waiting for MelS)

Finish fixing The Roads Not Taken. Or An Eggcellent Preparation. Maybe the other parser too (it just needs a smidge of polish).

LOL... This is the shameful failure that is following me around, ringing that darn bell.

Should i give up on it? Maybe one day...

Complete the TALJ entry. ✅

I have been battling this one the whole morning trying to fix so many bugs. But I'm pretty happy about it. For one: it was actually tested by someone (not like last year). For two: it's actually an easy parser (like you can't lose!).

And the idea had been ringing in my head for so long, I had the prompt submitted to last SeedComp!.

But yeah, this had been happening for a while already. And even though it doesn't have the level of polish I had hopped (future me problem with updates), it is probably one of the better one I've made.

Anyway, play Lysidice and the Minotaur (I'll have an official post tomorrow). (and you can vote for it if you want...)

What else happened this month????

Well, the SeedComp! ended, so I had to deal with all the admin, and making the cool stickers for the different entries. That took quite a bit of time... but worth it! Some really cool entries this year, yet again!

Well, this is more of it's been done last month but released this month: Les lettres du Docteur Jeangille has been translated into English, for the Spring Thing (in the Main Garden, if you feel like voting for games). You can find the post there!

I've been also drafting some post-mortems, one for Jeangille and one for Lysidice. They should come out during the month, at some point.

:/ I have to update my website again now...

I wanted to do an entry in the Dialogue Jam, but my idea didn't pan out on time (too buggy for release). Or eer... cough cough... I had enough will power not to do it? Anyway, also I made the Really Bad IF Jam, which starts today!

What’s happening in May?

As mentioned at the start, I'm dropping this section from my check-in. First, it's buried deep in a wall of text, so no visibility (it should have been a separate post, oh well). If people actually check the events out, I'm sure it would be a miracle.

But mainly... a zine has popped up recently, specifically about IF called What's New in IF? (@if-whats-new), releasing weekly. Since it includes events, like the jams/comps/conferences I used to mention here (and it looks more sleek than a Tumblr post), I'll just leave them do all that hard work instead 😅

So yea... as long as the zine is happening, I'm out 😅 Well, I'll drop them links to my jams and stuff I see, because they seem to be looking for help in finding stuff.

The PLANtm for May

I'm playing Tropico, so I'm getting and will probably going to get less stuff done. Which is not a bad think. Breaks are important. Will I go on a break this month?

Probably should...

But if I don't, where's what I hope to do:

Play more games: On my juicy list I have: the Spring Thing, the newly released Dialogue Jam and TALJ, the Locus Jam and Really BAD IF is happening this month too (so more gameses!), and a few non-comp releases I've had my eye on.

Code Chapter 6/Endings: I need to wait for MelS for this, since he's editing my comments. I'll prob look for visuals for the puzzle in the meantime.

Fixing an older games. Instead of new, do something old.

Write the next Chapter/Scene of a WIP, because it would be good to actually do that. And make some actual progress at seeing stuff being done. (I want to write some Razac snippets....)

Let's have a boring month!

~

The 2024 To-Do List:

LOL, I've only done the website! :D

The hopefully maybe easy to handle To-Do:

fix the bugs in EDOC + overall the French version to match (waiting for Adventuron to get the French language)

fix the bugs of TRNT + find a way to add the missing pieces (giving up on the translation)

fixing the interface of LPM and the popups + check animal interactions

figure out the One-Button JavaScrip/jQuery issue...

edit the loading screens of the completed tiny games to include the program/format logo at least.

The 'Need a Bunch of Content to update but it's planned!' To-Do:

Update my website (bunch new title - also I don't think the logo clicky thing work...) + redo my itch page

Finish TTATEH (MelS dependent)

Finish Exquisite Cadaver (half-way mark by this summer - manif)

Finish P-Rix - Space Trucker (main path at least)

Update CRWL (it's been almost two years... I'm ashamed)

The Unlikely But it Would be Dope To-Do

Finish The Dinner as it was planned (and translate)

Finish In the Blink of an Eye as it was planned (and retranslate)

Finish The Rye in the Dark City

Fixing TTTT (at least fixing, maybe try adding some storylets)

And finally The 'It's impossible, but one can wish' TO-DO:

Remaster SPS IH (if I managed to start this after completing the rest... I'm going to eat a whole sheet cake).

Start the IFComp project (2025? Might end up being a ST?)

[goodpointsandbadpoints]

My takeaway of what this post is saying: Tumblr allows people to share fan thoughts with the fandom at large, while other features/platforms like dms and Discord decentralize these fan thoughts and reduces their reach.

I want to say that this observation raises a lot of interesting questions about how the Internet currently works, and how socializing online has changed in the last few years/decades! I do have three counterarguments though, to explore this idea. Picture me pulling out a whiteboard and talking out loud to myself.

Number one: The Root of the Issue

a decade ago people didn't have tumblr groups. people didn't even have dms. if you wanted to talk to anyone about anything you had to make a post, or send an ask (which more often than not would get published and thereby become a post in the end too)

The post points its bitter tone toward fans for choosing to use other channels of communication. But I noticed that this section kind of circles the infrastructure itself as the root issue behind the behavior change. The website changed (dms, groups) and people moved there. I think this is an important thing to remember when having "we used to __" conversations. What were the factors that led people to change their behavior? How can we talk about it without making it about character decline?

So, I'm not sure if the main issue is with Tumblr itself, or how social media is constructed these days, or with individual fans and the choices they're making. Maybe it's a mix of all three and just wants to scream into the void, which is understandable.

Number two: What Fans are Seeking

(*) so next time you think "I have a fandom thought but I have to find a small group of hyperspecifically like-minded people to share it with in private" remember all the freaks you could be missing out on meeting by keeping the tags dead.

Discord is a messaging platform that essentially functions as a huge group chat with the ability to divide conversation by topic. This allows people to have long back-and-forth conversations. This section (*) offers the Tumblr tagging system as a better alternative. However, from what I've seen, people currently find tag conversations extremely annoying because it fills the timeline with duplicate text. It's inefficient. It's hard to scan.

Many people like back-and-forth conversations! Especially when they're obsessed with something! And some platforms/features facilitate that better than others. It makes sense that people would pick up the more efficient tools for it.

(That being said, I agree that the "small groups of hyperspecifically like-minded people" definitely have their problems. But I think humans have always done this and will continue to do so. Discord and dms didn't cause it, they simply allow us to do it online.)

Number three: Evolution of Communication

now everyone fucks off to their discords or tumblr groups to discuss everything with a select few.

I like to think about how the evolution of technology changes our communication, especially long-distance. It kind of went like letters > telegraph > faster letters > radio > telephone > TV > internet (a gross simplification, but hopefully it illustrates what I'm trying to say). Each one is more efficient than the last, and society changes because of it. I agree that we sacrifice things with each change (e.g. fewer opportunities to practice patience and boredom, since we get info and entertainment so fast)! I could hypothetically say something like "Well, fifty years ago, people couldn't even have fandom online. They had to meet people in person! Now they just fuck off to their blogs instead of finding freaks in their communities."

(And if the counterargument to that is "But Tumblr has allowed people to make wonderful connections they wouldn't have made otherwise," then a counter-counterargument is "Maybe people feel like they're making even closer connections on Discord." Idk!)

Ultimately, people are trying to connect to one another.

Conclusion

The post has some "Kids these days" energy, and I get that. It's frustrating and honestly terrifying to see things change (esp things we love and enjoy, and things we feel worked better!). Things evolve outside of our control, and maybe it is getting worse, or better, or some other measure of value. But I think it could be helpful to meet that with some questions and curiosity.

I think a lot of people are forgetting that on tumblr fandom used to be practiced very differently. now everyone fucks off to their discords or tumblr groups to discuss everything with a select few, making tags be nearly only used for posting some finished fanworks or not at all

a decade ago people didn't have tumblr groups. people didn't even have dms. if you wanted to talk to anyone about anything you had to make a post, or send an ask (which more often than not would get published and thereby become a post in the end too)

so next time you think "I have a fandom thought but I have to find a small group of hyperspecifically like-minded people to share it with in private" remember all the freaks you could be missing out on meeting by keeping the tags dead. use tags, make friends. fuck discord.

[24worldnewsnet]

25705 CommentsRory McIlroy says he has "earned the right to do whatever I want to do" after skipping media interviews following his opening two rounds of what he called a "pretty average" US Open performance.The Masters champion spoke to the media for the first time since the tournament started after Saturday's four-over 74 pushed him back to 10 over par after three rounds.McIlroy said he hoped Sunday's final round will be a case of taking "four and a half hours and out of here" to put a disappointing week behind him.The 36-year-old has cut a frustrated figure throughout the tournament at Oakmont, only just making the halfway cut on Friday.And, after Saturday's round, he said making himself less available to some sections of the media is partly due to a leaked story surrounding his driver before last month's US PGA Championship.It emerged the United States Golf Association (USGA) instructed McIlroy to change the club just two days before the event after an equipment inspection deemed it 'non-conforming'. There was no suggestion that McIlroy had done anything wrong with regards to his driver and he is not contractually obliged to speak to the media at events."It's just frustration with you guys [some sections of the media]," the Northern Irishman said in his first post-round interview at a major since winning the Masters at Augusta in April."I have been totally available for the past number of years," McIlroy added. "That [driver issue] was a part of it but at Augusta I skipped you guys on Thursday. It's not out of the ordinary as I've done it before, but I am doing it a little more often. I feel like I've earned the right to do whatever I want to do."The Oakmont course has proved to be a challenge for the entire field and, although McIlroy has been happy with some aspects of his game, retaining focus has been an issue at times."The name of the game this week is staying patient and I've tried to do a good job of it out there, but it's just one of those golf courses where you can lose patience pretty quickly," he said."I have driven the ball as good for a long time, so that's a positive from this week. I was hoping to play better, but didn't."'A course where the tiniest mistakes get penalised a lot'McIlroy said he has felt "a little bit flat on the golf course" since his Masters triumph in April, which saw him become the sixth player to complete a career Grand Slam of winning all four majors.Naturally, he is keen to achieve further success, but knew from his slow start to Friday's second round that any chance of collecting a second major of the year this week was gone.With the shackles off a little, he produced a good finish to squeeze into the weekend action, but was unable to carry that into Saturday as he finished four over for the day.McIlroy acknowledged anything short of a top performance would be punished on the course."It's much easier when you're on the cut line when you don't really care if you're here for the weekend or not," he added of Friday's effort."I was thinking, 'do I want another two days here or not?', but it makes it easier to play when you're in that mindset."I've certainly experienced times when I haven't played the way I wanted to. I actually feel like I've played OK this week, but it's just the sort of golf course where the tiniest mistakes get penalised a lot and that's how it's felt."You've got to be on every single shot and if you miss a fairway, you're going to be scrambling for par. If you miss your landing spot by a couple of yards, these greens repel the ball into rough and it just makes things very tricky, so you've got to be on your game."Follow live text commentary of Sunday's final round from 18:00 BST on the BBC Sport website and app with radio commentary on BBC Sounds from 20:00.Related topicsGolfNorthern Ireland Sport

[cleaning-has-its-benefits]

back in march of last year, I decided to start writing a nice analysis. It was going to be divided in three parts, and these parts would have contained multiple posts, so I also was planning to write a nice index.

Im not goov at guessing how long a writting of mine will be, but little did I know what I was signing for!

nearly 30k words in, and Im still not done with the first part... this is already on the way to be the longest thing I've written! my record is 32k)

will I reach the 50k? you'll find out eventually! but I had to let my pain be known...

So if everything goes well, I'll publish that here on tumblr, or so was the plan! but yet again there's rumors of tumblr kicking the bucket yet again. Im not too worried about those, because how many times has that been said? but who knows, thirds time's the charm or so they say (or would it be like fifth times the charm in this case?) I was planning on leaving anyways by the end of this year, soo when I say Im not worried, it isnt so much because Im convinced it wont happen, but its because I dont care that much, I have been loosing my attachement over my decision to leave, you see. and after all, this is the only blog Im keeping updated... Im pretty much sticking around to celebrate one last anniversary, and talking with fellows fans whenever for one last year, if anything of this experience of having one social media, that has been nice and I think I'll miss it. but all those reflections will be for my goodbye post in many months, lol.

But then the problem is, what if tumblr ceases to be before I finish my nice analysis?

I thought about this, and I remembered a bold thought I had once. now that Im learning to make websites, what if I make a fan website for omori to put all my texts?

but that's just a thought, because Im not completely convinced if I woulv commit to mantain it... eventually, I decidev that if in two years or so I still like the idea, then I might do it. maybe I'll even make an email for it and have a section where I answer messages, like in the old days! but I wonder how much trolling anv spam it'll get. I brieftly considered having a guestbook but I quickly changed my mind for that reason.... though besides my texts, dunno what else I could add. retrospectives of my own fics would be neat, and fic recomendations too, but its not like I read a lot of those. Having guestwriters from time to time would be cool too, but that's wistfullthinking. I could host my stupid edits too.

in any case, then I remembered I have a ao3 and I could just publish the analysis there. I have seen people upload non-fiction works like that on ao3, so that problem is solved.

....

I think that was all I wanted to talk about today.

Or at least I cant think of anything else to say, so its the same thing.

oh yeah, if you wanna take something from this, then if tumblr goes down, you can find me at my imaginary fansite!

[skarletterambles]

Bygone bits and bytes

How can I end a four-day weekend more stressed than I started it?

Well, a lot of it has to do with caregiving burnout, but the cherry on the shit sundae today was discovering a combination of confusion and executive dysfunction made me lose the domain name I'd had for 25 years.

I hadn't been using it as a personal website for several years, and took down my super old content last fall, but my dad still had some local sports stuff on it. It wasn't a fancy, catchy, high value domain, either. Just our last name with two extra letters tacked on, but noooooo, apparently some domain sniper in Florida decided to snap it up. So if I decide to have a website again someday I'll have to start over with a new name.

My dad had another domain name that redirected to the part he ran, which has also lapsed somehow but hasn't been taken. I suppose I'll have to reregister his domain, get a new hosting plan, and just upload his stuff. He was really having trouble keeping up with it, cognitively, last winter, so I don't know how well it's going to go now. (See above re: caregiver stress.)

It's all made me think about how I REALLY miss the old days of the internet (mid to late 1990s through the early 2000s), before social media took over and made it this cookie-cutter, impersonal, commercialized, transient place. (And yes I realize the irony of posting this on social media.)

Personal websites used to be a common thing, with sections for your various interests and fandoms. Most people used Geocities or a similar freebie host, but the cool kids had their own domain names and ad-free sites. Now it seems like the only people with personal sites are those selling something, and everyone else just uses social media. I miss being able to have full control over the look of my content, with custom backgrounds and layouts and, yes, even funky animated .gifs.

(That's the tip of the iceberg of ancient .gifs lurking in the depths of my computer from the Olden Days.)

Anyway, I used to be able to easily make a website, upload, and manage it, but now when I look at potential web hosts' sites it's an incomprehensible alphabet soup of terms. I can see why nobody wants to learn SQLCSSOMGWTFBBQ in order to have a personal site when it's a heck of a lot easier to just post crap on social media with a few clicks.

Crap. I sound old. In this context, I guess I am.

BACK IN MY DAY, we hard coded HTML barehanded! Uphill! In the snow! You kids today with your Instas and X-es and QR codes on your newfangled phones! When I was a teenager we had a plain text message board to squee over fandoms on, and we LIKED IT! We had guestbooks, page view counters, and web rings! Yahoo! was the go-to search engine and you got real results in an organized manner, none of this sponsored garbage or AI telling us to eat glue. No, we chugged along at 56k and if you didn't make tiny thumbnails of the art you posted that people could choose to click on and then wait a minute or two for a picture to load, you were a pariah. Amazon was a river in South America, and streaming was just a description of someone peeing. We listened to MIDI music on purpose!

I'll stop. But I'm only half kidding. The nostalgia is real.

[sidewalksurgeon]

Sprint 4 Overview

Sprint Recap:

For our 4th Sprint, our main goals were to finalize our poster designs, get them printed out, and have them put up around the VCU campus. We also wanted to start submitting our poster design to all the digital screens like the Cabell Library, Student Commons, etc.

The first thing we accomplished during this Sprint was finalizing our poster designs. Lillie and Dalton tweaked the original yellow poster design and added the last bit of information we were missing such as the QR code. They also made another yellow scooter poster we could also put up.

Alo continued working on our Linktree. She researched information about all three of the scooter companies in Richmond and added a section where people can report each company's scooters if they have fallen over. She also looked into how the scooter companies keep track of the scooters and how they try to incentivize people to pick them up.

Something Susan brought up during our last Sprint was that it would be a good idea for us to add information about how to use the kickstands on the scooters somewhere on our poster. We noticed how confusing it can be to locate and push out the kickstands, especially when people are in a hurry. We think that could be one of the reasons why so many people leave them on the sidewalk or prop them up against trees. My group had the idea to make a GIF showing how to use a kickstand and have it be in our “How to Park a Scooter” section in our Linktree.

I decided that I'd work on making the GIF. We wanted to make something very straightforward and easy to understand. I went out and located a fallen Bird scooter. I set up my phone with my water bottle and started recording. I picked up the fallen scooter and used my foot to attempt to kick out the kickstand. I had to retake the video multiple times because I struggled with kicking out the kickstand. It was pretty rusty and stuck in place on the scooter. Finally, I got footage of me kicking out the kickstand in one try.

I then downloaded a GIF-Making app called Gif Maker. I trimmed the video to only have the clip of me kicking the stand down. I then sped up the gif in the app and looped it. It was a straightforward and quick GIF that showed a simple way to kick the stand down. My group agreed but felt that something was missing. I briefly got the free trial for the paid version of the app and added a bright yellow arrow pointing to the kickstand in the GIF. We felt that this conveyed the instruction more simply and made our GIF stand out a little more. Alo added the GIF to Linktree and we finally had the website finished.

Lillie and Dalton worked on alternative designs for our poster that could go on the various digital screens around campus. All we needed to do now was print our posters, put them around campus, and start submitting our poster designs to digital screen forms online. Last Sprint, I started to research how submitting these forms worked. We decided to submit our poster designs to the Cabell Library digital screen, the Student Commons digital screen, the GRTC bus stops + inside the bus and the Stall Street Journal. We also wanted to look into reserving tables to poll outside the Cabell Library.

I started to work on submitting our posters to these forms because all of the websites stated that it takes about two weeks to process everything and have it displayed. I started by emailing GRTC about possibly having our posters in their buses and at bus stops. Susan sent me the marketing department's email and phone number last Sprint. I both texted and sent out an email.

I got a text almost immediately from Henry that stated that he could meet with us sometime next week to discuss this further.

We talked and decided to meet on Zoom on Wednesday, November 15th, 1:00 PM-1:30 PM.

After this, I started to fill out the form for the Cabell Library. Since Lillie was the one who designed the final poster, we both decided it would be good to put her information into the form. She was very busy that day so I filled out the form using her information. I wrote a brief statement about what our poster is about and why we want to have it displayed. A problem we ran into was that our original poster was not the correct size for the Cabell screen. Even though Lillie was very busy that day, she took time out of her schedule and instantly made a version of our poster that fit on the Cabell screen. I appreciate that! We submitted the form and are still awaiting a response and approval.

I then started filling out the form for the Student Commons screen. Again, I wrote a paragraph explaining our goal with these posters and how we have connections to the VCU faculty management. We did this to increase our credibility and raise our chances of getting selected. Again, we resized the poster to fit on the Student Commons screen. Lillie redesigned the poster in a longer format and we submitted the form. A couple of days later, we got a response stating that we got the approval and that they were going to start playing our ad on their Student Commons screen.

I also looked into the Stall Street Journal but judging from their form, it seems they only accept topics that have to do with mental and physical health. Our ads would not work with the type of subjects that they cover.

I also looked into the table polling but we decided to set this up during break since it says to fill out the form two weeks before the tabling event. Since it is still early, we will wait a bit before filling it out.

Dalton and Lillie submitted our posters to multiple printing places around Richmond. Almost none of them got back to them or stated they never received their poster for printing. This delayed us a lot because we wanted to have our posters up this Sprint. Lillie finally got a confirmation from Richmond Printing when she resubmitted the files that they would print our files. However, they stated that they would have them by Friday, which is one day after this Sprint ends.

Plans for Sprint 5:

For Sprint 5, our main goal is to have these posters up and around Richmond. We are supposed to get them back from the printing company on Friday and will put them up immediately. We want Sprint 5 to focus on spreading our posters in as many places as possible and getting lots of engagement on our Linktree. We will also try and submit our posters to even more websites and forms. We will contact multiple VCU social media outlets and try to get them to advertise our posters on their story or posts. We will also post our posters on r/rva and r/vcu on Reddit to get feedback and spread more awareness.

I am also meeting with Henry from GRTC marketing on November 15th and hope this will be a step forward in getting our posters up in the buses. We need to schedule a meeting with Susan this Sprint as well to update her on our progress and discuss what else we can do to spread our posters message even further.

Reflections

I feel that we accomplished a lot with this Sprint. Not only did we finish the Linktree but we also submitted our poster design to many websites and digital screens for approval. We even got accepted for the University Student Commons digital screen already. I feel that the pace we are working at is good and we are already spreading our posters to so many places.

Something that I learned during this Sprint was how to create a GIF. I have never made my own GIF before and when I was asked to make one for our Linktree, I was a little nervous. I thought it would be a lot more complicated than it was. All I had to do was edit parts of the video to make sure it was a good length, capture the most crucial parts of the video, and then insert it in the GIF-Maker. I also had to stick some stickers on the GIF but that ended up being very easy as well.

I've also improved at connecting with different people and getting projects approved. I didn't realize before this project how easy it could be to set up meetings with people such as the GRTC. I assumed you had to already have connections and wouldn't be able to get too far. In reality, however, if you simply just send them an email, they are willing to meet with you. I've gotten approval and help from many different people during this project that I didn't realize were so accessible.

Something that I wish we had done differently with this Sprint was submitting our posters for printing earlier. We assumed that the turnaround time would be quick with these printing places so we submitted pretty late to each of them. While we did take into account how long printing would take, we never considered submitting even earlier if things went wrong. Things indeed did go wrong and we ended up not having our posters during this Sprint. For the next Sprint, we need to make sure we are submitting things ahead of time just in case anything goes wrong again. We need time to think of alternatives and backups in that case.

