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littlemisslipbalm · 4 years

Text

“it’s not that important”

Summary: Y/N is in Harry’s band and one night they have a drunken hook up. One thing leads to another and they find themselves engaging in a friend’s with benefits type of situation. spoiler: it is important

AKA: A friends with benefits to lovers story :) with some angst in there

This is for @stylesharrys fallinharry10k celebration so my trope is friends with benefits! prompt is “you have no goddamn idea what you do to me. when i’m around you, i have no control of my emotions or my thoughts” and the tenth picture ^ i kinda just used it in the beginning to descripe what he was wearing - i got really carried away with this story but the prompt is in there !! lol, not proofread tho but would love your feedback !!!! :) love y’all very much

oh boy i’ve had this done for agesss but i hadn’t written the smut until today so now we’re here i dont even remember what happens - i vaguely remember not loving the end but I hope yall enjoy

Word Count: 15.4k (longest fic to date) | Warnings: smut, angst, fluff, alcohol consumption? i dont remember but i dont think theres anything too heavy in here.

“Hey Harold!” You smile as you easily hop over the side of the couch and settle beside your bandmate.

Harry groans, yet can’t keep the small smile off of his face when he sees it’s you. “How many times have I told you to never call me that?”

Your eyes narrow at his faux glare. “And how many times have I told you, I simply do not care?”

You reach a hand out and tousle his already disheveled, unstyled brown hair. Despite his lack of styling, his hair still looked perfect. His chestnut hair fell into a middle part when he did nothing to it and you found it endearing. It made him look far younger than he truly was, like a boy you might have pursued when you were in your early days at college. The waves slightly framed his prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw that was sporting a tiny amount of stubble.

He moves his arm from around the back of the couch to pat at his hair, trying to put it back in its nondescript position you had just messed with. After he’s satisfied, he uses the same hand to push up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. They’re chestnut brown Gucci frames that match the natural highlights in his hair. You can safely assume that’s why he bought them. The lenses are clear, but you know they don’t hold any prescription. He looks incredulously at you from behind them still.

“Nice glasses,” you mention offhandedly as you reach out to the coffee table to grab the drink you had left there earlier.

Before Harry had arrived, you had been taking up residence on the couch, in the spot he had actually taken up. You had ventured to the restroom for a moment and gotten held up in a conversation when asked your preference for the Beatles. Having to defend your staunch stance for the Beatles and against the Rolling Stones, you had gotten swept up into an argument with Adam. He believed that because the Rolling Stones toured for longer warranted them the title of best rock band. While you countered that despite their long touring and production of music, the Stones had a rotation of members. The Beatles maintained the four of them and held such a large impact even though they were barely together for a decade. They were one of a kind, or at least the first of their kind, you’d allow. You weren’t really in the mood for intellectual conversation tonight, so upon seeing Harry taking up your seat, you had told Adam you’d continue the discussion at a later date and returned to your spot.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles as his gaze flits around the room. He wasn’t sure if you were actually complimenting him, but he would take it as one either way.

The rest of your friends are all up and about, drinking, talking, dancing. It was the usual house party scene: a relatively intimate gathering, music you all actually liked, some friends of friends feeling slightly out of place. There was no pressure in this type of gathering but still Harry wasn’t necessarily in the party mood tonight. Usually, Harry was the one instigating these types of get-togethers with his friends and bandmates. He liked to be the life of the party, but as the tour loomed closer and closer, he felt some tinge of longing for quiet and solitude. He knew he wouldn’t have much quiet while on the road, which mostly didn’t scare him. He loved the stage and the high he received from performing and the gratification he felt from all the people in the room being there to see him. But there was also that other part of him that liked the quiet, the privacy. As the lack of alone time nudged itself around the corner, he had been hoping to enjoy solitude, or at the very least peace before he was on the road. Some sort of blissful state before technical chaos ensued. When Charlotte, the host of tonight’s soiree, had texted their group chat about tonight, Harry had politely declined. Then came the slew of private texts from Charlotte giving him all the reasons he should come tonight. He tried to say no again, but had shown up after the continued begging from her.

His appearance mirrored his expression, choosing a not perfectly fitted white t-shirt and random trousers rather than picking something he really loved, like usual. You could tell something was up and as his friend you were wondering what was wrong with him.

“Don’t sound so excited, Harry, someone might mistake you for somebody who’s happy to be here.” You stick your tongue into the side of your cheek, gauging his reaction.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re not very funny?” He quips, green eyes flashing to meet yours.

Your banter is probably how the pair of you communicated the best, never really falling into the whole serious side of friendship. You never shared those late night talks about the future or your fears. It was a fun friendship, so you didn’t fancy yourself one of his closest confidants. When it came to music, you and Harry were a bit more serious which formed a sort of paradox because the music you would share with each other gave a far greater insight into your souls than you probably realized. As a member of his band, you would discuss his music and what was going on with that sort of business part. But the sharing and discussion of other music that you did was part of your friendship, even if you didn’t see it like that. Because of the countless albums you had recommended to each other and the specific songs you had made note of, Harry and you knew each other much better than you thought you did. Music connects to something deep inside yourself and you have to like it enough and know the other person well enough to believe that they will also enjoy it to recommend it. As much tongue and cheek that you partook in with Harry, deep down, unbeknownst to either of you, you were that friend he shared his hopes and fears with, through the way he knew best, music.

“No, most people find me hilarious...”

You take a sip of your drink, trying to cover up the sting that his remark actually left. Most of the time you were great at keeping up with anyone’s banter, especially Harry’s, but tonight you weren’t feeling it. His tone had sounded so harsh it almost sounded like he meant it. His features soften when he sees the way your face falls, despite your sarcastic tone.

“‘M sorry. I’m just not in the best mood tonight. Didn’t want to come, but Charlotte…” He shifts to face you, arm retracting slightly around the couch, landing his hand at the edge of your shoulder. His fingers fiddle with themselves absentmindedly, he turns his rings around his fingers and they ever so slightly brush against your shoulder. You don’t mind, you know its his nervous tick that he did whenever he didn’t have something to clink them against.

“Yeah, same here, actually.” Your tuck an out of place hair behind your ear, returning your gaze to Harry, who’s tilting his head at you curiously. “But might as well make the most of it, though. After all, this is our last week before tour starts.” You raise your glass and tilt it towards him before taking a sip.

You really didn’t have a plan, you were just trying to make him feel a little better. It was seldom you saw him so solemn at this type of gathering. He usually was the one bouncing from group to group, entertaining everyone with his dazzling charm and quick wit. Sometimes he would bring a date and spend the night with them in the corner, but that was usually at bigger parties than this. At these types of gatherings you often found yourself talking with Charlotte for most of the night. You were both new additions in the band and you had clicked immediately. You would travel in a pair between different groups and talk with everyone. Sometimes you would tell a humorous anecdote about your life and everyone would laugh wholeheartedly. Your ability to retell a story and make it hilarious every time seemed to be your secret talent. You could make any experience into a ten-minute retelling and it always sounds like the funniest moment of your life. It ranged from your embarrassing audition for Grease as a tween to your supermarket run in with an old acquaintance or B-list celebrity the day before. It didn’t matter what it was, it just always had the entire circle of people laughing and wiping their eyes with joy. You’d laugh a little with themselves, but usually you just had a triumphant smile on your lips for the rest of the night.

He nods, sipping his own drink for the first time since you had settled down beside him. “Well, I’m all ears.”

“What?”

“Give me your suggestions on how to make the most of tonight.”

“Drinking, mostly, was my plan,” you laugh nervously as Harry continues to stare at you intently.

“Mostly?”

“I mean, what do you want me to say? I didn’t think to pack my bouncy castle, my bad.”

He bites back a laugh but lets some air escape his defined nose, before staring with a deadpan face at you.

You like to tease him. You simply liked him. Harry was different from other men you knew. You were pretty sure most people could say that though. Harry was just different. It seemed like no one could not have some sort of affection for him. With the playful friendship the pair of you had, you always skirted the edge of flirtation. But you also didn’t particularly ever want to cross any lines with him. He was the employer of you, technically. He had brought you into his backing band and you wouldn’t do anything to harm that position. As well, at the end of the day you knew Harry. His tendencies and the choices he made.

When you were around him at parties like this, you had to try really hard to keep him at an arm’s length. Because on one hand, you would drink and suddenly the boundaries you put up didn’t seem that important, instead his lips started to look rather inviting, but on the other, you knew that he was extremely emotionally closed off to any relationship that was more than either friendship or a one night stand.