[lianahayze]

Shadow and the Midnight Misery: Chapter 14

Masterlist

Nothing to say; let's get to it!

Chapter 14. Then... nothing

With it being common for celebrities to seek treatment, there is little surprise at seeing the twenty-two-year-old rockstar turn herself in. Her father, lead singer of the 90s alt-band The Nixers, did his own stint in rehab for a slew of drugs, including heroin. It is unknown why she checked herself in, but according to its website, the Garver Institute “specializes in alcohol and drug addictions.” At the time of publication, Shadow Greere has declined to comment.

Bottle pressed to my lips, I chug. The more I drink, the more I can forget. And boy am I trying to forget.

The article came out yesterday, and I can’t even begin to guess how many times I've already read it. It starts out great. There is a piece about the new studio, a section about how I want the band to go our own way. But then Garver was brought up and it got real bad real fast.

The pictures are slightly grainy and had clearly been taken at a distance. However, they're not grainy enough for me to even pretend that that it’s not me. Everything in the pictures give it away: my hair, the clothes I'm wearing, a general scowl. All of it is one hundred percent me, and anyone is going to be able to tell.

The guys have seen it. I’m certain they have. They've called me a couple of times, but I haven't picked up. I'd rather wallow in self-pity. Dean’s not big on social media, so he probably hasn’t seen it yet. Always a day or two beyond, I have some time before he finds it. Either way, I'm fucked.

I did not want this to get out. I'd been hoping I could just sweep it under the rug and be done with it. Continuing to meet with Dr. Norris is fine, but having all of my dirty laundry aired out for anyone to see? No, it's an absolute nightmare.

I should have said something to Larissa. I could have made up any bullshit excuse. Hell, I could have said I was visiting or even fucking volunteering and that last paragraph would sound completely different. But, instead, I'd freaked out. I’d done this to myself.

I stop drinking for a moment. I haven't binged like this in a while and my body knows it. There's going to be hell to pay in a few hours, but, right now, I don’t care. Right now, I desperate to forget.

I switch to another bottle. It's new and takes me several seconds to open. I sway before I finally break the seal. The bottle firmly attached to my mouth, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Though I don't plan on staying in here, I turn on the TV. I need noise. The silence in the house is killing me. I turn up the volume before tossing the remote onto the couch. I walk out into the hallway.

Ugh, has there ever been a time when I haven't fucked something up? Maybe that's why the guys wanted me to put away: not because I'm a danger, but because I'm such a massive fuck up. I get it now.

I go upstairs. Not bothering to turn the lights on, I crawl into bed. I almost drop the bottle in my hand but catch it at the last moment. I continue drinking from it, chugging so quickly that it makes my brain hurt.

Everyone is going to be talking shit about me. Even more than they already do. I can't face the internet right now, but part of me is curious. I need to know what they're saying, and I need to know what I'm up against. I'm not the first celebrity whose mental health issues have been exposed, but it still hurts. I’ve been reduced to a headline and a cheap article?

My phone dings but I don't bother checking it. I want to smoke a joint. I want to smoke and drink and pass out. I don't know where my purse is, though, and that's where all my weed is. Is probably in the room somewhere, but I don't care enough to try to find it. Instead, I just keep drinking.

My phone goes off again. I follow the light from the screen, reaching across the bed to grab it. I squint as I look down.

Oh, I have missed calls. And a lot of texts. It's a good thing I have all my notifications turned off for social media because that would probably be blowing up my phone now too.

I look at the text notifications but don't actually open the messages. Most of them are from the guys, but, as I expected, there's nothing from Dean. Good. I should reach out to him and just tell him myself, but I don't think I'm going to. After all, I already had my chance to tell him; instead, I’d spent the entire time complaining about the band.

I check the calls. Most of them are from Wyatt. He's called me five times in total, the last one coming just a few minutes ago when I'd been downstairs deciding which liquor to get into. Maybe they’ve decided that he's the one who’s going to fire me.

I go through my texts from him. There are a lot of them with just one or two words, but it's the last one that really catches me off-guard.

About 5 mins away. At your house soon.

I stare at it. Not trusting my eyes, I read over it again, but still don’t think it’s right. There’s no way he’s trying to come see me right now.

Putting the bottle on the floor, I text him back:

Not here.

I stare down at the screen. A second later he says,

Yeah u are. Pulling up your street

I frown. Seriously, can't this wait until tomorrow?

Knowing that my front door's locked, I decide to get comfortable. He won't be able to talk to me if he can't get in, and there's no way I'm answering the door.

My phone goes off again. I groan and read.

He's here. Great. Just great.

When I don't respond, he sends,

Open the front door.

I huff. I don't want to talk to him; is that really so hard to understand?

Busy.

No you're not. Open the door.

Not interested.

Shadow, don't make me call the cops. I NEED to see that you're okay.

I bolt up. If he calls the cops, I’ll be back at Garver in a heartbeat, only this time it probably won’t be so easy to get out. "Fuck’s sake," I mutter, "fine." Standing up, I drop my phone on the pillow, pick the bottle back up, and slowly head downstairs.

Wyatt's finger is firmly on the doorbell when I answer. He looks down at me, surprised. I move out of the way, letting him in.

He shuts the door behind himself. "You're drinking right now?" he asks, louder than he needs to be. "Shadow, what the hell are you doing?"

"Feeling sorry for myself." I smile up at him. Feeling light on my feet, I lean against the wall. "Throwing myself a party. Whatever you want to call it, but you weren't invited."

"So, you know about the article then?"

"Hmm."

"I can't believe they printed that without telling you." When I tell him that I knew, he gasps. "You just let them?"

"No. But I didn't tell them no."

He stares at me. I can tell that he knows he in over his head and doesn't know what to do. Pissed off, angry Shadow he can deal with; pitiful pathetic Shadow he cannot.

I take another drink.

"Can you... Can you not do that right now?" He yanks the bottle from my hand. Some of the vodka spills onto the floor, causing me to say,

"Hey! Stop making a mess!"

He walks into the kitchen. I follow behind but it takes a while because my legs feel like jelly. When I finally do get to him, he's opening up all the cabinets, saying, "Where's all your booze?" I giggle. "Fuck, Shadow, I'm serious. Now is not the time to go on a bender."

"Oops." Seeing him freak out makes me laugh. It's actually very funny. Him and the other guys have been trying to control my narrative for so long and he's panicking now that he can't. It's the ultimate karma.

He walks over to me. I'm swaying as I look up at him, and he puts his hands on my arms. As he steadies me, I realize I don’t want to be standing up; laying down would be so much better.

"How much did you drink?" he says. It's a good question, but I don't answer. He gives me a slight shake. "Shadow. How much?"

He's acting like he's never seen me drunk before, but nothing could be further from the truth. How many late nights did we have after concerts, passing around bottle after bottle? I have a pretty good tolerance, but he could drink me under the table. Maybe I'm not the one who should have gone to Garver.

"You're not supposed to drink when you're depressed."

Depressed? Who said anything about being depressed? I am finnnnnne.

"Have you still been drinking and doing drugs this entire time?"

Holding back a laugh, I say, "My body, my choice."

"This is not a joke! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"My doctor thinks I'm not a danger, and we can trust my doctor. Right? After all, everyone wanted me to go see one. Remember?"

Leading me over to the table, he sighs. He tried to get me to sit in one of the chairs, but I instead choose the floor. "We wanted you to see a doctor because we were worried about you. Your cocaine habit has gone through the roof." Then, almost so quietly that I can't hear, he adds, "Apparently we should have been more worried about your drinking."

Having been kneeling in front of me, he stands back up. Continuing to go through my cabinets, he says, "We already spoke with the label. As soon as we saw it, we got on the phone with them. We wanted you to join the conversation, but you never answered your phone." He looks over his shoulder at me. "Now I can see why."

He's judging me and I can't decide whether to let it go or complain about it. Stomach pressed against the tile, I spread out on the floor like a starfish. It gets uncomfortable really quick, though, and I flip to my back. The sudden motion makes the contents of my stomach slosh around.

"I don't know what to do with you." I look over at him. "We want you to get better. When we rescheduled that interview, we thought..." I see him shake his head. "I know it's important for you--We know talking about the band is important to you." He pauses. "Even if the spread was entirely about you."

"So, you're not mad about the studio?"

He shakes his head, and I'm surprised. This is the most honest conversation we've had in a while without yelling. I should say something but can’t come up with anything.

"We just want to know what was wrong with your dad's studio, but other than that it's fine."

"Too many bad memories. Can't go there anymore."

"Because we told you that you needed help?"

"And cornered me with a doctor." I turn onto my other cheek so that I'm facing away from him. "It wasn't fair."

I hear him sigh, but he doesn't say anything. I hear the heels of his boots walking across the tile, coming towards me. A few seconds later, arms crossed, he stands over me. I don't move but look up at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Look," he says, "you can be pissed about it. I get that you're pissed about it. But we tried to bring it up before and you just weren't listening."

I frown. "No, you never brought it up."

"Yes. We did. Several times. You might have just been high, and we couldn’t tell. But we did bring it up."

He walks away, leaving on my own. I wonder if what he's said is true. Had they actually mentioned it before? If they had, why don't I remember it? And if he was right and I had been high, what does that say about me?

It means I have a problem.

Standing up, I go over to the counter. Wyatt's placed the bottle of vodka that I'd had earlier by the sink. I look around but don't see him. I'm not sure where he's gone, but, not wanting to wait for him to return, I pick up the bottle, bring it to my lips, and drink. I'm so engrossed in getting as much alcohol in my system as possible that I don't hear him return until,

"Shadow!" He yanks the bottle away. Before I can stop him, he tips it upside down and the vodka pours down the sink.

"Hey!" I start to reach for it, but he holds me back.

"Do not try my patience right now."

He's being obnoxious; why won’t he let me have a little fun?

"Why are you even here?" I ask him. "I didn't ask you to come." Plus, I'd been doing fine on my own. I'd been enjoying sitting in the dark; it made my head hurt less.

"I'm here to take care of you, apparently, because you weren't answering your phone."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I beg to differ. When did you eat last?"

I frown. "Why, do I look fat, or something?"

"You've never looked fat a day in your life." He sounds annoyed as he speaks. "But you need to eat." I tell him I'm not hungry. "I don't care," he replies. "You need food in your system."

"Usually, I just do cocaine when I'm hungry." He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What? I don't have to stop what I'm doing to eat, and it keeps me in shape." He gives me a look over. "Duh."

"Shadow, when people talk about ‘getting in shape,’ that’s not code for developing a drug habit."

He goes to open the fridge, but he won't have much to work with. I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while, so everything that's in there is probably at least a few weeks old.

"Wow, slim pickin’s around here, huh?" He closes the fridge. Pulling out his phone, he says, "What do you want to eat? I'm going to have Ethan stop."

"Stop where?"

"Stop at the store or get takeout. He's on his way over here. So is Dave."

My heart stops. They're coming over here, too? Right now? I shake my head in disbelief. "Tell them not to come."

"They're already on their way."

I continue to shake my head. "No! I do not need a fucking intervention in my own home!" I'm panicking, ready to kick or punch him.

He puts his hands up, saying, "Shadow, we're not trying to intervene on anything. We're just checking on you."

But I don't believe it.

Abruptly turning away from him, I storm out of the kitchen. Well, I storm out the best I can. My legs are wobbly and my head is spinning and my breathing is shallow, but I storm off. Wyatt calls for me, but I ignore him. Maybe if I barricade myself in my room before the other two get here, they'll eventually just give up and leave. Can't have an intervention if they can't see me.

I stumble into my room. I press my body against the door for a moment, blinking slowly. Why is the room spinning? Doing my best to disregard the movements, I lock the door and go straight over to my bed.

I fall onto it face first. It’s pretty comfortable, so I don't move. It's only when I realize that I'm having trouble breathing that I shift onto my side.

My stomach doesn't feel so great. When I rub my hands over my middle, it only makes it worse. I close my eyes and groan. I curl up and lay like that for who knows how long. It's probably just a couple of seconds, but it's enough for me almost to fall asleep.

The only reason I don't is because of a loud thump at the door.

"Shadow! Unlock the door!"

I cover my ears. Why is he shouting? Doesn't he know it's making me feel even worse?

Wyatt keeps pounding on the door. "I seriously just came over here to check on you! The other guys just want to check on you too. We're not kicking you out of the band or whatever other conspiracy theory you have in your head."

If I do have any conspiracy theories, it's because they put them there.

"Seriously. You don't need to be alone right now."

He's wrong. Being alone is exactly what I need.

I continue to try my best to ignore him. He makes it hard, though, and I eventually grab onto a pillow, pressing it over my head. It makes my skull hurt, but I'd rather feel that than listen to Wyatt.

Eventually, though, the pounding stops. I pull down the pillow and look cautiously over at the door. I sit up; there's complete silence. Being as quiet as I can, I get out of bed and tiptoe over to the door. I lean forward and listen, but still, I hear nothing.

Maybe he's just pretending he's not there anymore to trick me into opening the door. "Wyatt?" I say. He doesn't answer. Slowly, I unlock the door, crack it open just an inch, and look outside.

He's not there. Opening the door all the way, I step out into the hallway. Wyatt is nowhere to be found. Confused, I lean against the wall. Where did he go? Did he just give up? It that's the case, the least he could have done is said goodbye.

"Wyatt?"

He doesn't respond. When I toddle down the hall, I suddenly realize why.

Standing at the top of the stairs, I hear the front door opening, Wyatt standing in front of it. In walk Ethan and Dave.

I start to make my way down the stairs.

"Get out of my house!" I yell, causing them to look up. They’re alarmed, but I don't care. "I'll call the police!"

Dave, smug as ever, doesn't buy it. "You're going to call the police on the people who came to check on you?"

"Not now Dave," says Wyatt.

"Fuck off!" I yell at them. "I didn't ask you to come here; I don't want you here. Leave. Me. Alone!"

"You don't mean that, Shadow."

I turn to Ethan. I'm still on the stairs, gripping the banister, so I have to look down at him. He looks tired, more tired than I feel. "Ethan, if you had any common sense, you'd ditch these two. All they're going to do is complain and gang up on you and ruin your whole entire life."

Dave starts to say something, but Wyatt stops him.

"No, go head. What did you want to tell me?"

"He doesn't want to tell you anything," says Wyatt. "We just came to see how you were after the article."

"I feel like shit. I think it's obvious." I start to walk towards them. I'm about halfway down the stairs now, and, looking at all of them in turn, I say, "I need a drink."

None of them seem amused. They move to block the way. I get down to the bottom step and try to push passed them but they're stronger and I fail.

"Move," I say. When they don't, I repeat myself, this time with more force. "Move!"

Ethan asks me how much I've had to drink but I ignore him. They're not my parents; I don't have to answer to them.

Wyatt attempts to reach for me, but I push his hands away. I almost lose my footing, but Dave catches me. I yank myself out of his grasp.

"Shadow," says Wyatt, "you need to calm down. Let's find a place to relax. You're going to drink water and I'm going to order you food."

I don't like his plan--and not just because he's talking to me like I'm a child.

I shake my head. "No."

I start back up the stairs, but he reaches for me. This time his grasp is strong, and I can feel a bruise forming on my wrist. I try to wriggle away but can't. Either he's been working out or I'm way more inebriated than I thought.

It doesn't stop me from continuing to pull away. I tell him to let me go, but he doesn't. I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge. All the while, he's asking me to stop moving but all I want to do is run away. It gets so bad, that, as I'm yelling and pulling, my foot slips, I lose my footing, and go flying.

Only this time, no one catches me.

I crash against the stairs, first my arms, then my shoulder. I cry out in pain, looking up at the guys. They look horrified, but I can't keep my focus on them for too long. Soon, everything goes blurry and my vision cuts in and out.

Then... nothing.

-

This is probably one of my favorite chapters I've written for this story so far. Thanks for reading.

-L.H.

[cloudteawrites]

chapter: six ( 15.5k ) rating: mature (death, past abuse, eventual smut) genre: mystery | romance | hurt/comfort tags: bts x reader | ot7 x reader | hybrid | poly summary: when an estranged uncle leaves you his massive fortune you wonder if the universe is playing a joke on you. when that fortune comes with seven hybrids, you know for sure that it is. << first < previous | next > last >>

what is hybrid marking

8.2 million results. 

While scent mixing (heretofore referred to as ‘scenting’) is temporary and lasts a maximum of twelve hours if left undisturbed, scent marking (‘marking’ in common parlance) is semi-permanent. A ‘mark’ is created when the pheromones present in a hybrid’s bodily fluids are applied directly to their markee’s skin. When said chemical compounds seep below the epidermis and bond to the sweat glands found within the dermal layer of the skin, the target has been officially ‘marked’. Between domesticated hybrids and their human caretakers, this is most commonly done by applying hybrid saliva to the skin of the neck, where a human’s scent tends to be strongest. While the behavior involved in marking resembles some aspects of human foreplay, it is a non-sexual expression of mutual trust and affection. It is important to note that most hybrids of age are able to mitigate the oral secretion of pheromones and cannot mark accidentally-

“How do I look?” 

The sound of Jimin’s voice makes you jump. You fumble with your phone, trying to exit out of the website, shove it in your pocket and look at the leopard hybrid’s outfit at the same time.

“You look great!” You tell him once the device is safely tucked away.

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’ve said that about everything I’ve shown you.”

You had, but only because it was true. No matter what the trio of hybrids tried on, they all looked great. You weren’t sure what it was, but seeing them in something other than neutral sweat suits made them look even better than they already had. You were discovering they all had unique senses of fashion too. Taehyung preferred earth tones, soft fabrics and slouchy cardigans, Yoongi tended toward plaid overshirts and dark denim and Jimin had just come out of the dressing room in his sixth button down and second pair of chelsea boots. 

When the four of you had arrived at the mall that afternoon, you’d told them to go wild and call you when they were ready to check out. There was an entire section of the shopping center that catered specifically to hybrids and you were certain they’d be able to find everything they needed and more. You’d been all set to sequester yourself in a booth in the food court and indulge your hybrid research habit, but Taehyung had fixed you with a forlorn look the moment you tried to part with them and Jimin had insisted that you personally review every piece of clothing he put on. You wouldn’t deny that you were having fun, but surreptitiously trying to google what every little thing they did meant without getting caught was getting harder and harder. 

Jimin breezes past you to the semi-circle of mirrors on the far end of the fitting rooms, brushing his tail against your shins as he passes. That was another thing that had changed. Since the talk you’d had with the boys last night, it seemed like they were always finding some excuse to touch you or brush up against you . You didn’t know if it was a manifestation of their cat genes or them just wanting physical reassurance that you were there, but it seemed like every time you turned around there was a tail curling around your calf or a nose tip against your ear or a shoulder brushing your own. You were practically wreathed in them. Even Yoongi hadn’t seemed to mind when your fingertips had brushed against each other at breakfast when you’d passed him the juice. You didn’t know if you should count that as progress, but you want to. 

You’re not entirely used to physical contact and nearly every time Taehyung rubs his cheek on the top of your head or Jimin reaches out to link your fingers together, you jump. It feels strange, to have people be so blatantly physically affectionate with you. It’s not like you dislike it, exactly, it’ll just take some getting used to. Whatever adjustments you need to make, you know you’ll need to make them quickly. You don’t think the hybrids will give up on friendly hugs just because you never initiate them first.  

“Y/N-ah,”Jimin calls, catching your attention. He’s twisting this way and that on the platform, trying to catch his reflection in every possible angle. He hums in disappointment as he turns back to the front, tail waving behind him. “This collar,” he says, tugging on the offending band of bright green plastic around his neck, “-is ruining my outfit. We’ll need to get real ones today.” 

You feel like a stone has settled in your stomach. Your shoulders sag, but if the leopard hybrid notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” you reply. “Yeah, you’re right.” In truth, you’d hoped to put it off for a little while longer. Collaring and leashing a hybrid had always seemed odd to you. After all, weren’t they people too? The law was the law, you knew, but something about publicly and visibly marking someone as property...well, the morality of it was gray at best. The temporary collars had provided you with a stay from the inevitable, but there was no avoiding it any longer, you supposed. They’d have to get collars. 

“I saw a store for them a couple shops down,” Taehyung supplies as he steps out of his dressing room in a white linen shirt and cream drawstring pants. “We could go there?” 

“That works for me...Taehyung, one of your buttons is in the wrong hole.” 

The tiger hybrid squints down at his shirt, feels blindly for the hole he missed, but can’t seem to find it. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not that one, the other- do you just want me to fix it?”

He pauses and looks up at you for a solid three seconds before giving a single, slow nod. 

You come to stand in front of him and start undoing the buttons from the top. There’s only four of them but each one you pop open reveals more and more of his honey brown skin and prominent collar bones. Your fingers brush his skin accidentally and he chuffs happily, one hand resting on your lower back as you start buttoning him up again. Heat starts crawling up your neck unbidden. Even through the fabric of your t-shirt, you can feel the warmth of his palm, how long his fingers are. He presses you closer until your arms are nearly flat against your chest as you try to finish buttoning him up. It’s hard to move squished between the insistent pressure of his hand and the- surprisingly- hard line of his body, but you make do. “There!” You pat him gently on the chest as you finish the last button. “All done.”

He dips forward and rubs his cheek against your forehead, rumbling so deep in his chest that the vibrations pass into you. “Thank you.” He releases you and pulls away, but as he does, his lips brush against your hairline. You try not to read too deep into it. 

The tiger hybrid sidles over to his friend in the mirror, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist and dipping his head into his neck. Jimin reaches back and scratches behind one of his ears and your heart swells in your chest. It was nice to see them be so openly affectionate with each other. They’re so close in a way you can’t even begin to understand. It’s beautiful. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you thumb the screen to life. An incoming call from Mr. Seo. “You guys keep trying stuff on,” you tell the pair, already standing to make your way out of the dressing room. “I’ve gotta take this.”  They both call at you to hurry back and you give them a shout of assent as you rush away. 

The second you’re outside the store, you answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. L/N,” Mr. Seo’s voice crackles on the other end of the line. “I trust you’ve settled in well.” It isn’t a question and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he doesn’t wish to spend what precious time he has exchanging pleasantries with you. 