Harry doesn’t give you a response, just swings back his drink. The pair of you sit and drink in silence. Before you know it, Harry and you are five drinks in, finally talking after the second. The pair of you decide to move to the balcony outside and continue your conversation there after the third. After the fourth, you're getting really handsy and by the end of the fifth, Harry’s arm is wrapped tightly around your waist and you're laughing breathlessly into his neck. It looks like he’s just shielding you from the cold night air, but both of you seemed to be enjoying each other’s embrace for other reasons.

Finally catching your breath, you lean back and pant softly as you meet eyes with Harry. His pupils have blown out from the alcohol and dark light. The emerald green barely surrounds the black and you swear there’s flecks of gold or maybe brown in them. Your brows scrunch at the revelation and Harry asks what you’re thinking. You don’t respond, too entranced and drunk to even hear him.

“Oi,” he bops your nose, “What is goin’ on in there, little lady?”

Your hand reaches up and widens Harry’s eye manually. His inebriated state has no qualms about you doing such an odd thing. “Why’s your green not actually green?”

“What?” He asks before moving your hand away from his face, it instead falls to his chest. The pair of you shift until your caged between his body and the balcony’s ledge. You pout as you stare up at him. His skin looks soft and taught over every inch of his face and neck. The urge to kiss him keeps nagging at the back of your mind. The idea keeps creeping up closer and closer and the drunker you are the less likely you are to suppress it.

“Do you want to fuck me?” You blurt out.

“Sure.” Harry isn’t taken aback. He had been thinking about asking for a while, so he was glad you had asked first, made it easier for him.

“Okay, let’s go.”

He takes you back to your place, the pair of you catching a cab the short distance between yours and Charlotte’s flats. No one blinks an eye at the pair of you leaving together. Everyone watched the pair of you sulk all night about being there and only enjoying the other’s company, so they weren’t keen on either of you staying. Charlotte was simply glad the pair of you had stayed for as long as you did.

The two of you walk casually until you’re inside your bedroom. Once inside, Harry throws you on the bed and fucks you. Hard. He’s got you spread out in more ways than you had ever thought possible. He’s got you saying things you had never even dreamed of saying. And he’s got you cumming and screaming more than you could have ever wanted. He enjoys himself as well. He loves the way you feel around him and the way your eyes look up at him while he fucks you straight into the bed. He loves the way you sound whispering dirty things and screaming his name. He loves the feel of your soft skin all over your body as he pushes deep inside you. He loves the way you’re able to rip a guttural moan from him every time he cums. And he cums three times that night. While it wasn’t quiet, he did find that blissful state he had been in desperate need of.

After the third round, Harry feels spent. He brings himself into a sitting position, legs hanging off the edge of your bed. You’re lying in your bed, completely overstimulated, cumming at least twice as many times as Harry. He scratches at the top of his head, his bicep bulging as he folds his arms around himself.

“That was fucking good, Y/N. Just what I needed.”

You can only hum in response.

Then he takes your blanket and lays it over you. After that he begins to stand up, getting ready to grab his things and go.

“You don’t have to go…” your voice raises when you realize what he’s doing.

“Yeah, I do. This was just a one time thing, yeah? I enjoyed it, but you know...”

“Erm, I guess?” You rolled to fully look at him, he was pulling his t-shirt back on now, his marked chest disappearing beneath the white fabric. “Do you really not stay over at your one night stands?”

He thinks about it as he begins with his shoes and his glasses at the same time. “Yes? Usually I don’t know the person and I don’t particularly want to sign an autograph when I leave in the morning. Best to leave immediately afterwards.”

“That was exactly why I wanted you to stay...Shit! No chance you’ll give me an autograph now? Could sign my tit, right next to your hickies.”

He laughs, automatically in a better mood after the catharsis of having sex. It was also a relief for him that you didn’t seem to be weird about the hook up. “Shut up!”

“You’re a twat, Harold.” He groans instinctively at the annoying nickname, not caring about the ‘twat’ part. “But be my guest, you can freeze your arse off while waiting for your cab outside at this hour.”

“Rude..” He mutters, standing in your doorway now. “You wouldn’t actually make your employer stand out in the cold at this time of night. I haven’t even got a jumper. Could get a cold and ruin my voice. ”

“You’re the one who says it’s best to leave immediately. Get on it, mister.”

Your hand makes a shooing movement, but he doesn’t budge. You sigh as he makes a puppy dog face - eyes wide and a puckered pout with his flushed cheeks and lips - playing into your actual kindness, that he knows is somewhere. Your sweetness that you were keeping hidden from Harry right now. Nothing was serious between you so it made sense that you were trying not to let your innate ability to care show as he’s about to walk out on you.

“Ugh, fine. Stop looking at me like that. Just grab one of my coats from the bottom right, they’re all oversized so one should fit.” He doesn’t relent on the face. “And you can stay inside until your cab comes.” You sigh and throw one of your pillows at him. He catches it easily and throws it back, much softer than your throw. “Also never pull the employer card on me again when I’m naked in the bed you just fucked me in,” you call as he looks through your closet.

Returning with a patchwork coat you had thrifted tight over his shoulders, he looks at you seriously, “Yeah sorry about that part. Definitely wasn’t trying to exert my power over you, it sounded better in my head. Meant more like you could ruin my voice and both of our jobs.”

You nod and chuckle slightly, finding how inarticulate Harry could be as an endearing trait. His explanation didn’t actually make it sound better. “The jacket fits.” You say, choosing to move forward from Harry’s weirdness, knowing he didn’t mean any harm from his initial statement.

“Yeah, thanks. I think my cab is here,” He glances at his phone, “So I’ll go...See you?”

“I’m sure.” You smile, “We do in fact work together and will soon be touring the world. Would be a bit weird if I didn’t see you.”

“Right.” He nods and adds a peace sign before he walks out of your sight. You know he’s gone when you hear the door click shut. What an interesting night.

Love on Tour had just started and Harry couldn’t lie. He couldn’t keep his mind off of you. You were both his most recent partner and the best he had had in a while. He found himself rubbing over the spots on his neck and clavicle that you had given particular attention to during the night you had shared together. When he went to bed it was your body he pictured to get himself off. So, after the first show he’s beelining to you at the beginning of the after party. He’s got an adrenaline high and he needs a release. You’re the solution. He’s whispering in your ear, asking if you’d like to meet him in his dressing room. Your eyes study his face when he pulls back and they widen slightly when the realization of what he’s implying dawns on you. Then you’re nodding and excusing yourself from a random conversation five minutes later.

Inside Harry’s dressing room, you find Harry already unbuttoning his shirt. He grabs your face and shoves his lips onto yours once you lock the door. As he kisses you he tries to make one thing very clear, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Got it.” You begin to finish Harry’s job of taking off his shirt.

He pulls back to look you in the eye, “Are you okay with that?”

“Jesus fuck, yes, Harry, just shut up and fuck me senseless again!”

He listens to you and begins to kiss down your jaw and neck. His open-mouth kisses leave a searing trail across your skin. He settles on a spot at the base of your neck and begins to suck and nip at it with vigor. You set to work on finishing his job of unbuttoning his shirt. Then you pull off your own shirt, reaching behind you to untie the bows at the back. The new skin exposed grabs Harry’s attention and he moves down to suck over the cleavage of your tits. He’s happy to be back with his ‘bosom friends’. You smack his head when he says it and he chuckles darkly, only sucking harder on them causing you to moan louder than you would like.

Once you’re both in only your underwear, you find your back pressed up against the mirror behind the dressing room counter. Harry’s body is nestled between your spread legs as he kisses down your skin. His fingers dance along the line of your thong as he looks up from beneath his lashes for position, you only push his head closer to your heat in response. He laughs mischievously before tugging them down off your hips.

“Missed this pretty little cunt...All I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout,” He mutters as he begins to latch onto your dripping core.

Your brows shoot up at the thought that Harry’s mind has been stuck on you for the past week. You definitely had thought about your drunken hook up a bit, but hadn’t thought it had left a lasting impression on Harry, you assumed he had that lovely of a night with every person he chose to spend intimate time with. These thoughts are forgotten when Harry’s warm tongue is lapping at your swollen bud. You’re already panting for Harry and now you’re heaving with moans and whimpers leaving your mouth with every lick and nip of his expert mouth.

“Fuck Harry, feels so good,” you whine as his tongue travels down your folds and swirls and dips into your hole.

He moans at your words and the way your legs squeeze at his head. His hands move to spread you open wide to maintain his control and he smirks at the way your body rolls due to the friction of his voice against your pussy.

“Be a good girl f’me,” he growls still pressed against your wet heat.

Your body rolls again as you get closer and closer to your first release. Your bite your lip trying to contain all of the sounds that are trying to escape your mouth. Harry notices the new silence and glances up seeing how you’re trying to behave. As much as he likes you obeying his words, he also wanted to hear how he was pleasuring you.

“Tell me how you feel, princess,” he demands.

“So-so good,” you hiccup as his fingers caress over your folds now as he looks you in the eyes, his lips wet with your slick. He kisses you hard, his tongue diving into your mouth and you kiss back passionately, loving your taste on his tongue.

He pulls back and your hands trail down his chest, swirling around his familiar tattoos and hair that grace his lower torso as you move. He grins, enjoying the feeling of you on him and how he was affecting you.

Soon enough, his cock is finding its way back to your glistening folds, wet with your own liquids as well as his saliva. His mouth waters at the sight. He only pushes into you a few times like this. Then he catches sight of himself in the mirror in front of him and can’t resist. He pulls out and flips you over, your squeal leaving your mouth before you can stop yourself. His dick finds your entrance once again, not wanting to be without the wonderful warmth for any longer than he must.

“Ahhh,” Harry groans when he slips back inside.

Your head throws back on your neck, the feeling of him as well as the sight of him gripping your hair in one hand and your fleshy hip in the other. His rings dig into the skin as he’s able to slam more forcefully in this position. You gasp and whine at his motions. The sounds coming from between your legs are turning you on even more and they seem to make Harry happy too. He picks up the pace and drops the grasp of your hair for a second. Your head falls down as you try to keep yourself up on your elbows.

Gripping both of your hips, Harry growls, “Look at me while I fuck you. C’mon now.”

You moan in response and tear your eyes open to see your reflections in the mirror. One hand goes up to hold onto the mirror to give yourself more traction, causing your back to arch even more. The new position has Harry’s cock slamming into you deeper.

“Fuck!” Harry practically yells and can’t keep himself from landing a harsh slap on your ass. You jump forward at the sting but his other hand keeps the pace steady. He keeps burying himself into you all the way to his base, his balls slapping at your now slick spread thighs. He rubs over the red handprint he had just left on your ass. You whimper and bite your lip, truly enjoying the sensation.

Still staring into the mirror as Harry commanded, your eyes water slightly and Harry makes eye contact with you through the mirror. You smile widely and he grins back. “This feels so fucking good. Your pussy takes me so well. Fuck…” Harry babbles, still pistoning into you. You had noticed how vocal he was the first time you had fucked, but thought it had just been the alcohol. Apparently not. But you didn’t mind, you much preferred it to partners who barely spoke or didn’t even moan. Like how were you supposed to know what was going on in their minds? With Harry, you knew he was having a good time.

A few more heavy thrusts and you felt yourself nearing the edge. Your panting was getting faster, exceeding the speed of Harry’s thrusts and he could also feel you were close. Your cunt began squeezing him tighter so he hooked a hand under your knee and brought it onto the table. He hunched over you slightly and snaked his hand to your clit. “C’mon darling, I know you're close. Can feel that little cunt putting a choke hold on my cock.” He rubs at your clit with the vigor of strumming a quick paced song on the guitar. It’s enough to overtake your senses and the laugh that had bubbled from his words turns into your orgasm moan. You try to muffle it into the arm that is holding you against the mirror to avoid a full on scream because it feels that good. You felt like you were having your first ever orgasm, it felt that new to you.

A few more thrusts and you’ve come down from it, but Harry still hasn’t finished. It’s your turn to be the partner coaxing the other to get off. “Faster, Har. Want you to cum too.” He grunts, picking back up the pace. He had slowed to let you ride out your stay. “That’s it...want you to cum in me. Your cock feels so fucking good.” You whine, meaning every word. He smiles again at you and closes his eyes, focusing on chasing his high. You watch as his smile widens to that open mouth grin, “Fuck,” he almost whispers. And there it is. There’s a twitch in his hips that mirrors his expression and then he’s pulling out and cumming on your back. His voice is now even lower and raspier than before as he babbles how good that was and how tight your pussy was. It was sweet nothings, but extremely explicit and you sighed heavily, feeling a small orgasm wash over you again. His final thrusts and voice pushing you off the cliff again easily.

The two of you take a minute to bring your breathing back to normal and Harry goes to clean your back off.

“So..how do you feel about maybe doing this regularly?” Harry asks sheepishly as he begins to pull his pants back on.

“Like a friends with benefits kind of thing? Or bandmates with benefits, rather.” You laugh breathlessly at your not really funny joke, but you’re now truly exhausted. From the show and the fuck, you felt thouroughly worked out.

“I guess that’s what it is, yeah.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

“You’re honestly so chill, Y/N. It’s fuckin’ hot.”

You laugh and flip your hair dramatically. You’re only in your bra and panties right now and Harry licks his lips, finding your playfulness to be a turn on. “What can I say?” You laugh.

“But like I said before...it’s just sex.” He’s buttoning up his shirt and looking at your reflection through the mirror now. He watches you slip the pants you had been wearing back on.

“Oh, Harold, I know.” On cue, he groans and turns around to face you after fixing his mused hair in the mirror. Interrupting yourself, you turn your back to Harry, “Can you tie this, sorry it’s hard for me to get the -” Harry walks to you without any hesitation and begins tying the silk ribbons on the back of your shirt. “Thanks. Anyway,” you turn to face him when he’s finished and you place both of your palms on his chest. “Trust me, I know you’ve got your issues and I’m not looking to be the girl that tries to change you. I know what this is. I only ask that you let me know when you sleep with other people, because once you do, you won’t need me.” Harry nods and you pat your hands against him. You both smile and go your separate ways when you leave the dressing room.

Harry and you fucked almost every night on tour. Sometimes it was right after, on the counter in his dressing rooms. Sometimes it was later in the evening in his hotel room or yours. He stopped leaving immediately after your hook ups. He never kicked you out of his room so he decided it was fine for him to stay in yours. Especially because you weren’t a stranger who would be weird with him in the morning. He also didn’t like trekking through the hotel halls late at night.

The first few times you stayed in the same bed, the two of you stayed on opposite sides of the bed, not touching after you were finished engaging in your sexual endeavours. Rigid bodies against the edges of the mattress. Then one particularly long night, filled with multiple rounds, Harry was so exhausted from his performance on stage and off that he collapsed on top of you. He fell asleep there and you didn’t particularly mind. It felt nice to be slightly compressed and held. He shifted in his sleep and when he woke up he wasn’t upset to find you nestled into his side with his arms wrapped around you. After that, cuddling sort of became part of the routine. After you were done having sex, Harry or you would get up to clean up and bring back waters. Then you would settle in his arms. Sometimes in a spooning position and sometimes you cradled softly into his chest. You didn’t talk about it, it just happened.

One night it was your head directly on top of his butterfly tattoo, one leg thrown over his lower torso and your arm snuggly wrapped around his middle. He liked to pet your hair when you laid against his chest in that way. His fingers would fiddle with the strands and you liked it because he usually took off his rings before he would do it and his hands felt so soft and delicate against you. Harry liked the way he felt when he would hold you afterwards. It was calming to fall asleep against your soft skin and feel your fingertips trace lyrics to songs he wasn’t sure the name of against his own.

No one knew about how your friendship with Harry worked. To the rest of the world, you seemed to be someone who had become another close friend in the band. You were similar to Mitch in many respects. Except for when Harry winked at you during a show, it wasn’t a friendly wink, it was a ‘this song makes me horny and I can’t wait to relieve the pressure by fucking you later’ kind of wink. You knew this because Harry had gone over and whispered it in your ear during a quick break, when you had only looked at him weirdly after he did it.

Before the show tonight, you pulled Harry aside, “So what are we thinking tonight? I feel like I might want to ride you...Haven’t been on top in a while.” In the darkness of the backstage, you crane your neck to take Harry’s earlobe between your teeth. He groans softly and grips your hips to guide them against his for a second. “Sounds fuckin’ fantastic, love.” You twitch back, releasing him immediately at the word. You always told him not to call you that and he tried to reason with you, that it was just something he called people. But you disliked it a lot, adding it to the growing list of rules the pair of you had for the do’s and don'ts of being friends with benefits with each other.

“Harold,” you groan and he steps back at that pet name. While he hated this, you refused to let him put it on the list because it didn’t cross any lines with your physical arrangement. Not that there was any physical list to put it on, it was more of a theoretical list that the two of you would speak of occasionally.

“Sorry.” He says eventually, “Didn’t mean it.” You both laugh.

You think about how other relationships were sometimes desperate to hear their partner express their love for them and you believe you’re grateful for the simplicity of your arrangement. The term relationship regarding what you and Harry were doing was also in the ‘don’t’ category on the list. If either of you were being honest, there should be no need for a list and you should be questioning yourselves why you felt the need to set boundaries if one part of it was physical and the other part was your friendship and job. If it truly was just physical why were boundaries constantly needing to be set and followed? But right now honesty was not in the cards.