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Everything had most certainly not been okay when you’d emergency dialed him two days ago about the tiger on your couch. The text he’d sent you back six hours later had told you to figure it out. You had and you knew you weren’t his responsibility, but him tossing you in the deep end was still a sore spot for you. 

“There’s been a change of plans.” 

You grimace. Straight to it, then. “What’s going on?” 

“Black Mountain Canines- the company your uncle purchased two of the hybrids from- changed their pick-up date. They want you to come get them in person today.”

“Pick-up?” You frown. “No, they were supposed to drop them off.”

“They were,” Mr. Seo confirms, “But it’s apparently no longer profitable for them to drive all the way into Seoul to hand-deliver two of their charges. They also claim they’re incurring additional expenses by feeding and housing two hybrids who’ve already been purchased, but we’ll see about that when we arrive.”

Your anxiety spikes and your fingers wrap tighter around your phone. You’d promised the boys a whole day out. All you’d done so far was get them phones of their own and furniture for their room. There was still so much to do, so much to see. “What about Yoongi and Jimin and Taehyung?” You blurt out.

Mr. Seo sighs and his breath crackles over the receiver. “Those are the cats, I assume? I suggest you let them know sooner rather than later that they’ll have to share their space.” There’s a flurry of movement on his end of the line, the sound of someone calling his name and papers shuffling. “I have to go; they need me to look over some case files.” He tells you. “I’ll be at Haneul Tower to pick you up in three hours. Be downstairs waiting.”And the line clicks off. 

You sigh and hang up. What were you going to tell the boys? Day one of your new friendship and you were already breaking promises. 

“Trouble?” Yoongi’s voice right behind you makes you flinch and whirl on him. His ears press back against his head and he takes a step back at your sudden movements. 

“Sorry!” You tell him, forcing your spine to relax. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there; I thought you were still shopping. ”

“I can tell,” he snarks, but there’s no heat behind it. His eyes trace the line of your shoulders, still tense and flick to the phone in your hand. “I dropped my stuff at the register. What’s going on?”

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, nerves making your stomach ache. “C’mon,” you tell him, walking back into the store. “Let’s pay and grab some lunch. I’ll tell you when we sit down.” He follows after you a few paces behind, trying not to let worry prick in him at the anxious shift in your scent. Something was about to change, he was sure, and not entirely for the better. 

Twenty minutes later, the four of you are sitting in the food court, a mess of shopping bags at your feet and a bowl of tteokbokki between you. Yoongi and Jimin had picked out all the fish cakes first and were bickering good-naturedly over who the last one should go to, but Taehyung seemed content to just gnaw at his rice cakes. You’d hardly touched anything, your eyes flicking back to the time on your phone. 1:20 P.M. Two hours and forty minutes ‘til Mr. Seo would be at your apartment to pick you up and bring you to get two more of the hybrids your uncle had bought. You push a rice cake around on your paper plate with the end of your chopstick. Well, no point delaying the inevitable. 

“Hey, guys?” You call softly. Three pairs of ears swivel toward you immediately. The words die in your throat and your tongue feels like lead as they look at you, all their eyes focused and expectant. You clear your throat and force yourself to continue. “So...you know how I…” You search for the right word, but there’s really no other way to say it. “...inherited you guys from my uncle?” 

Taehyung’s eyes flick toward Jimin and the leopard hybrid brushes his tail against the tiger’s. Silent communication you couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Yeah,” Yoongi says, tossing his chopsticks down and leaning back in his chair. “I told them.”

That was right. What you’d blurted out at Yoongi yesterday on the street you had yet to disclose to his juniors. “Thanks, Yoongi,” You tell him, meaning every word of it. He’d spared you from yet another uncomfortable conversation. 

“...For what it’s worth, we’re glad it’s you,” Taehyung tells you, his tail twining around your ankle under the table. He looks at his hyungs for confirmation and when neither of them deny it, he settles his amber gaze back on you. “We like being here with you, even if you didn’t pick us. It’s...It’s nice.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips at his words. He beams at you, his boxy smile soft despite the sharp incisors poking his bottom lip. “I like having you guys around, too,” you admit, taking the time to meet each of their eyes. Jimin purrs as you look at him, the corners of his mouth curling. When your gaze meets Yoongi’s, his ears twitch but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink either, just holds your stare with an intensity that makes heat crawl up your neck. You suddenly remember the warm stretch of his body over your’s, the sensation of his lips against your neck. You snatch your eyes away and cough to cover your lapse in speech.  “It would’ve been scary, I think, if I had to deal with all this alone.” 

You couldn’t even imagine it.That clinically clean apartment with its blank white walls and its imposing emptiness would have driven you down until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d always had a little pit of loneliness inside you. You didn’t know how long it’d been there. Maybe it always had been, a seed of something sad and dark at the core of your soul. You’d done well keeping it contained. You felt it in your goshiwon, but your room was small. It couldn’t grow beyond your keeping. In Oliver’s penthouse, it would’ve had endless room to sprawl and with no one to clip it back, you would’ve choked to death on vines of doubt.

“There are others,” you tell them, before you can down spiral into the mire of your own thoughts. “He bought other hybrids before he died. They weren’t supposed to be coming until next week but their company wants me to come get them today.” 

The mood at the table shifts almost immediately. Taehyung’s ears and tail sag, Jimin’s smile goes sharp at the edges and Yoongi’s lip curls. “How many others?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You notice he does that when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. It’s a defense mechanism, no matter how at ease it makes him seem. 

“Four,” you answer and the bobcat hybrid’s ears tilt back in irritation. “Two are coming home today and the other two toward the end of next week.” Jimin doesn’t say anything, but you see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. He’s annoyed. Taehyung drops a hand onto the smaller hybrid’s back and rubs circles in it, trying to soothe him. 

“Maybe it’ll be okay?” The tiger hybrid offers. He’s trying his best to be diplomatic, but you hear the strain in the deep timbre of his voice. “Having other cats around again might be nice. We used to live with a lot back at the center…”

You wince. “...they’re canines.” Almost immediately, all of their ears go flat against their skulls and they hiss in unison. Yoongi stifles himself the quickest, setting a hand on Jimin’s knee and squeezing to get the leopard hybrid to get a hold of himself. 

“Hybrids of different species don’t play well together,” he explains. “Especially not when our animals are solitary in the wild. The only reason Jimin, Tae and I are able to stand sharing the same territory is because we’ve known each other since we were kids and we’ve had to do it before.”

Before? A question forms in the back of your mind, but now isn’t the time to ask it.

“We don’t like sharing what’s ours,” Jimin continues for his hyung, interlocking his fingers with yours on the plastic table top. “It’s instinctual.”

“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hand lightly, trying to reassure him. “But the apartment is big; can’t you avoid each other starting out?”

All three of them give you a strange look and Jimin’s lips curl in a way that isn’t quite a smile. “...right,” he purrs, a little delayed. “The apartment.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, anxiety sinking its claws into you. “I’m really sorry to spring this on you guys, I know it’s not great, but…” Your shoulders sag. “I don’t want to have promised someone a home and rip the rug out from under them, you know?” You knew what that felt like. You wouldn’t wish that feeling on your worst enemy. “I’m just...I’m worried that they’re not being treated well.”

“They were up for sale,” Yoongi drawls. “They definitely aren’t.” 

The taxi ride back to Haneul Tower is uncomfortably quiet. Jimin still holds your hand and Taehyung still leans on your shoulder, but nobody says a word. You help them carry their bags upstairs and drop them off in the master bedroom. You’d told them they could have separate rooms if they wanted, but they’d insisted on sharing, so you thought it was only fair that they get the largest room in the penthouse. Clothes went onto hangars and into closets and before you knew it, there were only ten minutes until Mr. Seo’s arrival. 

“You don’t have to go,” Taehyung huffs. He’s got you wrapped in a bear- well, you suppose a tiger hug and his cheek is mashed against the top of your head. You don’t even think he’s actively scenting you at this point, just keeping you from leaving. “Send your assistant instead and stay here with us.”

You let out a puff of laughter and pat the hybrid on the back in a way you hope is soothing. “Mr. Seo isn’t my assistant, buddy, he’s my uncle’s attorney.” You give a little tug away from him and he lets you go, albeit with a sad little mrow that makes him sound just like a disappointed cat. “I couldn’t ask him to do that. The only reason he’s coming is because they broke the contract. And I can’t drive.” 

The look Taehyung gives you is so downtrodden that you toy with the idea of calling the whole day off and staying with them- but no. You can’t bail out now, especially not with what you’d put Mr. Seo through when the first group of hybrids were delivered. “I’ll be back before you know it,” You tell him with a steadfast smile. 

“You’d better,” Jimin says, nudging the taller hybrid out of the way. Taehyung gives a half-hearted growl, but settles as Yoongi squeezes his shoulder. “The longer you’re away, the longer you’ll have to sit in the stench of those mutts.”

You frown. “Jimin-”

“Only joking,” He soothes, bringing both of your hands up to his cheeks. You don’t believe him, but you don’t press it. The leopard hybrid nuzzles into your palms, purring happily at the feeling of your skin against his. Your palms nearly burn from how warm he is. You feel a warm puff of air against your fingers and tense as Jimin presses all ten of them against his lips. 

“Jimin.” Yoongi’s voice is hard, but his junior’s lips curl up in a satisfied smile, one of his incisors pricking at the pad of your index finger. 

“Hurry back,” he murmurs. You try not to shiver at the feeling of his plush lips moving against your oversensitive fingertips. 

“I’ll do my best!” You say,  a pained smile tugging your lips apart. He hums in response and drops your hands, his fingers trailing across yours as he lets you go. 

“Hyung,” he calls over his shoulder. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Y/N-ah?”

“Don’t let them scent you.” Is all Yoongi says as he breezes toward the stairs. “You know better now.” 

It’s as much as you were expecting. “I’ll see you guys later,” You tell them as you head out the door. “Finish setting your phones up and text me if you need anything!”

True to his word, Mr. Seo is parked out front at 4 o’clock on the dot. You haven’t seen him in a little over a week and you’d almost forgotten how imposing he was. He cuts a sharp figure against the backdrop of the bustling street, dressed in all black and leaning against a brand new Buick Enclave. The poor valet stationed at the front door looks like he’s been trying to work up the courage to ask to park his car for the past twenty minutes and sags in relief as you start heading over.

The lawyer dips his head in acknowledgement at you and checks his watch. “Miracle of miracles,” he says, popping open the passenger side door for you. “You’re on time.”

“I was late one time,” you huff, sliding past him and into your seat.

“And that was enough,” he snips back, closing your door before you can come up with a retort. You grumble to yourself, but don’t press him. You know he’s right. He’d gone out of his way to help you and you’d put him out. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him as he settles into his seat and reaches for his seatbelt. “It won’t happen again; I know you’ve got other things to do.”

He stills and looks at you over the gold frames of his glasses. For a long moment he holds your gaze, unblinking. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Had you done something wrong? 

Finally Mr. Seo blinks and finishes buckling himself in. “I apologize for staring, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard you correctly.” He push starts his car and pulls away from the curb. “I never thought I’d see the day a L/N would apologize to me.” He edges the car into the steady stream of Seoul traffic and you’re off, zooming toward the freeway.

Silence fills the car again, but as Mr. Seo takes on-ramp, you work up the courage to ask your question. “Did Oliver never apologize to you?”

Mr. Seo snorts and it’s such an undignified sound that you almost can’t believe it comes from him. “You could tell your uncle the sky was blue and he’d argue that it was red until he was. And your grandfather-” He seems to catch himself, reigning back whatever meager bits of his personality had managed to slip through the cracks in his normally flawless veneer. You’re all ears.

Up until a week and a half ago, you hadn’t known you had any family, much less an uncle who owned buildings and bugattis. Now you were finding out that you had a grandfather too. “What about my grandfather?” The word feels strange in your mouth. It’d been years since you’d followed the word ‘my’ up with any type of familial relation. 

Mr. Seo cuts his eyes at you, and flicks them back to the front. “Nothing,” he replies, clearly done talking about him. “I spoke out of turn.” He reaches forward and turns on the radio, the sound of national news filling the silence.

You pout and slouch in your seat, disappointment setting in as the promise of new information slipped out of your grasp.

The rest of the drive is easy. Mr. Seo takes the highway out of Seoul and up into the foothills but you’re asleep before he even finds the exit. You’d slept more in the past two days than you had in the previous three weeks, but it seemed like years of bad habits were catching up to you.

Last night, you’d passed out halfway through the second movie snuggled up between Jimin and Taehyung. They’d been so warm and soft and the quiet thrumming of their heartbeats had lulled you to sleep before you knew what was happening.You’d woken up with them still curled around you and -maybe most surprising of all- Yoongi plating breakfast in the kitchen.

Still, it seemed even twelve hours of the best sleep you’d gotten in years and a peaceful morning devoid of stress -for the most part- hadn’t been enough.

You wake up just as the asphalt transitions into gravel, the sound of it crunching under the tires and the car’s shaking waking you up. You’re bleary-eyed and confused, but a sign up ahead snaps you to wakefulness. Standing like a guardian over a chain link fence topped with barbed wire is a metal sign, imposing as it is tall: Black Mountain K-9s, written in stark font.

“We’re here,” Mr. Seo says, as if it’s not obvious. He kills the engine and without its purring to distract you, you feel nerves starting to boil in your belly. What kind of place was this? You half expect sinister organ music to kick on and lightning to start flashing from black clouds. Neither of those things happen, though. The sky remains startlingly clear and the only things you can pick up are the sounds of whistles being blown, dozens of people doing call and response, and one voice, louder than all the others screaming for people to ‘Run faster! Get those knees up!’

You pop the door and step out of the car before Mr. Seo can open it for you and head around to the nose of the car, taking in the compound. 

“This facility produces some of the highest caliber bodyguards in the country,” He says, coming to stand beside you. The attorney rebuttons his suit jacket and flicks his sleeves up before settling his arms over his chest. “Politicians, celebrities, even a few former presidents all have hybrids from this training center.”

“It looks more like a prison,” You remark, nodding toward the barbed wire. “First big cat hybrids, now this...Why didn’t Oliver just get regular pets if he was lonely? Was he worried someone was after him?” 

“Anything I can tell you would be pure speculation,” He replies, walking away from you and heading for the callbox. “Your uncle very rarely confided in me.”

“But you were his attorney.” 

For just a second, the tight grip Mr. Seo has on his composure slips. His lips press together and his shoulders sag- but just as quickly as it’d lapsed, his mask is in place again. “Yes,” he says after a beat. “I was.” And he presses the button on the call box before you can pester him with any more questions about the dead men he’d known.

The call box crackles to life, speakers squealing with feedback. You flinch and slap your hands over your ears to protect them from the splitting sound. Mr. Seo doesn’t react at all and you’re stunned, wondering how he can stand it.

“Seo Seunghan and Y/N L/N for Lim Hangyeol.” 

The person on the other end doesn’t respond. The speaker cuts and a second later, the metal gate before you starts rolling to the side, pushed by invisible hands. It’s like a curtain going up at the theater. 

Before you lies a wide, dusty yard, devoid of any plant life. The thick-trunked trees and lush grasses of the surrounding mountainside had been stripped down to the roots here. All that remains are a few weeds poking out around the base of the long metal buildings that ring the fence, and even those seem like an intrusion. People are making use of the space in whatever way they can. A group of people with matching cropped black ears and docked tails run past you in four straight lines, all perfectly in step with each other. Over to your right, there’s a pack of teenagers working in pairs to scale a ten-foot tall sheer wooden wall and in the center of the field, twenty kids are running through taekwondo forms, supervised by a widely smiling instructor.

You’re in awe of it all. Every single person is like a cog in a well-oiled machine, all in the same black tactical pants and compression shirt. You’d never seen so many hybrids in one place before and certainly not all of the same breed.

Mr. Seo places a hand in the center of your back, steering you away from staring and toward a squat cement building.You let him lead you.

“When we get inside,” the lawyer begins, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “Let me speak first. If we can get him to admit to breaching the contract right away, it’ll be much easier to get him to agree to a settlement.”

You frown at that. “Why would we settle?” You ask him. “It’s not like I need the money.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Ms. L/N.” He sighs, pulling open the heavy metal door and ushering you into the building. “He did something wrong, and it’s most easy for him to bear the brunt of atonement financially. Without requiring damages be paid for breaches, contract law would collapse.” 

“Can’t you just have him apologize?”

Mr. Seo’s mouth twists up like he’s just tasted something unpleasant. “As you attorney, it is my duty to advise you against accepting restitution in the form of an apology. You’ll get a reputation for being a pushover.” 

You wanted to be anything but. “Alright, alright,” you concede, “Do whatever you think is best.”

The building you’ve ducked into seems to be an office. Along one wall are a set of metal folding chairs doing their best impression of a waiting room. Along the other is a metal door covered in peeling paint and one suspicious dent bearing a plaque that reads ‘DIRECTOR LIM’. Set between you and it is a desk covered in a mess of paperwork. An old desktop stands among it like an island in the ocean and middle aged hybrid woman in coke bottle glasses is hunched before it, tapping away at the keyboard at a mind-boggling speed. One of her ears twitches as the pair of you approach. 

“Take a seat,” she orders in a reedy voice, not bothering to look up from her work. “The Director will be with you shortly.”

“Send them in, Eunjung!” Someone shouts from behind the metal door  just as she’s finished. She doesn’t look up or stop typing or even acknowledge you two again. Mr. Seo takes it upon himself to breeze past her desk and open the door for you. 

The office is militaristically organized, all right angles and bare metal surfaces. There’s a black leather couch that’d seen better days to your left as you enter, a half empty water cooler to your right. Bookshelves lined with trophies and textbooks dominate the western wall. You scan the titles as you pass: Predatory Instinct: The Teaching and Training Canines, The Utility of Force, On Raising Hybrids, The Art of War, all dangerous and daunting as the man they belonged to.

Lim Hangyeol is the most grizzled man you’ve ever seen and the only other human besides yourself and Mr. Seo in the compound, it seems. He looks like a drill sergeant from an old action movie, his salt and pepper hair buzzed short and his face craggy with frown lines. There’s a semicircle of pockmark scars marring the skin of his right cheek and as you get closer, you realize they’re teeth marks. You shoot a concerned look to Mr. Seo, but he’s more focused on giving the director a shallow bow than allaying any of your fears. 

“Director,” He says, straightening back up. “Thank you for having us-”

“Spare me the bullshit,” The older man orders, kicking back his office chair and sinking back into it. “Take a seat. Let’s talk business.” 

A cold smile settles on your attorney’s lips and you see a cord twitching in his jaw, but he merely nods and replies in a breezy voice, “Of course.” 

The two of you do as you told, settling into two metal chairs in front of his desk. These ones are nicer than the folding ones in the waiting room, but no more comfortable. You try to slide yours forward only to find that it’s bolted to the floor. 

“Stops the dogs from throwin’ em when they get bad news,” Director Lim tells you as you uselessly tug at the legs. “Got tired of replacing windows.”

You grimace. If the awards on the bookshelf, what Mr. Seo had told you and the dozens of hybrids running boot camp drills outside were any indication, the man before you must’ve had some idea what he was doing. You didn’t end up providing security for high profile public figures without a smidge of credibility, you knew, but the bite marks on his cheek, the little crack about people throwing chairs at him and the way he’d referred to them as ‘dogs’ didn’t inspire confidence in you. 

This was your first time visiting a place that produced hybrids, you realized. You’d never even been into a shelter before and certainly not a breeding center. Were they all like this? Devoid of anything soft or comforting, rigid with rules and regulations? Had Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung come from a place like this? You don’t know and you’re not sure you’d like the answer if you did. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice,” Mr. Seo starts, popping open the hinges on his briefcase and pulling out a few sheaves of paper. “After the sudden cancellation of your company’s contract with Ms. L/N, I was concerned for the state of our business relationship.” He slides one of the packets across the desk to the director. 

“If I remember correctly,” Director Lim says, scanning the lines of ink and unintelligible legalese, “Me and your boss signed for delivery, not me and whoever this little girl is you brought.” 

Your eyes narrow and your lips curl, but before you can give voice to the nasty thing crawling up your throat, Mr. Seo gives a subtle shake of his head and taps you twice on the knee, out of eyeshot of the director. You grumble, but cage it behind your teeth. 

“See?” The man jabs one gnarled finger at the page, right over your late uncle’s flourishing signature. “It says it right there: L/N Oliver. Last I checked, he was dead. I’m not holding on to a dead man’s dogs. ”

That same muscle tenses in Mr. Seo’s jaw. “The contract states that Black Mountain Canines would deliver the hybrids my client purchased to his residence on December the eighteenth and that they would be received by a proxy if he was unavailable. You were made aware of the fact that he was unavailable, as well as the fact that he now has a proxy-

“I’ll pay the goddamn fine!” The Director barks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Christ above, I don’t know why he wanted those two fuck-ups in the first place, but I don’t want them on my property a second longer.” 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look of confusion, but he just watches, blasé, as the Director rifles through his desk drawers. The man finds what he’s looking for and drops two manila folders on top of the contract. “The pair of them are useless. If it weren’t for my reputation, I’d’ve had them both sent to shelters years ago. Or put down, but you know how touchy the law is about that.”

“I don’t.” You say, your voice edging dangerously close to a snarl. It slips out before you can stop it. Mr. Seo shoots you a warning look and you ball your fists up in your sweater sleeves, fingernails biting crescent moons into your palms with the effort of keeping your mouth shut. 

You can’t stand this man, you decide. He’s awful. You should’ve known that from the moment you saw elementary school aged hybrids stumbling through taekwondo drills with their ears taped and bandages on their tails. You’re going to take whatever hybrids Oliver bought, get them the fuck out of there and never look back. 

If Director Lim had heard you growl at him, he gives no sign of it, just flips open the folders. “To be honest, I should be paying you to take them off my hands. They’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass since they aged out of training. I told your uncle he could have his pick of the litter for what he was paying, but he wanted a wide-eyed buffoon and a mutt who’d rip your hand off soon as look at you.” Clipped to the insides are photos of two men, staring back at you in black and white. 

One has the same black and tan cropped ears as every other hybrid you’ve seen thus far. Unlike them, he’s smiling. His eyes are little upturned crescent moons and he beams at you through the photo paper. There’s so much light in his face it’s nearly blinding. 