After the show Harry gets delayed with press or fans or something that you don’t really care about. You barely read the text that he sends, only caring about the ‘sorry got held up’ and the ‘be there in thirty’.

You let yourself into his room and wait on the bed, flipping through your phone, completely unbothered by the rest of the world. When you hear a knock on the door, you don’t think twice about getting up and opening the door. You only realize your terrible mistake when it’s Mitch and not Harry standing at what you’re also just realizing isn’t your door, but instead Harry’s.

“Shit!” you say under your breath as Mitch looks at you confused.

The room is dark behind you because Harry would have just entered and gotten down to business. He might turn on a side lamp, but you hadn’t felt the need to have light on while you waited. Forgetting all of that, you had just gone to the door and opened it.

Mitch tucks some of his hair behind his ear as he stares at you. “Is Harry here?”

“Er..No?” It comes out as a question. You rub the back of your ankle with your foot, feeling nervous.

“Is he actually not here or?” Mitch trails off, narrowing his eyes at you.

“No, no he’s really not here. I’m waiting for him, too.” You rush your words, but try to remain calm.

“You have a key to his room. And you’re waiting in the dark.” He says. They’re not questions and you’re not sure just how guilty you look.

“Yeah!” You try to come up with a non suspicious response, hoping there’s a way to still salvage your’s and Harry’s secret, “He gave me his key because he wanted to talk about something and I kept it dark because my eyes always hurt after shows. Kind of like a migraine.” You scratch at your head and smile, trying to convince Mitch. He seems to believe you as he nods slowly and opens his eyes more.

There’s a little bit of an awkward silence and Mitch shifts his weight between his feet, looking at you still. Just as you're about to invite Mitch to come wait inside with you, Harry steps out of the elevator and begins to walk down the hall. His key card is already in hand and your eyes widen. Harry’s expression mirrors yours when he realizes Mitch is standing outside of his door and that you are standing with him. “Mitch!” Harry says, placing his hand on Mitch’s shoulder and sliding his key card into his back pocket with the other. Mitch turns to Harry without seeing him put away the other key card and you look at the pair of them.

“I was just telling Mitch how you gave me your key card so we could talk about...that thing.” You interject, flicking the lights on in Harry’s room as casually as possible. Harry shoots you a look about how you couldn’t come up with an actual reason for being there. You shrug your shoulders helplessly.

Mitch looks between the two of you and feels some weird tension and he’s not sure if it's always there and he’s just noticing or if something is going on right now.

“Yeah, well, I came to stop by to talk about the riff in Canyon Moon. Something is wonky with it.”

“Oh! Sure,” Harry nods to Mitch and then glances at you, “Y/N, we can talk about that other thing later. It’s not that important anyway.” His tone is so casual and nonchalant. You stare at him, thinking he can’t be serious. You had been almost sure he would send Mitch away, but instead you were being kicked to the curb. When he doesn’t say sike or anything of the sort, you nod. “Okay,” then you mumble a ‘good luck’ with figuring out the problem with the song. Mitch walks in the door, but Harry’s eyes stay fixed on your figure retreating down the hallway. He watches you disappear and is only pulled from his thoughts when Mitch calls his name from the couch in the room.

After reaching your floor, you key into your room and get ready for bed. Just as you’re about to drift off to sleep, completely alone for once in a long time, there’s another knock. This time you check the peephole, a habit you realized you were going to have to get better at. It’s Harry. You open the door and walk away immediately once he’s entered the room.

“Why are you here?”

“Thought we could still...” He follows you into the room, trying to make out your face in the darkness.

“I’m not in the mood anymore.” Your tone gives away your annoyance. You couldn’t hide that you were mad at Harry for sending you away. It made you feel weird. The way he did it so easily made you feel like you were extremely disposable and unwanted.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs as he lays down beside you. You turn to face him when he places a hand on the small of your back. You’re face to face and your noses are almost brushing. It’s not really possible to see each other’s features, but after months of hooking up you knew each other’s faces pretty well. You could reach out and pinpoint all of Harry’s freckles and moles on his face and neck right now and be correct. He could likely do the same. The theory is proven correct when he reaches out and his hand dances down your cheek. “Just thought it would be less suspicious if I didn’t get rid of him. Couldn’t make him wait either…”

“I know,” your voice is small and soft, just above a whisper, “I forgive you.” You scoot closer to him and Harry instinctively wraps his arm around you, bringing you tightly into him. You sigh into his neck and he shivers at your warm breath on his slightly clammy skin. When you lick your lips, they brush lightly against his skin. He laughs at the feeling, so you decide to press an intentional kiss to the hollow in his neck. In response, he presses a kiss to your hairline, his lips slightly chapped after the concert.

The kisses are tender, filled with that thing neither of you dare attribute to anything the two of you did in the dark. The word you told him time and time again to not call you. So is just about every touch and word that has been exchanged in this room since Harry entered it. You fall asleep wrapped up in his arms, a soft smile resting on both of your faces. Neither of you seem to mind that you didn’t actually have sex tonight or anything even close to it.

When you wake up you feel especially well rested. You shift around and realize your bed is empty besides you. It depended on the day, but it was always a toss up between Harry being there when you woke up or not. However, lately, you had found it was usually the former. You would linger longer and so would Harry in each other’s rooms, lounging in each other’s embrace under the soft glow of the morning light peaking through whatever windows the room had. Today you were cold at his absence. Then you look up and realize you aren’t completely alone. Harry is standing at the end of your bed, staring down at his phone, smiling.

“Hey.”

You wait for his reply, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. “Hey, Harold,” you repeat. His head snaps up, a grimace on his face at the name. He slips his phone in his pocket and ruffles his hair. “Hey.” He finally responds. “I’m gonna head out.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you seem to find it necessary to talk about what happened last night. Harry definitely seemed a little off to you this morning, but you try to shake it from your thoughts. There was no reason to be upset with him being quiet. He didn’t owe you anything, you hadn’t even slept together last night, so if anything it was weird he stayed as long as he did.

It was the second night at the Forum in Los Angeles. This means no travelling necessary. No day off either, tomorrow you’d have a day off before the third and final show at the venue though.

Harry and you were talking normally at the venue, mostly about the setlist - him and Mitch had changed something for whatever reason last night, which was fine. Your banter was to a minimum, but you were trying to convince yourself that nothing was off. Even though it felt like something was different, you couldn’t place your finger on what it was, so you thought it was best to ignore it.

When Harry is about to go out on stage, you don’t pull him aside and when he introduces the members of the band to the audience, he doesn’t say anything fun or silly about you. He doesn’t wink or come up to you at any point in the performance. It’s so unusual the rest of your bandmates are giving you funny looks. Charlotte looks at you from across your keyboard in a way that she’s asking if you’re okay. You shake your head at everyone trying to signal that you’re fine.

Mitch goes over to Harry and whispers in his ear to check in with him, Harry looks at him with a bright smile on his face and says “of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Mitch looks between the pair of you, thinking back to last night and how weird the pair of you were being then. Maybe it dawns on him then what might be going on between the two of you, but if he did, he wouldn’t mention it for a long time.

You falter a bit on your back up vocals tonight. You’re trying to give it your all, like always, but for some reason your voice isn’t sounding the way you want it. About halfway through the show, when your voice comes out the exact opposite of how you would like, Harry finally gives you a second glance. His face practically emotionless, save for the single arched brow. He’s concerned, but not concerned enough where he would go over to you. He just doesn’t understand why you keep missing the right note tonight. You make a shake of your hand to say I don’t know either. He just shrugs and turns back around to continue the show, his lively smile returning while he turns his head.

After the show, Charlotte, Sarah, and you are all checking in, going over what had happened during the show in general. They’re both worried about your voice and you’re simply trying to tell them that it was just an off night. Nothing was wrong. As long as you told everyone else that, then it might turn out to be true.

“It’s fine, maybe I didn’t get enough sleep last night,” you fib, having gotten more sleep last night than most other nights on this tour. They both nod, seeming to take that as a reasonable answer.

Then Charlotte gets quieter as she whispers to the three of you, “Did you guys notice anything weird with Harry? He was super lively, but he barely interacted with you, Y/N, which is so unlike him...”

Sarah nods while you look skeptically on. Sarah adds, “He kept looking up to the boxes, too. More than usual at least. I don’t know though…” She trails off and you cross your arms over your chest, not really enjoying the conversation topic. “I mean, what do you think, Y/N?” Sarah adds.