The other is not nearly as inviting. The photo is taken at an odd angle and it’s blurry at the edges, like whoever took it was much shorter than the subject and had to zoom in to even get the shot. His ears, larger than any of the other hybrids and longer furred, are pinned back against his head. His jaw is clenched and he glowers down into the lens, one eye soot black and the other piercing blue. 

There are stats listed on the pages behind their photos: height, weight, shot records and the like. Among them, you see their call signs, highlighted in yellow: Hope and Monster. 

“I don’t know where I went wrong with him,” the director says, tapping Hope’s photo. “He went through all the training, passed all the tests, but when it comes down to it, he just doesn’t have the instinct.” He gives a single shake of his head, clicks the tip of his tongue against his teeth. “No one wants a guard dog that’d sooner talk an intruder’s ear off than actually guard what he’s supposed to. He’s not good for much but nannying the pups, but he’s too soft on them too.”

A light bulb clicks on and you realize the hybrid in question had been the one instructing the kids outside in the center of the yard, his tail wagging a mile a minute as they completed another form correctly.

“Now this bastard…” the director continues, jamming a finger onto the second photo with so much force, it rattled the cup of pens on his desk. “Is my biggest failure.” He crosses his arms and kicks back in his chair, his dislike of the hybrid in question obvious. “His mother was the cornerstone of this facility for nearly a decade. I sold her pups to assemblymen and actors alike. Centers around the country wanted pups with her genetics. If it weren’t for her, we’d never have grown to this size.” He sounds wistful as he spreads his hands out, gesturing around himself like a king taking in his holdings. “But all good things come to an end,” He sighs. “A pack of wild hybrids settled a little higher up on the mountain.” His face darkens and his lips twist. “Wolves,” he snarls with all the disdain he can muster. 

“All that about them being noble and self-sacrificing? Complete and utter bullshit,” He scoffs. “They’re transient lowlifes who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. At first I didn’t care. They stayed on their side of the mountain and I stayed on mine, but then they started sneaking down here at night to steal my food and fuck my dogs. By the time I managed to get the cops out here, they’d cleared out and my top breeder had gone with them.”

He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “I tell you, I thought I was ruined. But wouldn’t you know it, she came stumbling back here six months later, barefoot and howling to be let in and heavy with some wild thing’s pup.” Director Lim snaps both the folders shut and slides them to you across the desk. “The thing about breeding hybrids is, the money’s all in the bloodlines. No one wants a dog with mystery genetics. The only way to solve that problem is to cut it off at the root- but it was already too late by the time she got here.” 

You feel sick to your stomach. You hope he isn’t implying what you think he is- that hybrid children he hadn’t planned out himself were mistakes in need of correction- but you know he is. Deep in your gut you know.

“And she spoiled him. She let him run roughshod over everyone and everybody in this compound. I tried telling her wild hybrids need a firmer hand- he certainly did if we were gonna break that wolf he’s got inside him, but she wouldn’t hear it. I tried to crop him with the other pups his age, he gave me these,” he said, gesturing to the teeth marks in his cheeks. “We keep him shut up away from the others, now, in the back when he can’t bother anyone. He gets his meals delivered but we don’t ever let him out.” The grizzled man shakes his head. “A drain on resources is what he is.”

“And his mother?” You ask, quietly. 

“Eunjung?” he questions. “You met her on the way in.” The director stands and unclips a ring of keys from his belt buckle, making his way around the desk and gesturing for you and Mr. Seo to follow. “I’ve got her doing desk work now. Gotta keep her close so she doesn’t cause any more trouble.” He pushes open the door to his office, barks something at his secretary and steps outside, not looking back to see if you two are following. 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look before you stand and he meets it, evenly. “We’ll discuss this in the car,” he says, stuffing papers back into his briefcase and flicking the clasps shut. Oh, you most certainly will discuss ‘it’ in the car. 

You don’t really know what it is or where to even begin. The kids with bandaged ears? The fact that Director Lim seemingly decided who was allowed to see the sun and who wasn’t? You think back to the conversation you’d had with Jimin, Taehyung and Yoongi last night. Right now, it seems years away, in some unreachable, idyllic past before you knew how breeding centers worked and how security hybrids were made. You feel foolish. Who were you to try to get them to let go of their pain and their hurt? If what they’d been through was even a little like what was going on here, they wouldn’t be able to for a long time. You’re angry. You’re disgusted. You are unquantifiably fucking sad. 

You pass Eunjung on your way out. In your time in the director’s office, she’s pulled her ash brown hair into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Peeking out of the collar of her sweatshirt you can see a faded scar in the shape of a ring, little puncture marks pale and glossy. It looked similar to the one on the director’s cheek, but this one was a complete circle and not ragged at all, like she’d stayed completely still while it was given. Teeth marks. 

You swallow. You want to do something, to give her some words of encouragement, but you have no idea what to say. You still don’t as you slow to a stop beside her desk, but you open your mouth to speak anyway. “I’m sorry,” You tell her, with all the sincerity in your heart. 

She doesn’t answer, but one cropped ear flicks toward you and her fingers slow in their incessant race across her keyboard. 

You turn to go. Mr. Seo was holding the door open for you and you can hear the director barking orders at a group of trainees to run an obstacle course faster. Just as you set foot over the threshold, she speaks. Her voice is so quiet, you have to strain to hear her over the steady clack-click-clack of her nails on the keys. 

“He likes green things,” she says, not looking up from her work. “And old books.” 

You look over your shoulder at her. Her face is a mask of neutrality, her eyes clear and her mouth set in a relaxed line. She looks fine, but there’s an ocean of meaning behind her words. You see her, just for a moment, as she’d been all those years ago, barefoot in the snow and begging for shelter, her stomach full with one of the moon’s own children. You commit the sight of her to memory. Then you turn and you go.

The director is waiting outside, shielding his eyes from the sun and regaling Mr. Seo with some long-winded explanation on the best way to treat hip dysplasia in Doberman hybrids. “Where to?” you ask, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. 

The man gives you a disgruntled look but despite the anxiety you feel spiking in your belly, you meet it evenly. Once upon a time, anyone in a position of authority looking at you the way he was would’ve sent you into a tailspin of self-doubt and nerves, leaving you shivering as your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, warning you of non-existent danger. If you were honest, it still did- but you didn’t have the luxury of running away and hiding anymore, not when there were people who needed you. 

“Hope’s bags are in the barracks. He just needs to grab them, and he can be on his merry way,” The direction grunts. “Monster’s still locked up, so I’ll-”

“I’ll go.” You can feel Mr. Seo stiffen beside you. 

“Ms. Y/N-”

“If he’s really that aggressive,” you start, your eyes not leaving the director’s for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to meet him now instead of when we’re packed into a car on a two hour car ride?” Director Lim narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t falter. You hold your hand out for the key. Your boldness surprises you. He drops the key ring into your open palm and you wrap your fingers around it, stuffing it in your pocket before he can snatch them back. You turn on your heels and march off in the direction he tilts his head in, nothing but a hiss of your name from Mr. Seo’s lips to accompany you. 

You walk quickly, eyes straight and willing your legs to go faster with every stride. It’s a long way across the compound but the less time you spend walking, the less time you have to stew in anxiety. None of the hybrids training in little packs spread across the yard pay you any mind- except for Hope. 

Your path takes you directly behind the group of kids he’s working with. You give them a wide berth, not wanting to disturb them, but you get a little distracted. Your steps slow for just a moment as you drink him in. He’s tall- the same height as Taehyung, if you’re judging it right, but there’s an ease about him the tiger hybrid hasn’t yet mastered. Everything about Taehyung is pulled in. He’s always coiled tight, like he’s preparing to spring forward at any moment, all his energy drawn into the center of his being. Even last night, when you’d been cuddled up with him on the couch, he’d pulled you tight against his side, shifting and rearranging himself til you both fit on one cushion. He’d held you tight through both films, his tail curled around the both of you and his spine tight, like if he let himself relax for a moment, you’d both turn to dust on the wind. 

Hope has no such fear. Everything about him is spread wide open, from the heart-shaped smile on his lips to his arms as he demonstrates a series of punches to his little pack of students. They all watch him with rapt attention, ears perked up and bandaged tails wagging. One of them asks him a question and he laughs, ruffles their hair. He laughs in a way you’ve never seen before, shoulders shaking like he can’t contain the force of it alone. It makes your heart flip. 

His ears twitch, picking up the change in the cadence of your footsteps. He looks up and your eyes meet for the first time. He looks surprised to see you, for a moment, face blank- but then it melts into a soft smile, brimming with affection you’ve done nothing to earn. You snatch your gaze away and fix it to the dirt in front of you, embarrassed at being caught. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him cock his head to the side in confusion, but he doesn’t go after you. All the better, you’re all but running away from him now. 

You shuffle across the compound in a blur of scuffed sneakers and frayed nerves. You barely give yourself time to look up at the small cinder block building before you, shoving the key in the padlock before you can lose what unearned confidence you have left. You twist it, yank the rusted thing open, take a deep breath and enter.

You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but it’s certainly not what you find. The way Director Lim had spoken about him and this place, you’d been expecting cobwebs on the ceiling, blood spatters on the wall and rusty nails on the floor. What’s before you is almost entirely the opposite.

The room is a veritable Eden. 

There are vines climbing every available wall, wrapping around structural posts and digging their way between concrete blocks. Every surface is crammed full of flowering plants in makeshift pots: lilies in old water jugs, violets in a worn out boot, black-eyed susans dripping orange petals from an upturned helmet. The floor is in a similar state, ferns and foxgloves turning what little space around his bed there is into a meadow. It’s beautiful. 

“He likes green things,” you marvel, stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind you. It seemed every living thing that’d been uprooted to expand the compound had found a second life here, sheltered from the Director’s violence. Maybe the hybrid who lived here had too. 

A plant different from all the others catches your eye. It’s set up on the cardboard box serving as his bedside table and it’s the only one in a real pot from what you can tell. It looks just like a miniature tree, complete with knobs on it’s trunk and tiny leaves. You let out a little sound of wonder and crouch in front of it, your fingers reaching out on their own to trail across the delicate branches-

A massive hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you cold. “Don’t touch that.” 

You hadn’t heard him approach, but now you knew he was there. You could feel his presence behind you, heavy and warm. He’s looming over you. You swallow and make your arm go limp in his grip. No need to give him a reason. “I won’t,” You tell him. “Will you please let go of my wrist?”

He drops your arm without protest and relief floods your body. You weren’t sure if there was a hybrid version of lockjaw and you certainly weren’t itching to find out. You sit back on your heels and struggle to your feet, still hyper aware of the person behind you, his eyes boring holes into the back of your head. By the time you turn around, he’s back where he came from, standing in the entrance for a bathroom you hadn’t seen, half hidden behind a curtain of vines. 

He looks different than the others. You’d been expecting that, but the full-length fluffy tail held stiffly behind his back and the long-furred ears pointed away from you are still a surprise. His fur, instead of being in rigid black and tan points, is marked by whorls of black, brown and gray. Instead of the lean musculature all the other hybrids had -all trim waists and narrow ankles- he’s sturdier, his shoulders broad and the veins in his forearms popping as he clenches his fists. He’s looking at you with that mismatched glare, his chin tilted toward his chest and his eyes shining aquamarine and obsidian. 

“If you’re new,” he starts, voice raspy. “They should’ve told you: you’re supposed to knock before you come in.”

“No, I’m not-”

“You can leave the food over there.” He nods toward a little plastic folding table jammed into one corner. It’s the one surface in his room that’s devoid of plants and there’s nothing on it besides a metal cafeteria tray, licked clean. “I won’t move when your back is turned.”

“I’m not here to deliver your food.”

He frowns, brows drawing together as his shoulders tense. “Then why are you…?”

You ball your hands up in your sweater sleeves and turn to face him full on. “I’m here to take you home with me.” You tell him. “They didn’t tell you?”

He laughs, but it’s a cold sound, devoid of joy. “Nobody tells me anything.”

Based on the short conversation you’d had with Director Lim, his sudden cancellation of contracts and the way he seemed ready to bulldoze over anything and everyone that didn’t fit his agenda, he didn’t seem the sharing type. Still it was hard to believe he hadn’t told him he’d be leaving the compound that’s been his home for over twenty years. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” you add, softly. “If you don’t want to. I know I’m a stranger. But you can leave-”

“I can’t go anywhere.” He taps the collar around his neck. At first, you’d thought it was the same as the ones every other hybrid had been wearing. You can see now that it isn’t. Theirs had all been leather with thin silver buckles holding them in place. His was leather too, but the band was broader and double-layered. There’s a little box on the side with hinges and a small drawing of a lighting bolt. A shock collar. 

Your stomach turns. 

You take a slow step toward him, but the second you do, his ears go flat against his head and he pulls his lips back, revealing sharp teeth. You freeze, hands held up and the keys dangling from your thumb. “I have the keys,” you say, extending them toward him. 

His eyes flick from your face, to the keys in your hand and back again, like he doesn’t believe what’s happening, like he can’t believe you’d actually want him free. The silence drags out into a little eternity before he speaks again. “If I try to unlock it, it’ll shock me.”

You blink up at him and risk another slow step forward, hoping you’ve caught his meaning correctly. This time, he doesn’t growl but his ears stay pinned back as he watches you through narrowed eyes. You close the distance between the two of you. 

When you were six, your mom scraped together enough money to take you to Busan for your birthday. You’d spent the day down at the beach, building sand castles with sea shell windows and wading through tide pools. After the sun had set, someone had set off fireworks and you’d watched them cuddled up in your mom’s arms, eyes wide and filled with a riot of colors you had no name for. It’s strange, you know. The ocean is miles away, but that’s what he smells like: the sea and the sand, and the last curls of smoke from homemade bottle rockets. He smells like that day. 

You lift your hands to the clasp on his neck and slide the key home. You twist it and the collar falls to the ground, a monster that can’t hurt him anymore. His skin is warm under your fingers, but puckered with scar tissue. There’s a ring of it around his neck, branching with whatever current had run through him in different directions. There’s no way this was legal, no way anyone with half a heart could treat another person like this. Your fingers trail one of the splits over his adam’s apple and he swallows beneath your touch, snatching your wrist again. 

“Dont.” His voice is cold. You blink, shaking off whatever spell you’d been under and shuffle back quickly, eager to give him space. He cradles his throat with one long-fingered hand, massaging the skin. He rolls his neck and you look away. You shouldn’t stare; the last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable. “I’ll go with you,” he rasps, answering the question before you can ask it again.

You gape for a second. You really hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Really?” You can’t stop a note of relief from creeping into your voice.

“Anywhere’s better than here.” He answers back. So, you were a means to an end. It doesn’t bother you. You’ll be whatever you need to be to get him away from this place and that man who seemed to only want to drive him down. 

“Do you need time to pack, or-?”

He gives a firm shake of his head. “There’s nothing from this place I want to keep.” And that’s the end of it. You push open the door and stride back out into the cold mountain air, trying your best to exude the confidence you know you lack. The hybrid slinks behind you, head hunched between his shoulders and every step stiff. He hesitates at the threshold and looks up at you, uncertainty written in the rigid line of his spine. He’s nervous. He has every right to be. 

How long had he spent in that little cinderblock room, shut away from every living thing? How long had he spent being told that he was a monster? You didn’t believe it, not for one second. No one who was as violent as the director had painted him out to be could’ve raised that garden. 

He leans out of the door frame, sniffs the air and lurches forward, out of the shadow of his room, His shoulders bunch up even higher around his head and he goes stiff like he’s waiting for a shock or a shot or a shout- but none comes. The sun is still shining and he’s barefoot in the sand, standing for the first time in years under the open sky. He exhales in a short puff and it looks like he’s going to walk beside you- but he turns on his heels on goes back inside. 

You make a little noise of distress in the back of your throat. Had he changed his mind? Did he not want to come with you anymore? You go to call his name out of concern- but realize you don’t know it. All you have is the call sign he’d been given and you sure as fuck aren’t calling him ‘Monster’. You don’t have to flounder for long. He comes back out two seconds later, cradling the bonsai that’d caught your attention to his chest. 

“I’ll take this,” he mutters, shuffling into place behind you. You can’t smother the smile that starts tugging at your lips. Yeah, no one hateful would hold a little tree with as much tenderness as an infant. 

You give him a little nod. “There’s a terrace where I live,” you tell him, starting your trek across the yard once again. “It’s got a garden and a little greenhouse on it. It’s not very big, and it’s not as pretty as your’s, but you could grow new things there, if you wanted.”

His ears twitch in response, but he keeps his glower firmly focused on the plant in his arms as he shuffles along beside you. It’s then you notice he’s barefoot. “Do you wanna go back and get your shoes?” You ask, trying to make the question sound as innocuous as possible.

“Don’t have any,” he grumbles back. “Don’t need them; I never go outside.” 

Alright, that was understandable. Your first stop when you got back into the city would be a shoe store to get him a pair to wear- or maybe not with the way he kept flinching every time a whistle blew and his ears were swivelling like satellites at each new sound that reached them. You chew the inside of your lip. You don’t want to ask, but you know you should. Better to rip the bandaid off now, than get surprised later. “How long were you shut in for?”

“Fourteen.” He bites out. 

“...weeks?” You venture. There's a hopeful uptick at the end of your words. Even that would’ve been horrible, even that would be worthy of the litany of profanity you’re mentally lobbing at Director Lim- but it’s still better than the truth. 

The hybrid cuts a flat look at you out of the corner of his eyes. “Years.” 

A wall of your scent hits him like a freight train, vacillating between the thick, cloying odor of sadness and the burn of anger. His nose wrinkles at it, brows drawing together in confusion. 

However little you might’ve known about hybrids, however limited your view of them was, you knew they weren’t supposed to be locked up. Domesticated hybrids like hamsters and cats might’ve been fine inside a house all day, assuming they still had regular interaction with people- but dogs weren’t. And he was half wolf. Wild, he’d have had dozens of square miles to roam over, and he’d been limited to a four-by-four yard room for fourteen years. Your goshiwon was a similar size, but it hadn’t been your whole world. All he’d had was one tiny window and what narrow view he’d managed to glimpse in the doorway when his meals were delivered. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’re cut off by a scream of delight and a snarl keying up in the hybrid next to you’s chest. Your jaw snaps shut with a click. 

A few yards ahead, there’s a group of kids wrestling in a massive pile. They’re all giggling and rolling over each other, tails wagging a mile a minute as they play bite and make grabs for the person at the center of their puppy pile. A head of black hair and a pair of cropped ears pop up and you see that it’s Hope, smiling bright as the sun as his students try to pin him. 

“You can’t leave!” One particularly determined kid yips, adamantly pushing his shoulder back to the sand. “Who’s gonna teach us?”

Hope just laughs.”Lisa is gonna teach you with the older kids-“

A chorus of disappointed barks and howls breaks out. “Ms. Lisa’s classes are too hard!” A little girl complains.

“Yeah!” Someone else chimes in. “And she’s strict!” 

The hybrid ruffles both kid’s hair affectionately, careful of their bandaged ears. “Just because she won’t let you get away with skipping night practice doesn’t mean she’s strict,” he laughs. He’s only met with more grumbles and complaints. 

It warms your heart to see. Even if these kids were at the mercy of their director -for now, at least- it was good that they had him to rely on. Your eyes meet and the sheer force of light in his face makes your own heat up. You look away, but he’s spotted you. He disentangles himself from the mess of kids and draws himself up to his full height. He’s in the same uniform he was in before, albeit with a black tactical bag now strapped to his back. He takes a step toward you and the wolfdog hybrid's ears go flat against his skull. He’s not deterred. “Joonie?”  It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to the hybrid next to you. “Kim Namjoon, is that you?” Hope takes one step forward and the hybrid - Namjoon - takes a step back to counter him. Hope looks like he’s going to advance again, but a small pair of hands wrapped around one of his own stops him. 

A little girl is holding on to him. She can’t be more than six years old. Her tail is still long and her ears are still floppy and she looks so small in her child-sized boots and cargo pants. “Mr. Hobi,” she whines, her head craned back to look up at him. “Please don’t go.”

He falters. His eyes flick from the pair of you back down to her, then he crouches, holds both of her hands in his. “I have to, Sowon-ah,” he says softly. 

She sniffles pitifully and juts out her lower lip.”But why?” 

It’s a fair question. You’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to come with you if he  doesn’t want to, but he beats you to the punch. “Because it’s my job, sweetheart,” he tells her, smiling softly.

“Y-your job is to teach us,” she hiccups back, face growing blotchy as tears well up in her eyes. Hope swipes one of them away with his thumbs. 

“I teach you so you can grow up well and protect your person, right?” She nods, little hands balling the fabric of her cargo pants up in her fists. “Right. Well this,” he continues, turning and looking at you with a soft smile. “Is my person. And I’ve gotta go make sure she stays safe.” 

You feel your heart jump into your throat. He’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky and you don’t deserve it. You’ve done nothing to warrant that much unearned loyalty. Sowon rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands and Hope pulls her into a tight hug. 

“Ah, don’t cry, Sowon! You’ve gotta make sure you get stronger so someone takes you home, okay? You don’t wanna get old and still be here like me, right?” He squeezes her and goes to stand, but gets mobbed by his students again, all wanting their own hugs and making him swear to write them letters. It takes another five minutes of tearful goodbyes and Director Lim approaching for them to turn him loose.

“Get back to your training, all of you!” He barks, stomping out of the office and slamming the door, Mr. Seo on his heels. The kids scatter to the four winds almost instantly, not wanting to be underfoot for whatever scolding the director was about to deal out. Hope’s face remains the same but you catch his ears droop just a little as his students leave him. The wolfdog hybrid- Namjoon, you remind yourself- on the other hand has his ears flat against his skull. A growl bubbles up in his chest and rips past his lips. It’s a dark, full bodied thing that has you taking a step back and Hope shrinking with a whine. 

“Joonie-” he pleads. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” All the fur on Namjoon’s body is standing on end, from the points of his ears to the tip of his tail. Even his hair has fluffed out. His mismatched eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl that reveals his incisors and all that fury, all that rage, is leveled on Director Lim. 

To his credit, the grizzled man doesn’t shrink back an inch before the enraged hybrid. His lips twist and he yanks a little remote out of his pocket, mashing a red button in the center. Namjoon flinches, his hands fly to his neck- but nothing happens. The shock collar is gone and the director has no power over him anymore. 

The man in question’s eyes widen, flicking between the remote to the column of Namjoon’s throat, now devoid of his one element of control. “Where’s his collar?” He demands. “How the hell did you get your collar off?” He advances on the tall hybrid, his hand in the air and though he doesn’t stop snarling, Namjoon ducks his head, anticipating the blow. 

You don’t know what moves you. Maybe it’s Hope pleading for it all to ‘stop, just stop!’. Maybit’s how Namjoon knows exactly how to move when he’s about to get hit. Maybe it’s your own lack of self-preservation. Whatever it is, you blink and you’re in front of Namjoon, your hand up and clutching the director’s forearm, stopping him from striking the hybrid behind you. You’re not strong enough to stop him, not fully. Your elbow buckles in and you stumble back, your back pressing into the wolfdog hybrid’s chest.

The director yells something at you, red flooding his face. You can’t hear him over the rushing of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart. You force a dry swallow down your throat, put on your bravest face and glare up at him. “Don’t hurt him anymore.”

He reaches out with his free hand to tug you out of the way, but before he can touch you, Hope is there. He presses close to your side and holds the director’s wrist firm, his eyes on the sand and his shoulders hunched up by his ears.

Director Lim looks angry enough to spit. “Hell of a time for you to grow a backbone,” he snarls at Hope, making the doberman hybrid flinch. “I want all four of you off my property now.” He snatched his arms free and you don’t miss the nasty glare he casts at Namjoon. “And if this mutt ever shows his face around here again, I’ll-”

“Director Lim,” Mr. Seo cuts in, his voice cool. “You’ve made yourself clear; we’ll leave. You needn’t make threats.” There’s an underlying warning in the attorney’s voice. The director locks his jaw.

“Get out.” He breathes. Hope ducks around him, his head low and his docked tail pressed close to his back. If he could tuck it, you think he would. You follow after him, eyes fixed straight ahead and your back ramrod straight. He might’ve scared the shit out of you, but you weren’t going to let him see that. Mr. Seo fixes you with a hard look and the second you’re within arms reach, he presses a hand to your back and ushers you toward the gate. The only one who remains is Namjoon.

He looks like his anger has rooted him to the spot. His ears are still flat against his head, his lip still curled. 

“Do it, boy,” the director taunts. “Give me a reason-”

“Namjoon.” At the sound of his name, his ears prick up and you turn around. It’d come not from Hope- which you’d expected, seeing as he seemed to be the only one who actually knew his fellow hybrid’s name- but from the open door of the office building where Eunjung stood. She looks at him, her expression unreadable and he stares back. All the tension in his body has shifted and for a moment, you think he’s going to spring toward her and fall into her arms- but she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head and his face hardens. His arms tighten around his bonsai. You think you know, now, why it was the only plant in his room that had a pot. 

“Go,” she says and all the tension leaves him. His shoulders curve in and he drags himself past the director, out from the fence and toward Mr. Seo’s car. There’s something final about the way the gate rolls shut after him. If you hadn’t known better, you’d’ve sworn you heard him whine as it locked. 

The car ride down the mountain is...interesting to say the least. Hope insists that the seating arrangements inside the Buick be done to his specifications,( “You’ve gotta sit in the middle,” he tells you, pointing to the narrow center seat. “And Joonie and I will sit on either side of you to protect you in case we crash!” His tail is wagging a mile a minute behind him. You’re surprised it can move that much, given how short it is. Mr. Seo looks affronted at the unintentional jab at his driving and Namjoon just looks irritated. “I told you to stop calling me that.”) and he keeps throwing an arm across your middle everytime the car hits a bump. You’re going down the side of a mountain. There are a lot of bumps. He also keeps pressing his nose against the glass of his window, ears pricked up and trying to take in every tree that passes by. Namjoon, on the other hand, slouches back in his seat, his body curved around his plant and ever so slightly away from you. He still watches the world pass by, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of you or speak- which would be fine if anyone else would. Hope seems to be doing his best to appear stoic and alert every time you look at him and Mr. Seo seems comfortable with the quiet. So, you’re left to ride the two hours back to Seoul in silence. 

You almost cry with relief when your phone buzzes with an incoming text. You fish the device out of your pocket, thumb it to life and scan your notifications.

Unknown Sender [7:13 PM] where are you

You frown. Very few people had your number or any reason to text you. You’re about to chalk it up to a wrong number when the second text rolls in.

Unknown Sender [7:14 PM] it’s yoongi

Now that’s a surprise. When you’d hurriedly told the boys to text you, you’d been expecting Jimin to urge you to hurry or for Taehyung to ask for updates, not for their hyung to check your progress. A little smile pricks at your lips as you rush to reply

You [7:14 PM] We’re on the way back now!

Unknown Sender has been changed to Yoongi 

Yoongi [7:14 PM] can i call

You bite the inside of your lip, suddenly nervous. You know there’s no reason to be. After all, you tell yourself, what’s scary about a pair of roommates talking on the phone? You give him the go ahead and not three seconds after the delivered notification pops up, you get a call. You answer it on speaker.

“...Hello?”

“Did you just start driving?” Yoongi’s voice is thick with sleep, like he’s just woken up. It’s different than normal, his usual smooth drawl gone gravelly. 

“Y-yeah,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Hope is watching you out of the corner of his eyes and Namjoon’s ears have swiveled back toward you. “It’s gonna be awhile, still. Are Taehyung and Jimin-”

“They’re fine; They ate dinner earlier and they’ll be asleep til you get back.” He yawns and you picture him slouched on the couch, his hair mashed up on one side and his face puffy.  “Why do you sound nervous?”

“I’m not,” you counter. It’s a blatant lie and he knows it. He hums in doubt, but doesn’t press you.

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Do you want me to text you when we’re close?” It’s an innocuous question. There’s no reason you can see for him to pause as long as he does. For a second you think you’ve lost him- after all, mountains aren’t known for having great reception- but then you hear his breath fan over the receiver. 

“...Yeah.” 

You give a little nod you know he can’t see. “Okay.” He makes a little noise of assent and then his line clicks off. You hang up. Just as you do, another text comes through. 

Yoongi [7:16 PM] don’t let them scent you

“Who was that?” Hope asks in a small voice, pulling you away from your phone screen and Yoongi’s insistence that you remain scent-free. His tone is open, but you can tell by the way his knee is bouncing that he really, really wants to know. “Is that your husband?”

The bark of laughter that rips past your lips is out before you can think to stop it. Namjoon flinches and you wince at him in apology, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. Hope is frowning at you in confusion, his head cocked slightly to the side. You force yourself to calm and answer him. “No, Yoongi is not my husband.” You weren’t sure if you even really qualified as friends at this point. “He’s another hybrid that lives with me.”

Hope perks up in his seat. “You have another hybrid? Director Lim always told us that once we left the center, we’d be alone.” Your expression sours at the mention of the ill-tempered man and you shake your head. 

“No, there’s a lot of hybrids in Seoul,” you tell him, eager to dispel some of his misconceptions. “The three that live with me are named Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung. Yoongi’s around your age, I think. Jimin and Taehyung are younger.” The doberman hybrid sits at rapt attention, soaking up every bit of information you give him and waiting eagerly for more. What else could you tell him about them? You remember the boys’ reaction that morning when you told them you’d be bringing dog hybrids home. “...They’re all felines,” you say, slowly, trying to gauge their reactions. 

“So that’s why you smell like that.” It’s the first words Namjoon’s spoken since you all piled into the car. You turn to him, but he’s not looking at you.

“What do you-?”

“You smell like other hybrids,” Hope says, covering for him. “But I’ve never smelled any that weren’t other dogs before.” He leans closer, his seatbelt stretching. You tense and lean away from him, but he’s not deterred. The tip of his nose brushes your neck and you have to fight off a shiver as he breathes you in. “They smell the same…” he starts, his breath fanning over your throat. “...but different? And one of them isn’t as strong as the others-” He presses closer, trying to catch the scent that’s eluding him. You make a noise of mild distress and lean further back, pressing into the solid wall that is Namjoon. 

“Hoseok, let it go .” Hoseok. That was his real name then. To your surprise, the dog hybrid pulls back as instructed, settling back into his seat without so much as a whine.

“I’ve never met a cat before,” he muses, turning his attention back to the window. “I hope they’re nice.”

You think about the chorus of hisses you’d been met with when you told the boys they’d have to share their space. You hope so too.

It’s 9:30 by the time Mr. Seo drops you off back in front of your building. He wishes you a good night and promises to call later in the week to discuss Black Mountain Canines. You’re not sure if there’s anyone to report him to or anything you can do, but you want to try. What you’d seen at the compound was wrong any way you looked at it. It made you sick to leave anyone there knowing how the director treated Namjoon and Hoseok. No one was useless. No one deserved to be locked away for years at a time for the sheer crime of existing. You’d make them see that. 

The moment you step out of the car, Hoseok is all wide smiles and exclamations. “Woah, you live here?” he asks, tilting his head back to take in all fifty-one floors of Haneul Tower in their sparkling, glass-paned glory.

“Yeah,” you tell him, handing him his bag. In his excitement to get out of the car, he’d abandoned it and Mr. Seo had nearly driven away with it. “But I just moved in a couple days ago, so it’s still pretty empty.”

Hoseok nods, scanning the windows like he’ll be able to pick out which one’s your’s. Behind you, Namjoon is lingering on the sidewalk.

He’s still got his bonsai clutched close to his chest and he’s hunched down around it like he’s trying to stop unseen hands from picking at it. His shoulders are bunched up by his ears, and he flinches with every car horn, every siren that comes to you on the wind. He’d grown up in the mountains and spent the better part of his life indoors. It only made sense that he’d be sensitive to the sounds of the city. 

“Is there a security system?” Hoseok asks, still enamored with the building. “How many entrances does your apartment have?”

“Just one second,” you tell him, forehead wrinkling as you take in Namjoon. You slide slowly toward the wolfdog, not wanting to startle him. “Namjoon?” He flinches when you call his name, head whipping toward you. “Do you wanna go inside? I know it’s new, but it’ll be quieter, I think.”

His mismatched eyes flick from you, to Hoseok, to the building and back to you before settling firmly on the concrete at his feet. He seems different than he had in the mountains. He’s smaller, quieter, less sure of himself. Was it because this is all new territory for him? Or had the snarling hybrid in the mountains just been a roll he was forced to play, the mythic monster to the director’s tyrant king. 

“You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to,” you tell him, in a voice you hope is reassuring. “We can wait, if you need to.”

“I’ll wait with you, Joonie,” Hope chimes in, giving the larger hybrid the same soft smile he’d given his students earlier. 

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It...it’s fine,” he mutters, “We can go in, I just…” He takes a few hesitant steps forward and huddles closer to you. There’s still an inch between you, but it’s closer than you’d thought he’d come. 

You peer up at him. “Okay?” You ask. He gives a single nod and your little group moves through the double doors and into the lobby. 

It’s quieter at this time of night. You don’t recognize the woman standing behind the reception desk. There’s no one really around except one man, pacing the width of the lobby looking thoroughly put out. You can’t really see his face, but there’s something familiar about the slant of his body. He whirls around as the glass doors click shut and you catch sight of a fringe of gray hair, pointed ears, narrowed yellow eyes and an all too familiar pout. 

Yoongi. 

“Fuck.” You’d completely forgotten to text him. Judging by the look on his face as he stalks toward you, he wasn’t happy about it. To his credit, Hoseok does his best to guard you, sliding in front of you and pushing you behind him. You can’t see Yoongi’s ears beneath the hat he’s wearing but if his curled lip and narrowed eyes are any indicator, they’re pinned straight back. 

“Move.” He snarls at the doberman hybrid. Hoseok is taller than he is, but the closer Yoongi gets to him, the smaller he seems to shrink. There’s fire in the bobcat hybrid’s eyes. Hope whimpers and slinks out of his way, ears low. 

You wince. “Heeeeey, Yoongi. I’m sorry I forg-“ before you can even finish the sentence, he tugs you toward him by the shoulders. His face roves your neck, sniffing in earnest as he tries to pick up the scent of the other hybrids on you. All is well until he reaches the right side of your throat and grazes over the exact spot Hoseok had nosed earlier. He pulls away slowly, his shoulders tight. His head turns slowly to the doberman hybrid, mechanical. 

“You.” He hisses at the other hybrid with so much virulence it makes your blood run cold. He takes one step toward him, teeth bared in a snarl, but Namjoon slides in front of him bumping him back. A growl bubbles in the bobcat hybrid’s chest and the wolfdog matches it, both their ears pinned flat against their skulls. 

“Hey-” If either of them hear you, they don’t react. They’re too focused on having a staring contest. “Hey!” You push between them, a hand on either of their chests. Namjoon snarls as you touch him and Yoongi looks ready to skin him alive for that alone. He pushes against your hand, trying to get closer to the taller hybrid. You ball your hand up in the fabric of his shirt. “Stop it!” The receptionist already has the lobby phone in her hand. She’s whispering earnestly into it and you’re sure security will be on the way any second. You exhale and squeeze your eyes shut. “Everybody, elevator.” 

Yoongi hurls an accusatory finger in Hoseok’s direction. “These fucking-”

“Yoongi, please,” you plead. That gets him to stop. His arm falls to his side and he glowers down at you for a few seconds before stalking over to the elevators and slamming the up button. “I’m sorry,” you murmur to Hoseok and Namjoon. The smaller of the two hybrids is still hunched in on himself and the taller has Yoongi fixed in his mismatched gaze, his lips curled in anger. 

This was not the way you wanted this to go. You’d wanted them to have time to settle before you discussed next steps and gave them the same talk you’d given the felines, but it didn’t look like that was in the cards. You don’t know what’s gotten into Yoongi. You’d thought the bobcat hybrid was calm, cool and collected, completely unflappable in the face of anything. Apparently not. He seemed upset that some of Hoseok’s scent had gotten on you, but there’d been no way to help that. You’d been packed in a car with him and Namjoon for two hours. It was inevitable, wasn’t it?

“It’s not okay,” you tell them, wanting them to know you didn’t condone the way Yoongi had acted. “I don’t...I don’t know why he’s acting like this; he doesn’t normally. Do you wanna go up separately?”

It’s Hoseok who answers. “No, we’ll go up together,” he assures you with a small nod. “If...maybe if we get used to each other, it’ll be okay?” 

You’re not optimistic, but you give him a pained smile you hope is reassuring. “Yeah, maybe?” You cast a look back over your shoulders. Yoongi is waiting by the elevators, his arms crossed over his chest and his tail flicking in irritation. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Well, there was no avoiding it. “Come on,” you tell them. “Just...keep to the other side, for now. I’ll stand between you and him.” 

The four of you pile into the elevator, all tucked into your own corners. It’s strange, you think. It’s never seemed small until now. Hoseok keeps casting worried looks over at you, Namjoon keeps subtly shifting closer and Yoongi is still glowering at the both of them, angry for a reason you can’t quantify. 

“If it helps,” Hoseok starts softly, his voice an intrusion in the awkward silence. “I really didn’t mean to, honestly-”

“Don’t apologize.” Namjoon counters. “If it bothers him that much, he can speak up” 

You don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s too late that you realize the canines aren’t addressing you. Suddenly, Yoongi’s fingers are hooked through one of your belt loops. He yanks you backwards and you stumble, falling against the length of his body. “My bad,” You shoot out, before the hybrid can hiss at you. “I just lost my bala-” The words die on your tongue as Yoongi fixes his mouth to the soft skin of your throat. The elevator goes quiet.

The canine hybrids avert their eyes almost instantaneously, instinct telling them they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t be. Yoongi keeps them fixed firmly in his sights, a dark growl bubbling in his throat. 

Your fingers flex uselessly at your sides, hands clenching unclenching as the hybrid works over the sensitive skin of your neck with his teeth and tongue. ‘Don’t make a noise,’ you plead with yourself. ‘This isn’t what it feels like. Don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise-’ Yoongi’s incisors graze over a vein and a little whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it. The grip he has on your hips becomes bruising. You feel your legs turning to jelly beneath you. Any more of what he was doing, and they’d have to mop you up off the elevator floor. You force your throat to swallow. “Y-Yoongi, I think that’s enough-” You don’t know if he hears you over the noise he’s making, so you lace your fingers through his and untangle them from your hips. He releases you with a wet pop and you slap a hand over the skin he’d marked. Heat floods your face and a smirk spreads across Yoongi’s, his teeth flashing at the canines. He leans in again to rub his nose against the mark he’d made- but a hand on his chest stops him. 

“Can you stop?” You ask in a small voice. Honestly, you’re embarrassed. Regardless of what the articles said about mark-making being platonic, it doesn’t feel friendly. It feels possessive and mean and you don’t like it. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you like you asked, but what is with you today?” Yoongi’s expression changes from smug satisfaction to confusion and then surprise, like he hadn’t expected you to protest. “I know what I said about you being ready but…” You rub a hand over the mark, wiping away saliva and your sweat. The bobcat hybrid visibly deflates. The elevator chimes for the fiftieth floor and the doors roll open slowly. You rush out before any of them can and start punching the code in your door with shaky fingers. You don’t know what to say. You’re tired and stressed and you don’t know what’s going on. Was this about the apartment? You knew the felines wouldn’t be happy about sharing their space, but why had Yoongi gone this far?

“Y/N…” He trails after you, his ears drooping. You shake your head, You can’t talk to him right now. 

“In the morning,” you tell him as the door swings open. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” You can’t deal with everything that’s happened today, and Yoongi flipping out and getting the canines settled. You weren’t that good at juggling. 

By the grace of all that’s merciful, Taehyung and Jimin are still asleep when you walk in. You’d need to have an extended meet and greet tomorrow, you decide. Maybe do some icebreakers or team building exercises. If they reacted anything like their hyung did, you were in for one hell of an adjustment period. 

Hoseok and Namjoon trail you into the penthouse warily, sniffing the air. You want to give them time to explore and get their bearings, they deserve that, but with the way Yoongi still seems agitated when they venture anywhere but exactly in your steps, that’ll need to be saved until tomorrow morning too. You give them the most spartan tour you can muster up and show them each to a guest room, promising to order them furniture and get them the things they need tomorrow. 

By the time you collapse into your own bed, it’s damn near 11. You groan and drag a pillow over your face as you ask the universe for the thousandth time why it had decided to continuously kick your ass. Having three hybrids had been hard enough. Having five of all different species was likely to prove impossible and having seven was going to be a sisyphean task you’d had no training for. You groan and kick your feet in the air, allowing yourself the brief respite of a temper tantrum before crawling under your covers and flicking the lamp off. Maybe in your dreams there’d be no stress and no snarling hybrids with behavior you couldn’t explain.

[fursasaida]

oh HELL

came back to NYC from DC today. had spent the weekend in VA with a friend and his family, and then went out for drinks with other friends in DC right after getting back from VA, so i was like double-hungover to begin with. but you know, fine. all was going smoothly until, right as it was time to get off the train, i realized i’d left my tote bag on a coathook in the bathroom hours earlier and it was indeed no longer there.

on the bright side: all the valuables and essentials (electronics, IDs, money, etc) were in other bags or in my pockets. on the bad side: in that tote bag were two books i have read or almost finished reading, COVERED in marginalia and underlining and commentary i had not yet transferred to any other storage medium. i need these books and my thoughts on them - in one case pretty badly!

i try to find an Amtrak worker (while hauling a heavy backpack and a biggish rolling suitcase). she tells me to find the conductor. i cannot find the conductor. i go upstairs to look for an amtrak service desk or lost and found or anything. i cannot find that, so i ask the woman regulating the waiting area if there is such a desk i can visit. she does not answer this question. she instead yells at me to go back down to Platform 7 and see if the train is still there. i tell her it is but there are no people. she argues with me about this. i say fine and go back down there. i don’t find anyone who can help me but i do walk through the entire train (again, dragging my bags). no luck. also it is 90+ degrees.

so then i call amtrak customer service and start the Long Trek of Waiting On Hold. i had been going to just sit outside and wait (rather than risk missing a callback because I was on the subway) and probably chainsmoke, but then i realize that of course my cigarettes were also in the missing bag. i decide fuck it, i’ll take a cab.

in the course of getting the cab, i get accosted by someone trying to hustle me, fought over by two drivers (one legal, one illegal), and harassed by a man who is extremely upset that my legal cabdriver is picking me up down the block from the cabstand. like, he tried to physically stop me from putting my bag in the trunk.

after about 40? minutes on hold, i finally get someone. all he does is give me the phone number for the penn station lost and found. i call the number and get a recorded message saying that the reporting procedure has changed and i have to go to chargerback dot com or the baggage section of the amtrak website.

in the middle of wrestling with this third layer of bureaucracy, i get a text from a friend of a friend i saw last night saying he just tested positive for COVID.

i have submitted my report, have basically no hope that i will get these things back (the bag itself had some sentimental value! i’ve had it since 2003!), and you know, most of the time i am an enthusiastic defender of new york, but holy shit fuck manhattan tonight.

[thatesqcrush]

Voire Dire, Pt. 2

Rafael Barba x Reader. Warnings: heavy kissing/touching, some language. WC: 4,072. Episode References: 19x13 & 22x04.

A certified workaholic, Rafael had little to no time for any kind of romantic relationships. His last one, with Yelina, years prior, ended badly. It was during that relationship he had expressed deep feelings and she rebuked him, using him as a stepping stone to his former friend, Alex Muñoz. That was not to say he was celibate; he had needs - desires; and he bid his time with men and women who also exhibited similar interests. They warmed the bed, but never the heart. It was just easier to focus on work - work required no emotion.

Rafael found his mind wandering as the cab took him home. He was drawn to you the moment he stepped through the 8th floor doors where all the junior ADAs were working. He recalled when he sat in a similar room, in Brooklyn, before he made his way up the ladder. Things were so much easier then, even if he didn't recognize it at the time. The world was an old movie: all black and white and it was high noon. He was Gary Cooper and absolutely sure absolutely who were the good guys, who were the bad guys.

The kiss replayed in his mind like an endless looping device. You had bright, lush lips that he was pretty sure were designed to drive anyone of any orientation mad. When you had kissed him, it certainly took him by surprise - a wonderful surprise. He allowed himself to relish in the taste of your kiss - the invitation you gave when you moaned and opened your mouth more, so he could slide his tongue into your mouth. 