Your eyes dance between the two women, your fellow bandmates, your friends. You sometimes wished you could share with them what you were doing with Harry. The secret was fun, but it’s also nice to be able to share with your girlfriends about the guy you’re seeing, even if it is a casual thing. The friendly gossip of it all is something fun to share, but sadly that was another thing you couldn’t do. You sigh, “You never really know what’s going on in his mind, y’know. He’s just Harry.” Your response is half-assed at best. You figure they’ll both give you shit for the non-answer you just supplied, but instead someone else speaks for them.

“I am in fact, just Harry.” He says and you swivel around to find yourself almost chest to chest with him. Charlotte laughs while Sarah simply smiles. Your eyes are huge as you stare up at him and you hope your blush doesn’t come out too strongly after being caught talking about Harry by himself. “Enlighten me on when I was being ‘just Harry’ though?” You bite your lip and take a step back from him, forming more of a line with the other women. He shrugs when no one offers a response, laughing lightly.

“Oh and Y/N, I can’t talk about that thing again tonight, I’ve got-”

“A date?” Charlotte asks, trying to understand why Harry was acting a little different tonight still. The part that Sarah had mentioned about him looking up into the boxes had given her the idea that he might have plans with someone after the show. Harry scratches his head, his hair slightly wet with sweat right after the show. He’s taken off his coat so he’s just in the almost completely unbuttoned, sweat soaked shirt he had been wearing underneath. It sticks tight to his skin and you can make out all the muscle lines that hide beneath the fabric that you usually get to caress. Your eyes flit from his body back to his face when he speaks again.

“Erm, I wasn’t going to phrase it like that...but yes, I suppose, it’s a date.” He says finally, he avoids your eye contact and you look at him very confused, trying to hide the hurt. He shoves his hands in his pockets trying to look and sound as casual as possible and ignore the strain he sees on your face. Is that what had held him up yesterday? Making plans with someone else? And he hadn’t told you until now? The past twenty four hours stung a little bit more now that you knew why Harry was being so distant. It simply felt icky finding out this way and it didn’t even seem like he was going to tell you it was a date.

“Okay,” you say simply and walk away. You hear Charlotte asking him details about his date, but you try actively not to hear any of it. Sarah watches you walk away and sees the way you wrap your arms around yourself to comfort you. She feels a twinge of sadness as she watches the scene unfold, seeing something she hadn’t realized was there before.

Harry doesn’t text or call you that night. You hang out with everyone else for a little while in Charlotte’s room before heading to bed, saying you think you need an early night tonight. Before you’re able to walk out of the door, Mitch stops you. “I heard Harry blew off whatever conversation the two of you have been trying to have again. Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.” You try to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. There is no conversation Harry is blowing off, it’s simply you. “It’s fine. Like he said yesterday, it’s not important.” Mitch nods, but still looks at you with concern. What he had seen last night, then on stage today, and what Sarah had told him about your interaction after the show it all strung together in his mind. It didn’t seem unimportant at all. But he didn’t know how he could tell you that. He felt like he should talk to Harry about the way you looked when you left Charlotte’s room tonight, but he didn’t know how to bring it up to him either.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you're in the elevator, and it’s slowly rising to your floor of the hotel. You’re only one level up, but it feels like an eternity in there. You already weren’t a fan of elevators, but this ride felt impossibly worse. The walls are all made up of mirrors and you see yourself in the reflection, but you don’t exactly recognize the girl in there. Your eyes are tired from the show, dark circles already formed. Your hands are aching, clenching and unclenching on their own accord. Your body is slumped against the back wall, likely leaving a slight imprint from the smoke residue and dust on your clothes. Worst of all are the tears running down your face, smudging at your makeup, the black mascara you had applied dripping down in sinister raindrops against your skin. The sad girl stares back at you as you sniffle slightly, confused at what you’re seeing. “Why are you crying?” you ask yourself, your voice creaking and then breaking at the end as you struggle to get out the word ‘crying’ before a sob wracks through you. You roll your eyes when your reflection offers no explanation for itself. You laugh at your own patheticness and try to shake the feelings you’re experiencing.

Inside your room now, you flop on the bed and stare straight up at the ceiling. Your arms spread to your sides and your legs lay limply below you. You think about every night before last, every night since the tour started. Every night where you weren’t alone, where you were with Harry. Your mind flits to last night, how Harry’s lips had ghosted over your skin after his apology. How you had told him you forgave him and it had felt so peaceful, so simple. It was all so easy. Thinking about him and the things the two of you did together brought a smile to your face, unbeknownst to you. When you realize it’s there, your face drops immediately, deciding not to think about Harry.

But trying to not think about Harry makes you only think about him more and what you think about him now most definitely doesn’t bring a smile to your face. You’re thinking about him out on his date with some person you chose to learn nothing about. Maybe out of fear of what is happening right now. By knowing nothing about the person, you can’t compare yourself to them. Can’t see what’s different about them that would make Harry go out on a date with them. But it doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like because at the end of it all you know one thing for certain. They’re not you. You correct yourself, you know two things actually, because you also know that Harry chose to be with them instead of you tonight.

You fall asleep with tear stained cheeks that night and absolutely nothing positive on your mind. You want to sleep but know it only brings whatever is bound to happen tomorrow, which doesn’t seem very promising.

It’s noon when you wake up and you wake to a knocking on your door. You grumble and throw a sweatshirt over your body to hide the underwear you slept in. Not remembering your new habit, you swing the door open without any hesitation to find Harry. He looks wide awake and happy, the way he almost always looks, a fresh beautiful flower of a man. You look at him groggily, “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Because I was asleep?” You tilt your head and look at him incredulously. “What about this,” you gesture to your appearance, “looks like I just went for a 3 mile jog for fun and I love the morning?”

“Can I come in?” He ignores everything you just said and enters the room when you leave the door to get back in bed. You often did that with him, you don’t know why, but when he asked to come in the room it was just simpler to let him in then say anything. He knew what you meant.

He sits at the edge of the bed as you reclaim your spot in the middle of it, tucked slightly under the covers, but still sitting up. “How was your date?” You try to sound nonchalant and it seems to work. Harry doesn’t notice your tense figure, but you notice how he tenses up when you ask.

“Good…Her name was-” You don’t let him finish, you already know the answer to this next question and you don’t need her name in order to ask it, “Did you fuck her?”

He’s silent, green eyes staring straight at you. You meet his gaze, your eyes almost burning holes into him. His eyes are begging you to not make him answer the question, he doesn’t want this to end, even if he also didn’t want the commitment he had felt himself exhibiting the other night.

When he had come to your room the other night after Mitch had almost caught you, he knew he shouldn’t have stayed. He didn’t want you to feel bad so he had come to apologize, but when the pair of you didn’t have sex, he should have left. But he didn’t, he stayed and it wasn’t for you, it was for himself. It was for him to hold you in his arms because he liked to. But when he woke up the next morning he knew he needed to leave. Solely cuddling wasn’t part of your arrangement together. It’s probably on the list of don'ts that the pair of you had. So after he realized the line he had willingly crossed with you, he quickly sent a text to Jeff who had tried to set him up with a model they were acquaintances with the night before - the reason he had gotten held up. Harry had initially declined, not very interested in seeing anyone else but you. But looking back on that choice in the light of day seemed to solidify what this relationship was - a relationship - and Harry didn’t like that. The commitment wasn’t part of the plan, so he told Jeff to set that date up for after the second show at the Forum and give the woman a ticket. That’s why he was smiling at his phone the morning after only cuddling with you, that’s why he didn’t joke around with you during the show, and that’s why he wasn’t in your bed last night.

You watch him expectantly, silently waiting for his answer, your veins cold as ice. He finally starts his answer and he wants to make it clear that it wasn’t as good with the other woman, but he’s not sure how to work that part in. He’s not sure how to explain to you it meant nothing if your arrangement also apparently meant nothing. You barely even let him get in a sentence. “Yes, but it was just a one time-”

“Alright.”

“What?” He doesn’t understand what you mean when you nod your head and cut him off.

“I told you at the beginning, Harry. Tell me when you sleep with someone else because when you do this is over. It doesn’t matter if she’s the love of your life or a one night stand. I will not be a backup plan, so if you’re able to find other people to sleep with, you don’t need to be sleeping with me.”

He sits in silence for a moment, his jaw dropped open slightly. He’s unable to keep it shut as his mind races about what to say. “Are you mad with me?”

“No, I’m fine. This was just sex. Charlotte will be happy that I’ll be going out with her more.”

Harry’s brow furrows as you shift away from him on the bed, grabbing your phone and beginning to flick through it. You feel numb and you’d like to not think about why.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks because he does care about you, worry is written all over his face. He just can’t commit, not now.

“What would I be mad about, Harry?” You look up and your eyes widen at him, silently asking him to truthfully say why you should be so upset about this revelation. You always knew it would eventually come to an end, you just hadn’t expected so soon. You hadn’t known the last time would be the last time and it broke your heart even if you knew it shouldn’t.

He shifts to reach his hand out to touch your exposed knee. You move away from him and he sighs, looking exasperated. “I- I don’t know. It just seems like we should talk about this.”

“You didn’t even think it was necessary to tell me you were going on a date last night, so I think it’s best if we just left it at ‘it’s fine, see you around’.”

He spreads his hands out across the sheets, examining his rings and painted nails thoroughly. You’re right, he doesn’t really want to talk about this. Well, more so, he’s conflicted. He would like to talk enough that you want to continue your arrangement but he doesn’t want to talk about feelings or emotions. Even if he has those feelings and emotions, they’re just not part of the things he’d like to talk about. “But-” You set your phone down at his first word, “Were you even going to tell me you fucked someone else today if Charlotte hadn’t asked you if it was a date last night? Would you just have come to my room tonight and acted like nothing had changed?”

“I would have told you.”

“Sure.”

“I swear I would’ve. I would never break a promise to you.”

“But you would make a decision that affects the both of us without telling me until afterwards?” Your voice breaks a little and you beg yourself not to cry right now.

“I thought you said this was just sex?”

You laugh humorlessly, in disbelief, “Of course it’s not, Harry! And it hasn’t been for a long time and that’s why you got scared and went and fucked someone else.” He looks at you blankly, unsure what to say, knowing you’re right. You continue, “But I also told you at the beginning of this, that I wasn’t going to try to change you. So this is me not trying to change you.” You sigh when he still says nothing, his expression completely unreadable, even to you. “Why couldn’t you have left it at ‘it’s fine’?” You say finally, barely above a whisper.

He blinks a few times after your final question. He flexes his hand one more time and then stands up from the bed. He adjusts his clothes and stares at you. You feel helpless, but you’re still trying to look pulled together, even after your outburst. You stare back. A thousand words floating through your heads, all the things you want to say and likely never will.

“I know, I’m…” he pauses, trying to get himself to say it, but he can’t. He can’t admit that he’s completely ruined whatever messed up paradise you had created together. “I’ll see you later.”

The apology or lack there of hangs in the air as he walks silently out your door. You don’t move, you barely even blink, still staring at the spot he had just occupied. Your breath finally escapes you, a large sigh. Then some nervous laughter. It was over...just like that. But things like this, left like this are never really over.

It’s awkward for a good amount of the rest of the tour. You hang out with your bandmates more and Harry rarely ever comes out with them after the shows. He either hangs out with Mitch on his own or is going out with random people he knows on the road. You and him speak, but it’s never a lot or about anything relatively meaningful. It’s not the fun back and forth of before or the fiery heat of sneaking around. You try to be normal with him, act like his casual friend and bandmate.

He does his best to do the same, but it’s difficult for him. He doesn’t know how to talk to you anymore. He misses being with you, but can’t bring himself to fix it. He doesn’t do much to right his wrongs with you. He also doesn’t even know what he would want if he did apologize. It scared him to think about the step that came after ‘sorry’ so he saved himself the trouble and never did that part either. One night he texts you: “I’m trying, it’s just hard.” and that’s it. You don’t give him a response, he doesn’t need one. You know he’s trying and he knows you know.

Near the end of the tour, he comes out with the rest of you for drinks one night. Only Mitch is between the two of you in the booth, so you feel closer to Harry than you’ve felt in a long time. The group of you are chatting and having a good time. You somehow get onto a story from when you were still in college. You explain how you had narrowly avoided getting Chlamydia right before your Christmas break junior year. You act out the conversations you imagined would have happened at all your Christmas events if you had indeed gotten it. Your impressions of your mother, father, and sister have everyone laughing the most. Harry is shaking with laughter from your story and you smile at him in appreciation when he says, “That is the funniest story I’ve heard in a long fucking time.”

The rest of the night goes really well, for the most part. No one bickers or is short with each other. Everyone is laughing and drinks are flowing. Eventually Mitch gets up to go to the bathroom and you feel Harry slide back into the booth closer to you after letting Mitch out. Your hand had taken up residence next to your thigh, resting on the vinyl of the booth. You sense something next to it now and notice Harry’s hand is resting close beside it. He shifts his hand closer when he sees that you’re looking down at it. He’s almost touching you and you look up to his eyes, wondering if he’ll close the distance. He makes an imperceptible shake of his head, but you know what he means. As you’re about to shift your hand so that your pinky connects with his, Mitch returns and your head shoots up to his figure. You instantly remove your hand from the vinyl and shift closer to Charlotte. Harry gets up, but doesn’t sit back down once Mitch is settled. He instead walks off to get another drink, risking one last look at the table where he makes eye contact with you, but he doesn’t come back. Mitch informs everyone that Harry went back to the hotel because “he was tired” after Harry doesn’t return and Mitch gets a text. You roll your eyes, sure that you saw him slip out of the side door with a woman he found at the bar after he had gotten his drink. If that’s what ‘tired’ looked like on Harry, it was fine.

You start to speak to Harry on a more regular basis after that night out. It’s not funny or lighthearted. It’s just ‘I saw this song the other day, thought you might like to listen’. It went back and forth, it wasn’t everyday but it was something. The last text between the two of you before you began sharing songs again was his ‘I’m trying it’s just hard’ text that he had sent randomly one night. Then after one of you would listen, you would see each other at sound check and mention the song and what you thought about it. It can be noted that it was Harry who sent the first song.

For Harryween, Adam couldn’t be there. He has some family emergency the day of and doesn’t come with the rest of you to Madison Square Garden or the hotel you were staying at. Thankfully, Charlotte also plays keys and you can play bass. The band had to shift around some things on stage and make minimal changes to the setlist since you weren’t rehearsed on the covers Harry was doing. You spent the whole day running through the chords of those songs with Mitch, trying to memorize them so you didn’t mess it up during the show.

It was weird because for Harryween the setlist was switched up a little from the regular set for Love On Tour. Harry was playing the entire new album as well as half of the first album, Medicine, some of his other unreleased stuff, and about six covers, including old One Direction songs. It was going to be a long show and a challenge for you.

Before the show, Harry pulls you aside, to a dark corner backstage, and your mind flits back to the last time you had been in this type of position. The last time he had called you ‘love’, the last time you bit his earlobe - which always drove him crazy, the last time he ground his hips against yours, those and more and you had no idea that it was the last. By then you had already had sex with Harry for the last time, kissed his lips for the last time. It made your heart race to be so close to him and so alone once again. But it’s nowhere near the same as it once was. You shake the memories from your mind and look up expectantly at him.

“Have you got this?” He asks seriously, tone concerned. Of course it’s a music question, nothing more. Like it always was now.

“Yeah, of course.” His stare is unwavering and you try not to falter from it.

“I can get someone else to cover tomorrow, it was just such a short notice today. You know bass really well too, it made sense.”

“I’ve got this. Seriously, don’t worry, Harold.” You pat his chest lightly and for once Harry smiles at the sound of your nickname for him. You had stopped using it after the end of your arrangement. It never felt right to use when you were talking about music, and that was about the only time you had been talking. In this moment though, it felt right. His warm, large hands held your upper arms as you stared up into his big eyes. You missed staring into them, the shimmering emerald of his irises were constantly intriguing. You instinctively reach up to move back a curl that has fallen onto his forehead. He doesn’t shy away from your touch and continues to smile down at you.

“Y’haven’t called me that in forever.” He grins, his lips a shiny pink from the lip balm he had on.

“No, I suppose I haven’t. But where was the groan? The whole point is to annoy you.” You smile coyly. He tips his head back and laughs, releasing your arms from his grasp as he laughs wholeheartedly.

Then he does a soft groan, a playful sound, “How was that?”

“Eh. I’ll give you a four out of ten. Not enough emotion behind it.” You slide from the area the two of you have been occupying and make your way onto the stage to start dealing with the bass you would be playing. You hear Harry call out to you, “I think I deserve at least a five, maybe even a six!” You turn back for a second to look at him with an unimpressed expression and shake your head no. He laughs again and you hear him even when you walk out onto the stage. You smile to yourself as you pick up the bass.