For the briefest of moments, he ignored the rational part of his brain. All cares were thrown into the wind. And then his moral compass, which was spinning and spinning and spinning, came to a sudden stop as it dawned on him that you had been drinking.

The kiss - was an impulse born out of your drunken stupor. He hadn’t missed however, the look of disappointment on your face when he broke the kiss and stated he should not have done that.

When he finally made it back to his apartment, he found himself unable to wind down. The mind of the prosecutor now turned defense lawyer, was racing with a million thoughts at once. Despite the busyness of his mind, there was one thing that he was sure of. 

Kissing you was tantalizing. And he wanted to do it again.

He changed into burgundy sweatpants and his old ratted Harvard shirt and poured himself a night cap. He was certain your email was like his when he was there: first name (dot) last name (at) manhattanda (dot) org. Ever the perfectionist, he opened his email and looked up the D.A. 's office's website. Sure enough, there was your contact information (and he was right about your email). 

The plan seemed simple enough: first, apologize once more for doing anything without your explicit consent; second: ask for a do-over but he didn’t want you to feel any kind of pressure. Nor did he expect you to acquiesce - and that if he did indeed overreach, it was noted and he would keep things completely professional. 

He hovered over the send button for longer than he would have anticipated. Finishing his drink, he took a deep breath and hit send. And then went to bed feeling antsy - like a child the night before their birthday.

**

The sun shone brightly the next morning, filtering through the partially open shades. Rafael groaned as he stretched, with his back and shoulders making a cracking sound as the bubbles burst in the synovial fluid around his joints. It was simultaneously satisfying and a reminder of his age.

The coffee maker beeped, signaling it was done brewing. Rafael made way to the bathroom to take care of his morning ablutions. He helped himself to coffee and then sat back in bed to read the paper on his iPad and get caught up on the latest happenings while he was asleep.

For a moment, he forgot about his email to you. He opened his inbox, mentally gearing himself for an email from you rebuking him, or worse, no response at all.

His normally steel stomach flipped when he saw there was an email.

Rafael, you have nothing to apologize for. I would love a do-over. Name the place/time, and I’ll meet you. My phone # is 718-371-5952. -Y/N

Rafael looked at the timestamp on the reply. You were up early. He scratched his beard and wondered if it was too early to text. 

‘It’s too early to text Rafael, coño.’ He chastised himself. ‘Es muy temprano; después. Ya no eres un hombre joven; necesitas relajarte.

**

You were distracted at work. You couldn’t focus one bit. You tried to immerse yourself with work, but you were anxious. You kept checking your phone to see if Rafael had texted you. Groaning, you took your phone and threw it into your drawer. You opened a new browser window when Marjorie strolled in. She had black oversized glasses and a hoodie. In her hands were two coffee cups and a brown paper bag. 

You were relieved when you saw her - talking with her would help keep your anxieties at bay. 

You stood and turned the corner of your desk and hopped on Marjorie’s desk.

“Morning!” You replied cheerfully. 

Marjorie groaned. “Why are you so loud? Why is it so bright in here?” You reached for a coffee and she protested, reaching for it. You held it back, smirking.

“Someone had a bit much I suppose? Woke up full of regret for poor life choices?”

Marjorie took off her sunglasses. “Yes.” She hissed. “You had a lot to drink too; why are you so chipper? Did you get laid or something?”

You paused and it was a long enough of a pause for her to jump all over it. “Oh my fuck, who? Spill. Carisi?”

You barked out a laugh before taking a sip of the piping hot coffee. “No. God knows I love him, but not like that.” You narrowed your eyes and leaned down to whisper, scanning the office.

“Um - what are you doing? We’re the only ones here working today.” Marjorie cocked her brow in response. 

“This place leaks like a sieve, Marj - you know that.” You warned. “Can’t be too careful.” 

Marjorie sighed and put on her sunglasses once more. “Sorry, it’s too bright. Still too drunk.”

You shook your head. “Um. It was Barba.”

“You fucked Barba!” Marjorie shrieked loudly. 

“Would you lower your voice?” You replied sternly. “No. I did not sleep with him. But we did kiss. And he sorta asked me out.”

“Holy crap on a cracker.” Marjorie replied, astounded by the news. She opened the other coffee and pushed the brown paper bag towards you. “Bear claws. So how was it? Is he as silver tongued as he is in the courtroom?”

Your cheeks burned as you replayed the kiss in your mind - how his tongue followed yours, deepening the kiss. It was full of enthusiasm and how he pulled you against him, his body solid and warm. If you tried hard enough, you could still taste the mix of scotch and coffee that was his kiss. “He was very… ” You trailed off slowly, trying to search for the right word. “... passionate. Yes, very passionate. Knows what he’s doing.”

Marjorie tipped her coffee at you. “Well then.”

**

When Rafael did eventually text you, he suggested a restaurant in the NoLiTa section of Manhattan. He insisted on meeting you at your place, as to him, it was the proper thing to do. You declined, insisting that a boomerang trip was uneccessary and that you’d meet him at the location. From the sidewalk on East Houston Street, under a grimy red awning that appeared to belong to a fading pizza parlor, Emilio’s Ballato didn’t look like much.

Rafael waited outside for you, rubbing his gloved hands together and when you crossed the street, he smiled. He had planned the whole night to a tee and it was going to be perfect. Rafael would settle for nothing less. 

You kissed each other on the cheek and then took his hand. On the walls were framed album covers and snapshots of various stars, from stalwarts like David Bowie and Billy Joel to the titans of film, like Frank Sinatra and Martin Scorsese. 

“Mr. Barba!” A voice cried out. You looked and the voice belonged to a hulking minotaur of a man who was sitting like a wary sentry at the first table. He was armed with a cup of espresso that looked like a thimble in the paws of a giant.

“Emilio!” Rafael greeted in return. The two men broke into Italian and you cocked your brow. You had no idea what they were saying and when ‘Emilio’ looked past Rafael and to you, you waved with a small smile.

“Come this way. I have a table in the back - more private.” Emilio replied in a thick Italian accent. “Welcome to my restaurant. We will make sure you’re taken care of.”

A waiter came by to take your coats and winter wear. As you shimmied off your coat, Rafael found his mouth suddenly go dry. You wore a blue velvet wrap dress with long sleeves and v-neckline. Black tights and black knee high boots rounded out the look. 

“You look stunning.” Rafael complimented as he handed his camel peacoat over.

You felt your cheeks burn and you were grateful for the dimmed recessed lighting. Rafael looked equally as handsome in charcoal slacks and a white button down fitted with a navy suit jacket. 

“Thank you counselor, likewise.” You replied. Rafael was ever the gentleman, helping you to your seat first before taking his place across from you. Soft jazz music played, but not so loudly as to be interruptive to conversation. The two of you were just settling in when Rafael’s phone rang loudly. Rafael reached for his phone, looked at the caller and sent the call to voicemail.

Rafael apologized for the interruption and you waved your hand, while shaking your head. “No worries.”

Another waiter came by, with a bottle of red wine, compliments of the house. 

“So what “in” do you have in this place?” You asked as you took a sip of the wine. 

“Emilio - back in the day when I was an A.D.A, had a family member who was assaulted. I was the prosecutor on the case. I put away a violent sociopath and rapist for a very long time. Emilio told me I was always welcome to the restaurant. I - I never really had anyone to bring here.” Rafael replied.

“Until now.” You finished, chewing on a sesame breadstick. 

“Until you.” Rafael clarified, causing your heart to flutter. 

Over dinner, you got to know each other better. You discussed how you ended up on the lawyer track and how you were study buddies with Carisi and Marjorie. 

He shared his fascination with The Waves by Virginia Woolf and The Count of Monte Cristo. Rafael went into passionate detail for the French literary classic by Dumas, recounting "This is the first book I remember my father giving me to read. It was my favorite book growing up. It's an easy read. I was a boy in middle school. I fell in love with the world and the drama of it. What’s your favorite novel?”

Again, Rafael’s phone rang, interrupting. Rafael let out a quiet swear as he reached for his phone. “I swear, I put it on vibrate.”

“Someone’s mighty popular.” You gave him a wink as you reached for your glass of wine.

Rafael blinked and let out a deep exhalation. “So you were going to tell me about your favorite novel.”

Rafael reached for your hand across the table and you were about to grasp it, when the waiter arrived to serve dinner. You jumped back slightly as the food was placed before you. Rafael had pasta with mussels, while you had pasta cacio e pepe. 

Picking up your fork, you nodded. “Love in the Time of Cholera. Florentino Ariza suffers from lovesickness as one would suffer from cholera, enduring both physical and emotional pains as he longs for Fermina Daza.” 

Rafael cocked his brow. “For my taste, there are too many long passages of exposition with Garcia Marquez explaining what the characters are going through. But as easy as the story is to follow, and as seductive as it is, it never gives away what is really going on.”

You scoffed. “So I suppose you don’t believe love conquers all?”

Rafael gave you a coy smile. “In the end we’re all passing through.” You laughed and it was music to his ears. 

More wine was had and conversation flowed easily. Emilio insisted that you both stay for dessert. At some point, your chair shifted and you were sitting right next to Rafael as you split vanilla panna cotta. Rafael’s eyes shifted from your eyes to your lips as you licked the spoon clean. You put the spoon down and could feel the sexual tension rising. As soon as you reached for him, you accidentally knocked over your glass of red wine, and it spilled in the direction of Rafael, all over his white shirt.

“Oh fuck, I am so sorry.” You apologized profusely as you frantically dabbed at his shirt with the cloth napkin. 

“It’s okay; it’s just clothing.” Rafael replied as he too blotted the stain.

“It’s not.” You disagreed. “Here I am, trying to make a good impression, ya know, be all charming and sexy for you - the Rafael Barba - and instead I am a klutz. Ugh, that is going to set if we don’t take care of it.”

“Did you say sexy?” Rafael questioned, a smile dancing on his lips. 

You opened your mouth to reply when Rafael’s phone rang again interrupting your thoughts. Rafael threw the napkin on the table, letting out an irritated sigh. When he saw the name, he held up a finger. “Let me just answer this.”

“Liv, what is-- yes now is not a good time.” Rafael hissed into the phone. “Tomorrow. That’s all I got. Okay. Okay. Talk then.”

Rafael tossed his phone onto the table and threw his head back, rubbing his hands over his face.” When he sat up, he noticed the bemused look on your face. You reached up and began dabbing his shirt once more. 

“It’s really not a big deal.” Rafael replied softly. He grabbed your wrists gently, pausing your movements. His hands were warm and they circled your wrists easily. 

You allowed yourself to relax in his grasp and crinkled your nose. “It really is going to set. We should go and clean it. Otherwise it’s ruined. And this shirt is nice; it’d be a shame for it to get tossed.”

“At this hour? And where?” Rafael replied incredulously as he signaled the waiter for the check.

“We… could go to your place.” You suggested softly. “I am pretty good with stains. Just need some salt, boiling water, and white vinegar.”

Stunned silence followed - it was brief, but it felt like an eternity when he spoke again. “Sure.”

**

It didn’t take long to get to Rafael’s. “I am so sorry again.” You apologized as you stepped off the elevator.

“Accidents happen.” Rafael replied as he led you down the hall to his apartment. If anyone had told you that you would be on a date with Rafael Barba, you would have laughed in their face and asked them for some of the good stuff that they were smoking. But here you, in front of a rather ordinary door marked 6C. Once inside, Rafael turned on the light and you took in the apartment before you. It was freakishly spotless and you wondered if you had entered a living ad for Architectural Digest. The apartment was sleek and modern but carried a warm ambiance. Colorful artwork hung off the walls and there was a built in walled library filled with all sorts of legal texts and what appeared to be vinyls. His apartment smelled like a mixture of leather and tobacco and books plus whatever cologne he had donned. 

“I’ll go get changed.” Rafael replied. “The kitchen is over that way and there is vinegar and salt in the cupboards. You nodded and made way, rummaging through his kitchen. His cupboards were as meticulous as his apartment and you smiled at the things that you found as you searched for the items you needed to clean the stain, like a box of peanut butter cap ‘n’ crunch.

You found the salt and vinegar when Rafael came back with his ruined clothes. He had changed into another undershirt and a pair of dark jeans. You felt the air get sucked out of his chest at the sight of him so casual. A tuft of chest hair poked out of the v-neckline and a gold chain glinted in the light. You took the clothes and spread them out on his kitchen counter and set to work. 

“Want anything to drink?” Rafael asked. 

“Water would be nice.” You managed to squeak out before you tackled the stains. Rafael watched you as you methodically worked out the stains. Your brows were furrowed in concentration and he found you adorable.

Rafael placed a small glass of water by you and then walked over to his music collection before choosing a record to play. The all too familiar instrumental notes of one of your favorite songs began to play. 

“Is that--?” You paused, looking at him curiously.

“Vitamin String Quartet.” Rafael expanded. “Lana del Rey.”

“Never had you pegged as a Lana del Rey fan.” You murmured continuing to work on the stain. 

“Plato said that music is moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.” Rafael stated. “I have a very eclectic taste in music and if you go through my collection, you’ll find everything from Biggie to Celia Cruz to Lana del Rey to Prince - and everything else in between.”

“Impressive.” You replied. 

“And what would you have me pegged as?” Rafael prodded. He had also poured himself a glass of water. 

You stopped and looked up at him. You were overwhelmed by how handsome he is. Eyes that were biscay green and a strong aquiline nose. His hair, now bordering on more silver, than salt and pepper, made your hands twitch, as if your muscles instinctively wanted to run through it. You licked your lips and sucked in your bottom lip. You didn’t miss how his eyes darkened. 

“You’re the infamous Rafael Barba. Boy wonder. Taking on cases that everyone ducks with your big, brass…” Rafael’s eyebrow cocks and you smirk as you finish, “ego.”

“And baby killer.” Rafael interjected. His tone was acidic.

You flinched. “You’re not a baby killer.”

Rafael cocked his head. “Aren’t I?”

“Depends on the jury.” You replied, walking over to him, crossing your arms, which only served to push up your tits more. “But really, I don’t think of you like that. I know there is more to a person than just that one thing.”

“Not according to the court of public opinion.” Rafael managed to croak as his eyes drifted to your chest. “There is a reason I have kept a low profile all this time.”

You closed the gap between you and him and pressed your palms against his chest. He was solid and warm. You could feel his pectoral muscles twitch. A spark shot through your body, settling between your legs.

Rafael’s hands settled on your hips. The velvet of your dress was softer than he imagined and he could picture the dress pooling down at your feet. Part of him wished that the date had gone better. It did not go as well as he had planned.

“I’m sorry for tonight.” Rafael murmured as he wrapped his arms loosely around your hips. “This was not what I had planned for us at all.”

“I’m not.” You replied, looking up at him. You now wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing even closer against him. “I don’t need fancy dinners. I am just happy to spend time with you. I really had a good time. I am sorry about the shirt, but it seems all fine now.”

Rafael searched your eyes. The tension in the room shifted. Your heart began to pound and your breathing became more shallow. 

“I… the stain… it’s lifted.” You whispered shakily. Rafael lowered his eyes to your lips and recalled how good it felt to kiss them. He wanted to do it again. So he did. You didn’t hold back, moaning as his mouth crashed against yours. He pressed his mouth against yours with more force, crushing them. He took the opportunity to trace his tongue against the seam of your lips, seeking entrance to your mouth.  You acquiesced his request by parting your lips, and he deepened the kiss by sliding his tongue into your mouth. You responded in turn by pulling his bottom lip, sucking and nipping. His chest rumbled. Rafael lifted you up, his hands going to your thighs, encouraging you to wrap your feet around his hips. 

Rafael carried you to the couch, walking backwards until he felt the couch and threw himself down, bringing you with him. You let out a squeak but that turned into another moan as his lips found purchase along your neck and he took the opportunity to suck a bruising mark into your skin. 

Your nipples were hard like diamonds and the strip of material that dared call itself underwear was ruined. Rafael’s hands slid down your back to your ass and he gave each cheek a squeeze. 

You rolled your hips, feeling how hard he was beneath you and then slid your hands under his shirt and through his chest hair, confirming how solid he was. You raked your nails down his chest and Rafael let out a groan of a man who had been denied too long. “Oh Rafael.” You breathed into his ear as you pressed kisses upwards along his neck to his cheek and then to his earlobe where you sucked and flicked your tongue against the thin flesh.

“Keep that up and I’ll…” Rafael groaned. His hands move to the front of your dress squeezing. You pulled away reluctantly and looked into his eyes, which were blown with lust.

“So soon old man?” You winked. “We’re just getting started.”

“I am not that old.” Rafael retorted. 

“Even if you were - which you’re not, it wouldn’t stop me.” You replied before ducking down to kiss him once more. You rolled your hips again, grinding harder against him. You took his hands and placed them on your breasts, sighing as he squeezed them. His fingers moved to play with your nipples and when he gave them a firm but gentle pinch, you couldn't help but shudder. You were melting under his touch.

You were just about to tell him to take you to bed so you could ride him into next week, when your phone began to sound. 

“I should get that.” You replied, giving him an apologetic look. 

You climbed off and Rafael let out another groan, his eyes laser focused on your ass as you walked away. “Mierda.”

“It’s SVU. They need me to come down.” You replied as you checked your phone. 

Rafael let out a deep sigh. “Do you want me to come down with you?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s late Y/N, let me at least walk you over to the precinct. It’s a few blocks away.”

“Okay.” You relented. 

The walk over was quick. You got to the steps of the precinct and looked up at the door and then at him. “Raincheck?”

Rafael nodded. “Raincheck.” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips and then you bounded up the stairs, turning to give him a quick wave. Rafael watched you until you were gone. He dropped his head as he began to trek back home.

‘What a fucking disaster.’ He thought miserably. He looked at his hands before he shoved them in his pockets. ‘I guess it's just us for tonight.’

TBC.

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[cali-holland]

Forever and Ever, Ch. 1: The Proposal

Tom Holland X Osterfield!Reader, Wedding Series

With the help of Harrison and Charlotte, Tom picks out the perfect ring for you, and now the time’s come for the perfect proposal.

Warnings: sexual themes, swearing, a lil bit of blood/violence and kind of an abusive ex? (it’s a flashback though)

Word Count: 4100

Series Masterlist

Masterlist   Tom Holland Masterlist

“We keep this love in a photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Hearts are never broken

And time's forever frozen still

So you can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet

You won't ever be alone, wait for me to come home”

Photograph, Ed Sheeran

~~~

“How’s the online shopping coming?” Harrison asked, strolling into the living room when he knew you were away at work the next day. Tom let out a frustrated groan, throwing his head back on the couch.

“There’s too many choices! I don’t understand how there can be so many shapes.” Tom stated and Harrison sat beside him to look at the engagement ring website on Tom’s laptop.

“I believe they’re called cuts.” He laughed, looking over the categories and images. “God, you’re right. How are there so many options?”

“This makes no sense.” He sighed, “How do I know which one Y/N would like the most?”

“Might sound cheesy, but I think she’d say yes even if you gave her the shittiest ring.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Tom rolled his eyes at his friend.

“Why not go in person tomorrow? Y/N will be at work anyway.” Harrison suggested, standing from the couch.

“I don’t really want paparazzi to find out, but I guess I have no choice.” He paused, “Do you think you could come with me?”

Harrison laughed, turning back to his friend. “You’re talking to the wrong sibling. I’ll call Charlotte and see if she can go with you.”

By the time you got home from work, Tom had cleared out his search history to make sure there was no evidence of his ring shopping. You had no clue anything was up, even when you saw that your younger sister texted him while you two got ready for bed that evening.

Spotting his phone light up on the bedside table just as you were about to get into bed, you asked, “Why did Charlotte text you?”

“Probably just asking if I’m back home. I think Harrison said something about your mum inviting me over for dinner this week.” He lied with a shrug as he climbed into bed on the opposite side. While his room (which was actually your room as well) was big, it still only had one night stand on your side of the bed. Any other night, Tom wouldn’t care about it, trusting you completely with his phone, but now he was worried you’d get curious and check Charlotte’s texts. It wasn’t that strange for Charlotte to text him when he got back into town, but he got lucky by remembering Harrison’s mention of family dinner plans, something he’s gotten accustomed to at the Osterfield household.

“Oh yeah, she did tell me that. Friday, right? I just assumed you’d be free.” You laughed, making yourself comfortable under the covers by snuggling into Tom’s warm embrace. “If you don’t want to-“

“No, of course I’d love to. Your family’s my family.” He reached up and knocked on the wall behind him, just for Harrison, whose bed was on the other side of the wall, to hit the wall back. “See?”

Through your fit of laughter, you managed to say, “God, he’s going to think we’re going at it.”

“Hm, well, why don’t we?” Tom winked at you, his trailing down your waist.

“As much as I missed you, I’ll pass. One of us actually went to work today.” You teased, nuzzling your face into his neck and pressing a chaste kiss to his sweet spot. “Besides, I’m still sore from last night.”

“That good, huh?” He smirked and you leaned up to kiss him.

“Watch it, Holland.” You joked, and he couldn’t help but think that one day you’d have that last name too. Tom pulled you closer to him, intertwining your left hand with his, as you laid down with your head on his chest. As you drifted off to sleep, he mindlessly traced over your ring finger, mind racing with what the perfect ring would look like right in that very spot.

The next day, you went away to work as usual, and Tom put on his most incognito outfit- dark hoodie, dark jeans, sunglasses (though it wasn’t actually too bright out), dark baseball cap. He was completely unrecognizable for the paparazzi.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Harrison asked as he and Tom got in the car because, while Harrison still felt that Charlotte was the better sibling to ask for help, he wanted to go as moral support for his best friend. You know, best man duties and all that. In his casual white t-shirt and jeans, he looked the exact opposite of Tom.

“I’m not having anyone recognize. Not today.” Tom insisted.

“Whatever you say.” He laughed.

The two of them met Charlotte at the ring shop, after they parked a little ways away (because Tom didn’t want his car to be parked right in front of the store- that’s too “obvious”, according to him). Charlotte, just as Harrison had, commented on his rather dull outfit, but yet again, he always wore black in some form. Despite their fashion remarks, Tom was glad to have your siblings with him, or rather his future in-laws, you just didn’t know that yet.

“What about this one?” Charlotte asked, pointing to yet another ring. She’d shown Tom nearly a dozen rings that she thought you’d like, meanwhile Tom was overwhelmed by the choices. They lost Harrison to the men’s section shortly after walking inside because he wanted more.

“I don’t know. This is all so much.” Tom sighed, looking at the pretty engagement ring in the glass case. It was delicate and beautiful, but he still didn’t know. He had been told that the ring will “speak” to him, that he’ll just know when he sees it. He wished it was as easy as knowing you were the one for him; all it took was one glance at you and he knew he wanted to be with you forever. You were his forever.

After what must have been the twentieth “what do you think of this one?” from Charlotte (which he did deeply appreciate her help), Tom was ready to give up hope on this store. Maybe this store didn’t have the perfect ring. Shoving his hands in his hoodie’s pocket, he scanned over the rings again, the shiny silver beginning to blur together.

“Check this out.” Harrison called to them from across the store.

“Haz, mate, I don’t want to look at one of your rings.” Tom answered, running a hand over his face.

“No, you div. I like this ring for Y/N.” He replied, and both Tom and Charlotte immediately came over to him. Sitting in front of Harrison, in the back corner of the case, was the most perfect ring Tom had ever seen. He was speechless, and he knew it was the one.

“Can we see that one please?” Charlotte asked the worker, reading Tom’s slacked jaw expression as one of pure amazement. The worker pulled out the ring from behind the glass, and Harrison and Charlotte both exchanged a look of ‘that’s it’ while Tom examined it.

“Yes. That’s the one.” Tom nodded, and the two siblings let out their bated breaths in relief. As Tom and the worker settled out the measurements and price, Harrison waited with his sister by the door.

“And now he just needs to propose.” Charlotte laughed.

“I bet he’s going to faint before he even gets the words out. Y/N will just have to piece it together.” Harrison joked.

“Do you know how he’s doing it?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, she’s so going to cry.” Harrison watched the cashier slide the pink ring box over to Tom, finalizing the deal, and he felt a wave of pride overcome him. His two favorite people in the world were getting married; he wasn’t sure if he’d make it through this without shedding a few happy tears himself.