When he introduces the band, he waits to talk about you last. “And sadly this evening Mr. Adam Prentergest, our usual fabulous bassist, was unable to attend our fancy dress party! However! Our lovely Y/N L/N is also a superb bassist and was kind enough to step into his place. - Anything to add?” He saunters across the stage to you and you laugh kindly, feeling at ease in this part of the stage even though you were usually on the opposite side and further back from the crowd. You nod at Harry and he leans his portable mic towards your lips. You wet them quickly and eye Harry before turning out to the crowd. “Just please go easy on me if the bass sounds a bit wonky. It wasn’t on the job description that I’d be playing songs I didn’t know, with a few hours notice, on not my main instrument.” You say this in a kind of list format, holding up your fingers as you tick off all the ways that this was out of your comfort zone. You scratch your head dramatically after you’re finished and the whole crowd laughs and cheers. The rest of your bandmates chuckle along and Harry nods and smiles at you.

“You’ll do great, love.” He leans into your ear and says without the microphone. Then he winks and turns to go back to the center of the stage. You press your lips together to contain your smile, both happy and concerned about the flip your stomach just did.

The show is going great. Harry is killing it with the crowd. Everything is electric. You’re entirely focussed on your bass playing, but Harry has been coming over every so often to do something fun or have you tell a joke.

“She’s truly the funniest person I know! And I know a fair amount of people I think.” Harry says as he walks over to you have you tell another joke. Mitch has been looking at you and Harry interacting all night and he’s sure that it isn’t your different position that has him coming over and talking to you so much tonight. Something has definitely changed once again. First the pair of you were always together and having fun, then it was silence and stolen glances that neither of you realized you were taking, now it was back to the beginning.

“That’s because you think puns are part of the top tier levels of comedy.” You say easily, “Here, I can guarantee Harry will love this and the rest of you will likely groan.” Then you stop and act as if you’re thinking for a little, everyone’s waiting expectantly. “Sorry, thinking...Well, I’ve got some skeleton puns I could do, they’re very humerus or y’know classic vampire ones..eh but those ones kind of suck. What do you think, Harry?” You look out at the crowd, face deadpan, as Harry laughs beside you. You roll your eyes playfully and push him back to the center of the stage. Leaning into your own mic now, you say, “I told you.” That’s when everyone laughs. Harry throws another look at you over his shoulder and laughs a little more, his smile wide and eyes bright.

A little over half way through the night, it’s time for ‘to be so lonely’. You already knew the bass chords for it before today and you were confident in yourself by now. It wasn’t as hard a song so you were happy for the little break. This song allowed you to not be looking down at the notes you had stuck to the floor in front of you. Harry’s voice comes in after Mitch’s intro and you watch the way his lips move against his mic. You laugh a little as you watch the crowd yell the first “arrogant son of a bitch” line. You used to not particularly like when people did that, but after it had ended with Harry you had started to enjoy it a bit more. Having those people yell the words you couldn’t, but truly felt about him sometimes, was cathartic. Tonight you weren’t angry with him, but you enjoyed the energy in the room when everyone said it. We’ve all got our own ‘arrogant son of a bitch’ that we want to scream at sometimes. Tonight yours wasn’t Harry for the first time in a long time. The song moves along and Harry takes the microphone off its stand, he walks towards your side of the stage. When the lyrics get to:

“I miss the shape of your lips, your wit, it’s just a trick, this is it so I’m sorry”

Harry isn’t looking at the crowd, he’s looking straight at you. You don’t understand the way he’s looking at you. Or maybe you don’t want to understand it. This song, its lyrics, explains Harry really well. You saw the relationship you had with him in the words. Maybe not precisely, but a part of it was in it. Harry had unknowingly foretold your lives with his words. You know he has trouble connecting and committing, you know his issues, and you accept them. But you knew what had happened between the two of you was far more serious than meaningless sex and you knew Harry couldn’t bring himself to be that serious. He ran off and that was fine, but the face that he couldn’t even apologize hurt you the most. But the song lays it all out for you, he’s not one to be able to apologize quickly. The fact that he looks at you and means the apology he sings in the song for you, it’s a big step, but it’s not enough. The banter, the technical apology, it was all a good start, but it’s just that - the beginning. If Harry wants to make things better with you, a lot more needs to be discussed. So when you sing backing vocals for the following chorus you mean the words for Harry completely.

“Don’t call me baby again, you got your reasons, I know that you’re trying to be friends. I know you mean it, but don’t call me baby again it’s hard for me to go home and be so lonely”

His eyes flick to you again and see your lips moving around the words as you play the bass. He sees the emotion in your face and understands what you’re saying. It’s hard for you to go to your room at night and be alone while he’s out with someone else. It’s hard for him to act like everything’s all fine and perfect, back to normal, because for you it isn’t really. He can’t call you ‘love’ and tell the world you’re funny and expect it to be enough. He can’t sing his sorry that was initially for someone else to you and expect you to accept it. And he knows it, too.

After the show everyone decides they’re exhausted and need to rest before tomorrow. You all planned to celebrate the whole day and you knew it was going to be a wicked Halloween. Knowing this, you’re surprised with the knock on your door after about an hour of being back at the hotel. You’ve given up the habit you had once hoped to cultivate and swing the door open haplessly. Truly having no idea who to expect, you are still surprised to find the man standing before you.

“Mitch.”

“We need to talk.” He stares down at you, his shoulders slumped from tiredness.

“Come in,” you usher him in when you hear the urgency of his voice. He saunters in before you and you close the door. You move to the small couch in the room and sit down. Your hands gesture for him to sit as well, but he shakes his head. He stays standing and brings a hand up to smooth his hair back on the right side. His eyes staying on the floor and flickering up to you every so often.

“What is going on with you and Harry?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come on Y/N. You’re seemingly best friends with him for a good portion of tour, then you’re barely on speaking terms for the second half, now you’re joking around again. What is going on?”

You sit there in a stunned silence, “I don’t know what to say.” Your arms go to hug your body, feeling anxious about being confronted about this topic.

“Were you seeing each other?” His voice is soft, eyes taking in your body language and knowing it’s a difficult topic.

“I wouldn’t put it like that…”

He holds back the ‘I knew it’ statement because of how sullen you look, b..ut in his mind all of the pieces he had watched unfold came to fit in a perfect puzzle. He decides to sit beside you when you don’t say anything else.

“We were having sex,” it felt weird to say it out loud, no one but you and Harry had actually known, “But it ended. I don’t know what today was...but it felt different than how it’s been.”

“Why are you so sad if it was just sex?” He places a hand on your shoulder and your tear-filled eyes meet his. “Oh…” He knows why.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” You sob at his apology because he’s not the one who should be at your door apologizing. You sniffle and lean your head into his chest. He takes you into his arms and holds you as your cries become muffled sounds in his shirt.

You cry without words for a few minutes, Mitch coos some soothing words, his voice soft and kind. He was always a good shoulder to cry on for all of your bandmates, he was extremely strong and you made a mental note to thank him thoroughly when you actually were capable of forming coherent thoughts. “I’ve never told anyone before. It feels so weird even saying it out loud,” you say as you pull back from Mitch’s embrace. You're thankful his shirt is black, no tear stains can be made out.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks gently, gauging your reaction. You wipe at your eyes and nod.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to start from the beginning. “Do you remember the party Charlotte had a week before we left for tour?”

Mitch nods and his eyes widen at what you’re saying as he remembers the night. “It started back then?” He’s unable to contain his incredulous question. He had suspected something, but hadn’t thought it had been going on for that long. He was truly astounded. You nod, “Well sort of,” then you go on to recount the last couple of months. All the way up until the Forum shows. “That night, when I opened Harry’s door and it was you standing there...Harry and I didn’t have anything to discuss. It was just…” Mitch nods again. He hadn’t spoken much since you had gotten into the story, wanting to let you be in charge of what you were saying and believing he could probably ask questions at the end. “Then the next night he blew me off for his date with that model and I cried in the elevator because I knew what was going to happen next.”

“So that’s when it ended?” Mitch asks when you don’t speak for a rather extended period of time.

“Yeah, the next morning he came over and I asked if they had sex and he said yes so I told him it was over.”

“But I don’t get why he went out with that model. He had told me she wasn’t his type the night before…” Your eyes shot up and looked at Mitch. His eyes widened when he realized what he said.

“What?”

“When we were talking about Canyon Moon, he mentioned that Jeff had tried to set him up with some woman but he had declined. Said he wasn’t interested. I don’t get what changed between then and the next morning.” He figured it was best to put all the cards out on the table right now. You’d be going your separate ways for a while, now that the tour was over and he had seen how unhappy both you and Harry had been over the last part of the tour.

You shift your leg to have it folded beneath you as you continue to stare at Mitch. “He came over after you and him had your meeting,” you say quietly. Mitch hums, waiting for you to continue this time.