~~~

Tom let out a sigh, taking a step back to examine his bedroom. From the Christmas lights strung around the room to the bed sheet hanging on the wall across from the projector, everything was perfect. There were even a few rose petals scattered on the floor. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, his other hand slipping into his pocket to fish out the little pink box. Opening the box, his heart started to beat impossibly faster. It had only been two days since he bought it, but he felt like he could stare at it forever, and, well, if you said yes, then he’d gladly stare at it forever.

“Y/N,” He mumbled under his breath, beginning to pace a little. Another deep breath escaped his lips as he continued quietly rehearsing, “Y/N Osterfield, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

Tom had never jumped so high in his life, but he eased up immediately when he realized it was just Harrison in the doorway, arms crossed as he took in the new look to Tom’s room.

“So? How does it look?” Tom asked, closing the box and pocketing it once more. His hand remained in his pocket, thumbing over the object, like he was worried the box would vanish into thin air. He felt his hands start to shake a little at the unimpressed look on Harrison’s face.

“Like you’re going to be engaged by the end of the night.” He said encouragingly, unable to hide his happy smile any longer. “Now, come on, lover boy, she’ll be here any minute.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to tell? I want to surprise her.”

Harrison looked at the room again and then at his nervous friend, who was a little too nicely dressed for a casual movie night in; yet again maybe Harrison just wasn’t used to Tom wearing anything but sweats and a hoodie around the house. It seemed obvious, but maybe you would be too tired from a day at work to notice. Before he could reply, Harry shouted from downstairs.

“She’s here!”

Quickly, Tom and Harrison rushed out of the room, closing the door softly behind them. They went to the kitchen, where Harry and Tuwaine also stood, all four of them trying to act casual as they waited for you to come inside.

“Ed Sheeran? Are you sure?” Tuwaine asked, questioning Tom’s choice of music for the night.

“Yes. What’s wrong with Ed Sheeran?” Tom refuted.

“It’s a little unoriginal.” Harry added, and his brother narrowed his eyes at him.

“Unoriginal?”

“I brought dinner!” You announced, walking into the house. Tom sent his brother and friends a quick look of “don’t say anything” before he went to greet you at the door. His smile widened as he saw you, kicking off your shoes beside the shoe bin, balancing two bags of takeout.

“How was work?” Tom asked as he took the bags from you.

“Boring. Wish I could’ve been here with you.” You replied with a smile, your arms wrapping around his neck to bring him in for a kiss. His hands found your waist, the takeout bags hanging from his wrist, as you kissed him like you hadn’t seen him in weeks, not that he was complaining though because there was plenty of lost time to make up for.

Just as your tongue brushed over his lips, making him smile into the kiss, Harrison walked in the room, scoffing, “Get a room.”

“Don’t worry. We will.” You stated, not stepping out of Tom’s embrace as you looked at your brother. Harrison just rolled his eyes at you. You let go of Tom to make your way to the kitchen with both boys following behind you.

“Remember when you hated Tom?” Harrison teased, his normal playful smile on his face as he eyed you cuddled up to his best friend across the dinner table.

You rolled your eyes at his attempt at a joke, “Hate is an overstatement. Besides, I obviously got over that ruined dress a long time ago.”

“What happened to change that?” Tuwaine asked innocently. All eyes fell on you and Tom, and you remained uncharacteristically quiet, opting to drink some water instead of responding.

“Just time, I guess.” Tom shrugged, doing his best to save you from the topic.

While you did spend the first year of knowing Tom completely ignoring his attempts at being nice to you (which ranged from him offering to help you with groceries when you and Harrison still lived at home together to him greeting you when you walked in a room), your hostility seemed to change over night for the bystanders that were your siblings, his brothers, and your mutual friends.

It was sometime in the fall of 2014; Tom didn’t really remember the day exactly, or rather the night. He just remembered that he wasn’t in the mood to go clubbing with Harrison in some no-name London nightclub, but he went nonetheless. He soon lost his friend to some girl in the crowd, and Tom found himself perched on a barstool, nursing a beer. He checked his phone with a sigh; it’d been only half an hour since he walked through the door. He scanned the crowd in front of him, looking for any sign of Harrison, when his eyes caught sight of you.

Out on the dancefloor with a carefree smile on your face, you still managed to take his breath away. It had been over a year since the incident, and you hadn’t backed down from your grudge against him. Meanwhile, for Tom, he wanted to keep trying because, maybe one day, you’d tolerate him enough that he could actually talk to you. All he heard from your mutual friends (not Harrison because he’d never speak highly of you to another guy, especially one that he already knew was crushing on you, even if Tom refused to admit it) was that you were incredibly sweet and kind and funny and smart and basically everything Tom was looking for. Sighing again, he took another drink of his beer and returned to his previous task of seeking out Harrison.

When he still came up empty handed looking for his friend, Tom’s eyes managed to find their way back to you, but this time that same smile wasn’t on your face. No, you actually looked pissed off, an expression that Tom was very used to seeing. It was then that Tom spotted a seemingly very drunk Richard beside you, Richard from the party, Richard who had been your boyfriend for the past few months, Richard who Tom absolutely loathed. He hadn’t heard much about your relationship, except for the fact that Harrison thought Richard was a “conceited, manipulative asshole” who wasn’t good for you at all. Curiously, Tom watched you interact with him as you crossed your arms, saying something that made Richard roll his eyes at you and grab your elbow forcefully. As Richard dragged you out to a hallway of the club, Tom immediately shot up to follow you two.

“Let me go. I told you, Richard, we’re done.” You said, trying to get out of his painful grip.

“No, we’re done when I say we’re done.” He barked back. Tom took that as his cue to step in, standing a bit taller as he did so.

“Hey, leave her alone.” Tom interjected, and you looked at him, surprised by his appearance.

“Tom, what the hell are you doing here?” You asked. It was Tom’s turn to be surprised; you’d spoken to him, and you’d used his name- up until this moment, he thought you didn’t even know that.

“Pool boy?” Richard scoffed, and you and Tom simultaneously rolled your eyes, “Run along. This is between me and my girlfriend.”

“Sounds like she isn’t your girlfriend anymore.” He hardly got his taunting comment out before Richard let go of you just to punch Tom square in the nose. Tom stumbled backwards a little and regained his footing to punch him right back. Richard staggered in surprise by the force of the blow, and you took the opportunity to grab Tom’s hand and run from the hallway back into the crowded club. He didn’t protest as he followed you through the swarm of people, allowing you to take him out of the club.

“Why did you do that?” You said quietly, once the two of you were outside in the cold night air. You let go of his hand and didn’t even turn to look at him, opting to pace the sidewalk a little while he leaned against the wall, clutching his nose.

“He was harassing you.” Tom stated. When you heard the slight nasaliness to his voice, you turned to look at him and your eyes grew wide as you realized his nose was bleeding.

“Oh god,” You winced.

“Dick packs a punch.” He tried to laugh, but the humor was lost from his grimace in pain.

“Come on, my place is around the corner.” At your offer, Tom furrowed his eyebrows at you in confusion. Playfully, you added, “I can’t leave my knight in shining armor to bleed out on the side of the road.”

“I doubt I’d bleed out from this.” Tom mused, and the two of you began to walk back to your apartment. 

A comfortable silence fell between the two of you until there was a particularly brisk gust of autumn wind, making you instinctively shiver. Your sleeveless dress did nothing to shield you from the chilly air, and Tom noticed. Ever so awkwardly, he started to try to shimmy out of his jacket, mindful of his bloody hand. You paused, looking over at him in confusion, “Are you trying to give me your jacket?”

“Shut up.” He mumbled, embarrassed but still trying to take off his jacket to offer it to you. Biting your lip to keep yourself from laughing at the humor of it all, you helped him.

“What is it with you and jackets?” You joked, slipping it on over your shoulders. Seeing as he was in a long sleeve shirt and jeans, and that your apartment was just ahead, you weren’t going to decline his offer.

“I don’t know.” Tom shrugged, laughing a little at the memory, “I’m just trying to be chivalrous.”

“Very chivalrous, indeed.” You nodded as a laugh escaped your lips.

“Maybe one day, I’ll get it right.”

Tom felt that maybe this lighthearted air between the two of you was a step in the right direction for the two of you, even if he was clutching his bloody nose the whole time. Back at your apartment, he propped himself up on the bathroom counter and you got a few rags together to clean him up. With his legs spread, you stood in between them, wiping the blood on his nose off with a wet rag.

“Thank you, by the way.” You mumbled, concentrated on your work.

“Anytime.” He answered, his eyes studying you closely, memorizing every detail of your face. This was the first, and hopefully not the last, time that you had been this close to him and, damn, did he enjoy it.

“Let’s not make this a regular thing.” You teased. “And can you, um, can you not tell Harrison? He tends to get overprotective.”

“Shit.” Tom groaned and you immediately stopped your actions, thinking you’d somehow managed to hurt him. “I forget Harrison.”

“At the club?” You asked, a small smile coming over your face, and he nodded sheepishly.

“He was off dancing with some girl.”

“So he forgot about you.” You joked, before seriously adding, “You should probably let him know you left, but-”

“I won’t tell him. This is our secret, I promise.”

And Tom still fully intended to keep that promise. Years down the road, Harrison still had no clue that your ex was the one who almost broke Tom’s nose, but it’s not like your brother remembered that night anyway. All he knew was that the very next day, when you came over for drinks with him and the boys, you and Tom spoke to each other. And, well, Harrison couldn’t help the small flicker of happiness that filled him to see his best friend and his twin sister getting along... finally.

“Yep, just time.” You nodded, sending Tom a small, grateful smile.

Dinner seemed to last forever for Tom; you just did not eat fast enough for him. He even started doing the dishes while you sat at the table and talked to Harry just to distract himself from the itching nerve to just drop down on one knee right in front of you. It didn’t help that Tom knew Harry, Harrison, and Tuwaine were all anxiously wanting you to leave; they didn’t want to contain the secret any longer either. After nearly an hour of self-restraint on his part, he finally suggested you change out of your work clothes.

“So what movie tonight?” You asked as you made your way down the hall with Tom.

“I was thinking we could do something a little different tonight.” He said, a small smile playing on his lips. You eyed him skeptically before turning to open the bedroom door. You felt yourself choke up at the scene before you. Taking in the roses and lights as well as the room’s overall new romantic atmosphere, you were speechless.

“C’mon.” Tom slid past you in the doorway, holding out a hand for you. When you took it, he led you all the way inside the room, closing the door behind you.

“You did all of this for me?” You breathed out in disbelief, still processing the dramatic transformation.

“Of course.”

As you sat down beside him at the foot of the bed, in the perfect position to view the projected image, Tom quickly got out his phone to play the slideshow. Hearing the familiar tune of Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph”, you smiled, snuggling into Tom’s side. You watched in admiration as various pictures floated across the screen.

The very, very ugly first picture of the two of you together at 17 (with Dick cropped out and Harrison’s face replaced with a heart emoji). One of the many pictures the two of you took together when you went to Paris for your three year anniversary a few months ago. Goofy selfies you’ve taken together that should never be seen by anyone else. One taken by Harrison when Monty and Tessa’s leashes got tangled, trapping you and Tom together, before you were even actually together. A photo of you two in the world’s worst matching Christmas sweaters two years ago because Tom thought it’d be funny (and it was). Another photograph taken straight from a gossip magazine of the two of you at the Far From Home premiere (it was your favorite picture from the red carpet but also you couldn’t find it without the watermark); immediately following that one was Tom helping you remove your make up after the after party, make up wipe in hand (you two weren’t 100% sober when that was taken).

All of them were pictures of the happiest, most memorable days in your life, all moments that happened with the love of your life. As the song came to its bridge, Tom shifted out of your embrace to stand up, his hand deep in his pocket. When he turned to face you, his face dropped, realizing you were very teary-eyed.

“Darling, no, you’re not supposed to cry.” Worry was flowing through him now. What if you didn’t want this? What if you said no?

“Tom, yes.” You nodded, biting your lip to refrain from full on crying.

“Yes?” He repeated, suddenly confused.

“Are you going to ask me to marry you or not?” You teased. With a laugh, Tom got down on one knee in front of you, pulling out the ring box and opening it to present you with the most beautiful ring you could’ve imagined.

“Y/N Osterfield, the first time we met, you called me a dumbass, and I still am, but now I’m your dumbass that doesn’t know how to write one of those cheesy proposal speeches. You’re my best friend and my soulmate, and you know me better than anyone else. There’s no one else that I’d rather spend forever with, so will you spend forever with me and marry me?” Tom asked, hands shaking a little due to the nerves. Smiling and nodding, you leaned in to kiss him, despite the awkward angle from you still being on the bed and him still kneeling.

“Yes, yes, yes.” You mumbled happily between kisses. 

Laughing, Tom pulled away from you, “Don’t forget about the ring.” He took the ring out of the box and you held your left hand out to him for him to slide it onto your ring finger. You looked at the ring in awe for a moment.

“I love you, fiancé.” You said, eyes trailing for your ring to Tom.

“I love you, too, fiancée.” He replied and leaned in to kiss you. With his lips moving with yours, he brought himself up off the ground, blindly climbing onto the bed as you laid down on the blankets. Murmuring into your lips, Tom repeated his words happily, “My fiancée.”

~~~

Tag List: @viagracex @theamazingtomholland @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart @joyleenl @t-o-m-hollands @lonikje @sleepybesson @sunkisseddreamer @hollandsamor @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @gorrillaglue23 @petersoftboyparker @musicalkeys @duskholland @biebsmylife95 @dummiesshort @perspectiveparker​ 

Tom Holland Tag List: @quaksonhehe @tomkindholland

Series Tag List: @thefallenbibliophilequote @wassup-peoples @thevelvetseries @greatpizzascissorstaco @tomhollandsotherpinkytoe

[schleierkauz]

Some Highlights from the 03.05 Stream

As usual, here’s some interesting bits of the last Cornelia Funke Q&A. I tried to structure it all a bit better this time but these talks are pretty chaotic sooo... bear with me. There’s more interesting stuff under the read more, I just put it there because it was getting so long. Anything in (brackets) is my own commentary. I hope you enjoy! :)

Inkworld

Q: What's the deal with the death bond between Mo and Dustfinger and will it be relevant in the new book? A: Since Dustfinger is probably immortal now, he’s been operating on a different level than Mo who is very much still mortal. Other than that, Cornelia doesn't want to reveal too much about TCoR for now. She worked on it the day before the stream, and she shows us the notebook she uses for it.

She thought she had a pretty good idea of what the story was going to be but more and more things keep happening and the book is already looking to be a lot longer and more complex than she intended.

- She will focus on TCoR once the move to Italy is complete and she's very excited about that since the Inkworld is essentially Magical Italy. She can't wait to sit in Volterra and write about Ombra.

- The TCoR sketch book might just be published at some point as a sort of bonus making-of book since it's already full of illustrations and other fun stuff

(That looks like the witch character, doesn’t it? I wonder who the other woman is... And god, I wish I could actually read the text. :/)

- The Inkworld exists around 1360 by our understanding of time

- The Mystery Chapter I translated ages ago is still canon! More info on that in the Reckless section

Q: Will we ever get to read the "original" Inkheart by Fenoglio? A: No, never. Cornelia's writing style is too different from Fenoglio's and she wouldn't be able to pull it off. 

However! Cornelia still hopes for an Inkworld TV show that would begin long before the story of the first book. She already has a notebook all about Dustfinger's and the Black Prince's childhoods, how they met each other as well as other characters such as Roxane etc. Fenoglio didn't care much for their backstories so Cornelia feels like she can explore them without stepping on his toes.

- A long time ago, Cornelia had an editor who thought Dustfinger was a bad character (lmao. imagine being that wrong.)

Reckless

Q: Will one of the short stories Cornelia wants to write about the Mirrorworld be about Nerron's mother? A: Interesting idea! She will consider it.

Q: Will Cornelia include African and/or Indigenous stories in the Mirrorworld? A: Yes! She planned to do it in the sixth book but right now it looks like it might happen in the fifth, so she's trying to figure out how to include South-American fairytales alongside African and Indigenous ones. She wants to include those stories through characters we meet along the way, without necessarily taking the story to those places directly. Or maybe she'll write a separate book entirely to do those fairytales justice. 

- The Mirrorworld exists around 1860 by our time

- Cornelia feels like there will be a lot of Mirrorworld spin-offs because she keeps having ideas and loves writing in that world

Q: Did Spieler (Player(?)), when he was in the "real" world, know about Capricorn and Fenoglio's Inkheart book? A: The silver book that makes people into silvertongues was created by Spieler. For a while he found it very convenient to travel the worlds through books but eventually he realised that books tend to develop a will of their own, which is why he ultimately decided to travel via mirrors. He probably knows about Fenoglio but Cornelia doesn't think he'd care much about Capricorn since he's playing in an entirely different league of villainy.

- Cornelia just signed a contract for a Reckless TV show

Cornelias new Farm in Italy

Q: Will she have animals on the new farm as well? A: Probably not! Right now she's more interested in befriending wild animals. Her dogs will stay with her but otherwise she wants to focus on wild animals as well as wild flowers. She wants to share her garden with any animal that stops by - including, hopefully, the occasional feral cat.

- Cornelia is getting into animation! She will work with a friend of hers who is a teacher in that field to create a little stop motion/animation studio on the farm so artists can bring their characters to life in a new way and create short movies.

Q: How can artists apply to be invited to the farm? A: Cornelia doesn't want people to apply directly, she'd rather leave it up to chance and fate. Most of her artists were recommended to her by friends or former colleagues and this method is working very well. She encourages people to post their work on the internet or send it to her via her website or twitter or something, she just doesn't want to hold contests regularly because it would be overwhelming and she doesn't want to have to reject people. Also, it's aimed at young artists who are just starting out and it’s mainly for girls/women, although not exclusively.

Side note, she plans to have another farm in Germany (probably in Schleswig-Holstein) and there will be other projects that happen there.

Q: Will it be possible to visit the farms, will they sell tickets? A: Cornelia doesn't want to sell tickets and definitely doesn't want "Disneyland vibes". The Mirror Farm (in Germany) isn't supposed to make money but she rather wants it to be a gift to her readers. They'll have to somehow limit how many people show up at once but there will be "open days" where anyone can just show up. Cornelia also wants to offer workshops or something similar herself once or twice a year, where people would have the chance to meet her in person.

Bonus: Life Lessons with Cornelia

Q: Does Cornelia have any advice for people in their mid-twenties who are not quite sure what to do with their lives? A: Figure out what you want to do and follow your heart because being stuck doing something you don't care about at all will make you miserable. And then it comes down to discipline and hard work. You might never get rich doing what you love but someone in their 20s is still young enough to try all kinds of different things and find a path that works. The important thing is actually following through instead of just endlessly thinking about what could be. Travel the world, try different jobs. Don't be fooled into thinking you have to go to university/college, that's nonsense. Knowing how to build a sturdy table or plant a good herb garden makes someone an artist in Cornelia's eyes. Listen to advice but don't blindly follow it. Don't be afraid to change your dreams. Make mistakes and learn from them. You live in one of the richest countries in the world, you won't starve or die on the streets so be grateful and be brave.

Misc.

- The three of them spend the first eight minutes of the stream telling us to visit this website and check out the cool bridge their bookshop is built on and the blackbird that moved into the store

- Cornelia's daughter got married and it was beautiful :)

- Cornelia is looking forward to moving to Italy and being closer to "us" and European artists. She says she'll miss California but she is incredibly tired of all the wild fires.

- Cornelia is now fully vaccinated 

- Cornelia is working on a book about two girls. One used to live in Germany in the 40s-50s, was blind and collected plants from all over the world with her father. She would write letters about those plants to her sister, and those letters are found one day by a girl from Brooklyn. She starts to go looking for the plants the letters are about in the botanical garden. Cornelia has an assistant who keeps sending her pictures from that botanical garden and it's a very fun project because it's very rooted in the real world yet Cornelia still gets to tell a story about a friendship that takes place through letters. She hopes to have finished it by August

- The Wild Chicks movie might just actually happen and everyone's excited about it

- An animated Igraine Ohnefurcht movie is in the works

- So is an animated Geisterritter/Ghost Knight movie

- Cornelia keeps losing books and other important things in the mail and it is pretty infuriating

- Cornelia recommends the book "Sand Talk" and once again says white people should be careful about not speaking over marginalised groups in the name of protecting them

[unmaskedagain]

Tattered Remains of Broken Dreams (Yours, not Mine)

This is based off a prompt I came across. It’s a one-shot. @virgil-is-a-cutie​ and @thyladyanput​. Hope you two like lit.

The pieces were scattered across her desk. Marinette had known something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Everyone had gone quiet. A few had glared at her. Some had snickered. And they all watched as she walked to her desk.

Nathanial had tried to wave her down; shaking his head with sorrow in his eyes. He had gotten there a few minutes before she did.

It took her a few seconds to recognize what the torn pieces of what had been weeks of hard work.

Once she realized what it was, Marinette wondered if it made her a bad person that she wanted to smile. Because while she honestly wanted to feel bad, all she felt was a relief. Like ten tons of weight had just been lifted from her shoulders.

Marinette looked at her desk, pulled out her phone, took a picture, and then sent several texts.

Then she shrugged, tossed the mess into a nearby trashcan, and pulled out a fresh sketchbook.

The other students, the ones who had waited for a reaction, were stunned. Where were the tears? The rage? Anything?

“Don’t you care?” Alya yelled, frustrated with her ex-bestie. “Your sketchbook was destroyed.”

           Marinette glanced up at her, “No. A sketchbook was destroyed. My sketchbook with all my worthwhile designs in safely locked away at my house. You all,” She looked around the classroom; memorizing every face.  Lila looked particularly bewildered because she had wanted to see the Asian girl cry. “ Destroyed my school sketchbook; the one I use for school-related events designs from various classmates, plans for birthday parties, and the like.”

“But you worked so hard,” Rose said.

           Mylene nodded, “You worked in it every day for months.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Marinette shrugged. “For you.”

           That got everyone’s attention.

“What do you mean for us, Dudette?” Nino asked.

           Marinette sighed, “The sketchbook was filled with all the projects that were either requested by people in this room or were for people in this room. By destroying it, I can no longer do any of those projects,” She explained. “I did it in my free time. As my main work schedule is full of commission I’m actually being paid for. I don’t have time to redesign or remake those sketches. So I sent texts to Bustier, Luka, and anyone else involved that I can no longer work on their specific project.”

           The other students blinked.

           Marinette rolled her eyes, “That means I can’t do the costumes for the school play,”  Mylene and Sabrina gasped. “No new outfits for Kitty Section.” Rose and the other members of the band got tears in their eyes. “I can’t do the set design for Nino’s next gig.” The boy in questioned paled as he had been counting on Marinette’s design skills to wow the crowd. “The new design layout for the Ladyblog is canceled.” Alya clenched her fists. “The costume for Mylene’s short film is too. I had to back out of the school fundraiser. Let the Coach know I can no longer do any banner work. Or design the new team uniforms.” Alix and Kim’s mouths dropped. “Max’s Game-Con costume is out of the question now.” Max visibly deflated. “Ivan’s mom’s gift for her birthday is out too; pity that dress was so beautiful.” Ivan gasped. “I can plan any birthday parties or make custom cakes. The charity work you wanted my help with, I can’t do. My idea for the school trip to New York city is canceled as all my contacts and trip itinerary ideas are gone. I let Bustier know that I’ll be too busy to be class president so she’ll have to assign someone else the role. The dresses for the school dance you girls requested, I can’t do anymore.” She shrugged again. “Oh well.”

“But, but, Luka!” Juleka cried, worried about how her brother will react.

           Rose was crying. So was Mylene.

“Can’t you redo it,” Sabrina asked. “The drama department was counting on us.”

           Marinette narrowed her eyes. Us? Sabrina nor anyone else had lifted a finger to help Marinette come up with idea for the costumes for the school play. “Afraid not. There’s not enough time; to resketch everything and then actually make it. I have to focus on the designs I’m being actually being paid for. They come first.”

           Alix slammed her hands on the table, “We only did it because you were bullying Lila!”

           There were nods.

“Yeah, girl,” Alya said. “We just wanted you to know what being bullied was like. We didn’t know our stuff was in there.”

“First I never bullied Lila,” Marinette said and before anyone could protest, she continued. “Second of all, I was bullied by Chloe for years, why would you think I would ever bully anyone else,” She looked directly at Nino when she asked this. Her childhood friend. His eyes widened and he looked away. “Lastly, why should I go to the trouble and take time out of my already swamped schedule to redesign projects I did for you that you destroyed. The way I see it, it’s your own fault.”

           The entire class went silent again. Each mind weighing the consequences of their actions.

“Nathanial,” Marinette said. The redhead boy looked up. “You don’ t have to worry. You paid for your work; it was a commission. It will arrive on schedule; even if I have to work all night for a week to redo it.”

           Nathanial’s face lit up, “Thank you, Marc’s going to love it.”

“You’re redoing his work,” Alya screeched. “That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t destroy all her hard work, so yes it is,” Nathaniel snapped back at the girl before Marinette could. “Not only that but I paid for my stuff. Something none of you have ever even offered to do.”

           Some of the other students looked ashamed. It was true.

“They were custom made designs,” Marinette explained. “Any other designer would make you pay hundreds for all that works. Thousands, if it was a fully trained professional, right Adrien?”

           Adrien swallowed hard. He hadn’t been involved in actively destroying the bluenette’s sketchbook but he hadn’t stopped it either. The blond nodded, “My father would charge a lot. His last custom piece was sold for five grand, and it was just a simple pants suit.”

“What about your mom, Chloe?” Marinette asked the blond who had arrived mere seconds after Marinette and had stayed by the door to watch the fireworks.

Chloe gave the class a vindictive smirk, “For the dresses for the school dance, fifteen hundred dollars apiece; more if she had to hand sow them herself. For the rest of the work, combined, may be less than twenty grand if she cut you a deal. Anyway between ten and fifteen grand when she was still at Marinette’s level. Shame.”

Marinette shook her head, “Fifteen thousand dollars of work you were going to get for free, gone.”

Most of her classmates' faces had drained of color at the price, at realization of how big of a screw up they made. They had no idea just how much work Marinette did.

Lila was seething because it would be too hard to turn this around.

“I’m sorry,” Rose rushed to say. “We’re sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marinette shrugged. “There’s nothing to do. And now that I know that there are people in this class who can’t keep their hands to themselves, all free commissions are now canceled.” Gasps filled the room. “From now on, if you want some work done; you’ll go to my website and request a consultation like all my other customers. Keep in mind, for custom designs, depending the size of the job, you’ll have to book anywhere between a month and six months in advance. Www.MDC-designs.com.”

           Chloe walked to the back of the classroom and sat down next to the Bluenette, “You’re still doing my dress for the dance, though right?”

“Chloe, you did a consult a year early and paid well in advance,” Marinette smiled. “You’re dress is done. You can do your final fitting anytime.”

           Miss Bustier walked into class with a smile that quickly turned to a frown at the sight of Marinette, “Oh Marinette, I was so sad when you told me you had to back out of being class president and planning the school trip and, well, so many other things. You had such wonderful ideas. How on earth you got us on the list for a tour of Stark Industries, the Gotham times, Marvel Studios, and Vogue; I’ll never know. It’s a pity that can’t happen now. All canceled, you said?” The teacher shook her head. Totally unaware of the sheer horror her words at unleashed in her students. “It’s a shame about what happened to your sketchbook. Do you have any idea what happened?”

           Marinette just leaned back in her chair, “Not a clue.”

           That time, she smirked.

           The new few weeks were horrible for the students of Miss Bustier’s class. As they all scrambled to design, plan, and actually make/do their own projects.

           Sabrina and Mylene had realized quickly they had no designing skills and were forced to tell the drama department that the promised costumes weren’t coming. Aurora, leader of the Drama club, and Marinette s friend had heard about what happened from Nathianal and spread the news to the other club members. Most were artists too and knew they would’ve died if something like that were happening. The ones that weren’t couldn’t believe they had been getting all that for free and a bunch of idiots ruined it.

           Alix and Kim found themselves participating in a lot more school fundraisers to raise money for the new uniforms and to pay for all the team trips to the away games.

           Luka had been disappointed in his bandmates and his sister and had threatened to go solo.

           Alya was forced to do more babysitting to help pay for new website design and a dress for the dance.

           Nino had no clue just how hard the set design was. And ended up nearly causing a fire at his gig.

           Lila had no clue on where to start for planning a trip as fabulous as the one Bustier made Marinette’s sound.

           Birthdays went without cake, had only cheap decorations from the store, and immaculate gift that had come to be expected every year.

           The entire class, apart from three, felt the pressure of planning the school dance, fundraising for the field trips, affording their dresses for the dance, on top of all their other many after school activities.

           No one would bother to mention just how badly their actual school work suffered; there was barely any time to study for tests or do their homework. Grades dropped. Parents were furious.

           Alix nearly lost her spot on the team. Kim did lose his spot until his grades were brought back up. Alya was forced to stop her work with the Ladyblog until her grade improved. Nino’s parents forbid him from doing any more gigs. Mylene’s dad stopped her movie work altogether. Sabrina’s dad just straight up grounded his daughter so she could have time to relax and study when she had the time. Ivan’s mom actually started tutoring him. Max’s grades didn’t drop but his stress levels increased so much his parents pulled him out of all his extracurriculars.

           Luka had no choice but to go solo as his bandmates rarely showed up for practice. It was fine, though, Marinette got Jagged to work with him on a demo album. In exchange for a new few new pieces of wardrobe…

           For Fang.

           It got so bad even the headstrong Alya burst into tears at the pressure one day. The stress was too much. Some kids found themselves constantly being late, never getting enough sleep, and were constantly worried and checking their phone just in case something went wrong And somehow something always went wrong. A few kids started having anxiety attacks. Relationships and friendship suffered as no one had time to talk or spend any time together as foretime was a rarity. Mylene and Ivan broke up. So did Nino and Alya, who got into a fight so bad in front of the school, that Nino left in tears.

           Hawkmoth had a field day with it all. Until he started noticing all the akumas came from his son’s class, and that his son was looking too good either. Gabriel Agrest may be a heartless son of a bitch but he wasn’t a complete monster.

           …Plus the Akumas were all worthless anyway. Most were sleep akuma who just put people to sleep. A couple was literally dedicated to forcing people to plan their days better. There was an akuma that literally made everyone around them feel less stressful. Ladybug didn’t even bother to show up defeat that one. Hawkmoth just pulled it back eventually.

           Marinette watched it all; not with joy or happiness as her classmates' misery, just a sense of relief that for once it wasn’t her. Everyone noticed how Marinette was nearly never late anymore. She glowed with all the sleep she was finally making up. Her grades while never anything less than good improved dramatically. Her parents were happy their daughter was so much more relaxed and happier. It was like she was a new person.

           She even found she had more time to not only design stuff for herself but actually make it. Her dress for the school dance was going to be amazing.

           …If there was a school dance. With the way, things were going and the miserable looks of her ex-friends face when anyone brought it up, there was a good chance there wouldn’t be one.

           A week after Marinette had that thought, the school play was canceled. Some sports teams were forced to forfeit away games due to budgeting issues; losing their number one spot.

           It wasn’t long after that Rose came up to Marinette’s lunch table. Chloe and Nathaniel eyed the pixie-cut blond with suspicion.

“I’m sorry,” Rose whispered. “I didn’t know how much you did. How hard you worked. You did so much for us, and we never even realized. You must think we’re monsters.”

           Marinette shook her head, “. I still don’t understand why you would do something so horrible as destroying my private property but I think don’t your monsters. Just not very good friends,” She frowned. “Not friends at all, actually”

           Rose winced at the truthful words. Now that she didn’t have time to hang off Lila’s every word, it was easy to hear just how ridiculous all her stories were. She nodded, “I requested a consult on your website. Based on your prices, I think I finally enough money for an MDC original dress for the school dance.”

           So someone in class could learn. Most of the class still muttered under their breaths whenever Marinette walked by. Not willing to take the blame for their own mistakes. Though she did see Alya casting her pitiful glances every now and then as if Marinette would suddenly take mercy and start doing everything for the class again.

“I’m glad to hear,” Marinette smiled. “I think you’ll look great in a lovely turquoise; really make those eyes pop.”

[bumbershots]

A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER ONE: JUEVES

Author’s note: Hello! I’ve decided to give it a go, this is my first chaptered fic in this website. This story just occurred to me a while ago and I’ve tried my best to make some sense out of the concept which honestly is forever changing on my mind. I hope you don’t find many grammar mistakes, if you do please let me know. Enjoy! (:

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.3K ** 

It's been years since Harry last had to use the tube, but it's not as hard as he thinks, buying the ticket was fairly simple and soon enough he was sitting on the train comfortably. The northern line wasn't too busy, no delays were announced through the speakers, his journey to Ladbroke Grove station was going to last around thirty six minutes. He suddenly can't remember how long the ride would be on a car. Maybe it's time to start using the London Underground a bit more, contributing to saving the planet, lessen his carbon footprint. With all the aeroplanes he takes a year, he should use it from now onto the rest of his life, he thinks with a bit of guilt.

He changes to the Hammersmith and city line with ease, passing by lots of people, no one truly pays attention to him. The school girls that would usually come up to him and ask for a picture are too busy gossiping among themselves, the grown up adults that are more fond of his solo work are too immersed into their own thoughts about annoying bosses. Harry likes to blend into the crowd that's gathered now at the station and awaits for the train. In the eyes of the others, he's just another guy patiently waiting for the train to hop on and get to his destination. Even though he was on his way to meet with the team that will take care of his house renovation, a property valued approximately on £4.175 million.

The train arrives and he follows the multitude that pile into the wagon, he isn't lucky to find a seat this time but doesn't mind as he finds a good spot to lean against, the doors close just as he skips the ABBA song he doesn't feel like listening at the moment and settles for Hanson instead. He bops his head along the tune before slipping back the mobile in his pocket, eyes traveling along the passengers' faces, trying to guess what they're up to.

A group of lads wearing the Tottenham jersey discuss the latest game, one of them praising Kane's goal and regretting him missing the next match. Harry knows a thing or two about football, he even plays it regularly with his friends not so far away from his home, but he doesn't keep up with Manchester United, perhaps he can do that from now on he thinks before letting his gaze fall upon the pack getting down on Baker Street and the few ones hopping on. Most of them are tourists chatting about the Sherlock Holmes museum, the singer smiles, remembering the first time he visited it with his family, many years ago. Sometimes he longs for those days to be back, so he can do the typical touristy things with the people he loves the most once in a while or have a date without a good amount of lenses focused on his every move.

Not that he regrets being a well known musician, actor, model. It comes with a lot of perks. But he's just moving on from a breakup that might have been his fault. He's a workaholic for sure, even though he's supposed to be taking it easy, his mind can't help but keep throwing song ideas for the next album. That is why Jeff suggested the home renovation, knowing that the project will keep him busy for about three months, maybe more if the contractors up sell their ideas.

Harry makes his way out of the station in one piece and without being spotted, he checks the address again on his phone, confirming the place where the meeting will be held is within walking distance and makes his way before choosing a Pink Floyd song for the six minute walk. He pulls his coat tighter around him, relishing in the forever changing weather of the city, this time he will stay and enjoy it in full, maybe even delight in the autumn too, have his mum over for a couple of weeks, maybe he'll even stay longer and take her to the ice rink.

Just as Harry plots on where to go when his favourite person pays him a visit, he reaches the private front garden off a beautiful car-free garden square. He remembers to text Jack, who doesn't take long to appear in the distance and unlock the gate for his friend.

"You're impossibly early mate," the man greets with an amused chuckle.

"Sorry, had to take the tube because of what you said about car-free development, probably miscalculated the time." Harry admits sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck as Jack leads the way through the garden. "Is this where they filmed Notting Hill?" He wonders with another look around.

"Couple of scenes that didn't make the cut, our neighbour Mrs. Black will tell you all about it, if you happen to run into her around Hugh Grant's birthday." Harry laughs as they reach a private entrance with a well-maintained front garden adorning the forepart of the property, he follows Jack inside the home where a strong coffee scent greets them both.

The musician quickly scans the large open plan kitchen/reception room with large glass sliding patio doors to a delightful independent garden where a round table is surrounded by four mismatching chairs. He doesn't remember Jack's old place, but it certainly didn't look as the dream home they're standing in right now.

"Thanks for agreeing to do the meeting here mate," Harry's words are sincere his companion can tell, he tries to shove it off as if it's nothing, handing him the mug with coffee while he pours another one for himself, "I know it can be a handful, the NDAs too." Now he's almost blushing.

"We should be thanking you H, work from home for the next couple of months, my dream come true." Jack manages to make him laugh and feel at ease again, just before the steps of a third party come from the stairs and grow closer towards them. "Just in time, Harry this is Fernando Gonzalez, my housemate and architect of the team." He introduces the tall man to his friend and watches them shake each other's hand, "Fernando this is our client, Harry Styles."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you Mr. Styles," his voice is soft and melodic, like an aerophone instrument.

"Please call me H, all my friends do," the musician knows this is business, but he wants to have fun too, like Jeff suggested. And the guy looks way too young to be calling him Mister Styles.

"I warned you Fer, he likes to keep it easy, breezy." Jack says motioning both of them to follow his lead and sit down in their dining table that is covered with house design magazines, floor plans of Harry's home and a couple of what the pop star assumes are sketch notebooks. "Alright, tell us about your vision for this project." In all honesty, Harry doesn't know how to answer that.

He fights the urge to say that he had purchased the property knowing that not much is needed to be done to the décor. The style and the flow of the house is already lovely. After a quick glance at the plan he thinks that maybe, more room is needed and, most importantly, a new kitchen-dining-living space that would be grand enough to entertain in, but cosy enough to be the central 'hub' of his home.

"The windows, for starters, have to be replaced." He begins with a tone so confident that the pair before him don't suspect he's improvising the whole thing. "New bathrooms, perhaps from Lusso Stone, demolish an existing rear extension from the top and design and build an entirely new expansive ultra-modern one, like the one at Lou's home." Jack nods understanding what he means, "I also want a kitchen diner extension, pink granite worktops, if possible." Harry finishes before grabbing one of the magazines and starts flipping pages just to look busy.

The whole project can take six months, they let him know, through the summer and autumn. He's elated at achieving double the time he hoped for in the beginning.

"We'll send the paperwork to your team and see you next week to sign it once they approve it," Jack concludes the meeting as they all finish their coffee. "Are you busy on the nineteenth?" His friend's voice is warmer now that he's not on business mode, it makes Harry smile.

"I don't think I am, why?"

"It's Freddie's birthday, you should come, catch up with the lads," Harry nods while thinking about it, a bit unsure because it has been a while since he's seen the rest of the pack, he's not sure they'll welcome him just like that. "They're always asking about you, could be like old times, lads doing laddy stuff," the green eyed musician chuckles at that, not sure if he wants to go back to those activities of their youth.

"Sure I'll go, text me the address a few days before," his friend nods in approval to his request, "I better get going, I have to pick up my sister for dinner, see you both next week." The youngest nods and shakes Harry's hand before Jack leads the way out the house and square. The sun is setting now and the sky is a mix of pink and purple hues just as the two men bid their goodbyes until they meet again in a week's time.

Harry scolds himself for buying a one way ticket earlier instead of sorting out an Oyster card, he'll do that next time, he thinks before stepping into the train and finding a seat in the middle section of it. Led Zeppelin is a good soundtrack for his journey back home, for some reason he is craving the powerful, noisy, speedy rebellion that came with the band's songs, he loved to get so lost in the music that whatever activity he did came in second, every single time. Which is why he almost didn't get off at the King's cross stop, he hurried out of the vehicle, laughing to himself for being so immersed into the music.

The way back to the northern line was now familiar, but not as busy, he decided not to walk too fast after confirming that he had enough time to go home and take a shower before going over to Gemma's. Waiting at the platform he decides to change his playlist, again. Just as he's about to settle for Wings, out of the corner of his eye he spies what the person next to him is listening to and he stops from hitting play on his own device.

The who.

It's been ages since he heard them, three years if he is being honest. The train arrives and the girl next to him puts her phone in her coat pocket as she prepares to board the wagon, Harry does the same, but instead of training his eyes on the descending passengers, he lets them focus on her. She's wearing a nice burgundy coat, a black newsboy cap, high-waisted jeans with a blue polka dot blouse tucked underneath them. She's much shorter than he is, probably about Helene's height, he thinks as they make their way inside.

Without meaning to, he follows her and leans on the wall, across from her. She doesn't seem to notice how his stare is burning holes into her face, he's itching to ask her where did she buy the red boots she's wearing. Harry knows the moment he speaks to her, it will all go to shit. Some of the school girls sitting nearby might recognise his voice, his dimple could pop out to play and give him away too. She might also think he's a creep and kick him in the shin, leaving a nasty bruise that would heal in about a week, unlike the invisible one in his ego.

"Are you telling me, you developed a ten feet tall crush on someone you saw on the tube?" Gemma asks later that night, her fork full of linguine was stopped mid-air, making her brother roll his eyes but nod bashfully. "I'm speechless." The fork resumes its trajectory and she chews her pasta slowly.

"It happens to everyone, only because you both know that there's almost no chance to see each other again." Harry shrugs and bites a piece of bread, still feeling weird about the situation.

"Did she make eyes at you?"

"What?" He's completely taken off guard by his sister's question, his northern accent coming out and making him drop the 't' at the end.

"Yes, did you flirt with each other making eyes," Gemma's eyelashes flutter as if she was a Disney princess meeting her love interest for the first time, Harry shakes his head in denial, "what was it then?"

"I don't know! It was weird, couldn't take my eyes off of her but... she didn't even notice, I sound like a dirty man," he does, his sister agrees but the pink spots on his cheekbones tell a different story.

"I once had a crush like that, with a cashier at Waitrose," she remembers before sipping her wine, "he was nice to look at, one day he wasn't there anymore, just like that." Gemma sighed and took her younger sibling's hand on hers before adding. "If our lives were a Nicholas Sparks novel, perhaps we would be getting ready to have a date with those lovely people but..." Harry laughed and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"How's the sunnies collaboration going?" He asked before taking the last of his gnocchi. Listening to his sister talk about things that she enjoyed was the highlight of his days, he managed to push his silly underground crush to the back of his mind.

But there was the truth of what Harry couldn't see, or say. He'd probably like to have a shot with a girl like that and if Gemma could only see her, she would agree. Agree that there might be a story around there.

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