“He apologized for choosing you over me to talk to. Then we slept together, but we didn’t have sex...I think that’s what wigged him. It had felt too real, sleeping in the same bed with me without having sex beforehand made it feel like something more than just two people fulfilling needs.” Mitch nods and sighs heavily. He looks around the room and then back to you, taking in your full appearance. Again he feels terrible for you, how he had felt the second night at the Forum even though he hadn’t known the full story yet. “Now we’re here.”

“Tonight, it felt like he was trying,” Mitch finally said and you smiled sweetly, thinking back to Harry’s behavior. No matter how far from him you were, all those good feelings you associated with him never went away.

“Yeah, it’s been getting better. He texted me once saying he was trying. Then he came out with us one night and it almost seemed like that would be the night he’d apologize, but then he didn’t. Then we started sharing music with each other again. Then tonight… was tonight. It’s just confusing. He’s confusing.”

Mitch smiles sadly and brings you in for another hug and you’re actually so thankful he

showed up at your door. It was your first time telling anyone all of this, because Harry didn’t even know how you felt about some of these things. It felt amazing to be heard and to be told it was okay to be feeling like this.

Pulling back, Mitch says, “He’s definitely different. But his differences are what make him special and that’s why I think he clings to them even if they sometimes can hurt other people. The fact that he’s trying is a good sign. I hope he can find it in himself to make it right between you two because I had never seen either of you happier than when you were apparently together. Especially those few weeks leading up to Los Angeles. Sarah had kept asking me why Harry was so smiley back then. When I had asked him, he had just said “have you ever found something and realized you wanted to keep it with you forever?” I had no idea what he had meant, but I feel like he meant you now.”

Your awestruck at what Mitch has just told you. He was right about the first part about Harry trying to change, but the last bit, that’s what had left you speechless. You turn your body to face the rest of the room and put your chin against your hand as you think.

“Mitch...I have to go.”

He understands what you mean and you walk out of the door with him. He walks down the hall to his room and you walk quickly past the elevator and opt for the stairs. Before you know it you’re running up the stairs, taking two at a time even though you’re not the most athletically inclined. You can’t stand to wait for the elevator and your mind is racing.

You knock on the door that is Harry’s after reaching his floor. It swings open and reveals a confused and sleepy Harry. Thankfully he’s still fully dressed because that would have been a whole other problem you would have if he hadn’t been. You push past him and walk straight into his room without any invitation. He follows behind you, still unsure of why you’ve come here.

“Have you ever found something and realized you want to keep it forever?” You ask him, repeating the words Mitch had just told you.

“Pardon?”

“You told Mitch that about me before we ended things. If that’s how you felt, why didn’t you do what you said?”

Harry sighs as the words register in his mind. The memory of when he had smiled at Mitch so giddily and asked the vague question, his thoughts only of you as he asked it. The shit-eating grin he had plastered on his face after Mitch had looked at him confusedly flitted across his mind. As well as the way he had gone to his dressing room and had a quickie with you after that conversation.

“It’s not that simple…”

“It is, Harry! Why can’t you just be honest with me for once?”

“Okay, fine. You want me to be honest?” you nod at his harsh tone. The two of you standing only a few feet apart. “You have no goddamn idea what you do to me, when I’m around you, I have no control of my emotions or of my thoughts. I pushed you away because I didn’t like feeling out of control. I got out because what had started as a fun time had turned into me longing to be with you every waking hour. I found myself not caring what we did as long as I got to hold you and be around you, but that wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Plans can change, Harry.”

You step closer to him and he meets your eyes. He had left his music playing softly on his phone before he had opened the door so now as the two of you stared at each other, he must have been playing his Etta James playlist because her voice faded out of the song “I’d Rather Go Blind” and straight into “A Sunday Kind of Love”. Harry had shared her At Last album with you over the Christmas holiday of last year and you had decided to listen to her entire discography afterwards, so you knew the songs. The transition was a little too on the nose and you wondered if Spotify ever listened to your conversations.

His emerald eyes examine your face and take inventory of your features, measuring whether anything had changed since he had looked at you this close up. Your hand goes up to cup his cheek and he nuzzles into it, dropping his head closer to you ever so slightly and closing his eyes at the feeling of you.

“I am sorry,” he whispers earnestly as he reopens his eyes.

You can’t take your eyes off of him even if you tried. He looks so soft in the moment, so vulnerable in this light as the music swells in the corner of the room. Etta sings about how she needs a love that is going to last as the pair of you inch yourselves closer together.

“I forgive you, Harry,” you whisper back.

He nudges his head further down and your lips finally press together, slotting back together after months apart. Your lips are eager to press back against their favorite companion. You oblige them, but pull back for a second, just far enough to say, “I will always forgive you, so long as you tell me when you’re scared so we can work through it together.”

He nods, “I promise to never let you go again.” Before taking you back against his lips and gathering your body up in his arms. His lips missing yours just as much.

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1ddiscourseoftheday · 3 years

Text

Mon 10 May ‘21

LOUIS NEWS-- label and tour!! First, Louis has announced (or, well, Simon Jones PR has anyway, no word from Louis direct and yes, SJPR is still in the picture) that Louis is “partnering with BMG to release his second album globally”, an interestingly specific/ limited reveal. Fans are eyeing the wording and questioning whether he actually signed with them as a label (which they are) or just for publishing rights or distribution (which they also do, unlike most other labels)- the mention only of a ‘partnership’ supports the possibility that it’s something other than his new label, but it isn’t definitive and the simplest explanation of the press release is that BMG will be his label for LT2, as well as distributor and publishing company. The fact that they are small (relatively speaking; not one of the “Big Four” record labels but they’re hardly tiny) and somewhat new as a label does not to me seem like a reason why Louis wouldn’t have chosen them, as some are suggesting; there’s something to be said for being the big focus of a label rather than just another act, and Louis already chose that route once before when he signed with Arista (who are umbrella-ed by Sony but themselves not one of the big four) just after their relaunch, making him their biggest act by far. Also vague: “global” in this context doesn’t necessarily mean BMG has replaced Arista (his U.S. only label), it just for sure means UK plus the ‘international’ market, ie most of the rest of the world. It could mean U.S. too! Or not. We have reason to believe Louis was still with Arista as recently as a few months ago, and no evidence to suggest otherwise. The official press release says “recording is already underway” on LT2, and quotes Louis as saying: “I’m very excited to start the next part of my journey with BMG”. BMG- a new company founded after splitting from older label SonyBMG in 2008- claim to be “a new kind of music company” who are “not just a music publisher or a label” (they instead combine both of those things) in which “service to artists and writers is key,” and as part of that combine label services with holding publishing rights for their clients, often handled by separate companies and an area where songwriters tend to get screwed. BMG’s press also mentions their involvement with new technology a lot, and they represent Kings of Leon who have been at the forefront of the music industry use of NFTs (including releasing their next album as an NFT on a special NFT label despite being BMG artists). BMG’s twitter following more than doubled [edit: tripled now] in the hours after the announcement, and they followed Louis and tweeted to welcome him aboard from three different twitter accounts, including the U.S. one.

Slightly more commentary from Louis about the updated tour dates though mostly still press release style-- “Let's try this one last time!” he said, “All shows on my world tour will be moving back to 2022 and I’m excited to announce the first wave of new dates. I can't wait to see you all soon, it's going to be special!” and what should be the final dates for tour dropped, all in Spring ‘22- including a London show at Wembley, holy shit! Not every rescheduled date has been announced but those that are mostly have one thing in common-- much bigger venues than they were originally booked into. At at least one show so far fans will have to buy tickets again which sucks, but they are offering a pre-sale for previous ticket holders so at least those buyers only have to fight each other and not all the fans that joined the scrum in the time since the tour sold out. “After all this time and years of waiting this tour is going to be incredible, I can't wait!” said Louis and he’s not wrong!

And that’s all for serious news, over in Harry land things are...a lot sillier. A “bardcore” version of Watermelon Sugar was added to Harry’s official Spotify, LOL, and it is even more ridiculous to listen to than it is to imagine! I don’t picture it topping the charts anytime soon but it’s certainly an entertaining twist I was NOT expecting over the quiet weekend. The idea of Harry and friends deciding that needed to be legitimized on the official 36 million follower page is PRICELESS, and I would love to see Harry in a Gucci doublet and hose (or a nice laced bodice), but sadly it seems that the addition of the 2020 cover song to Harry’s account is a fuck up on Spotify’s end, as acknowledged by the Bard himself (no not Harry or Shakespeare, the person who did the weird cover- they do lots of covers in this style, it’s like a whole Thing. Medieval style covers of hits.) Meantime OUR bard was seen on the My Policeman set in a t-shirt reading “don’t ruin my fantasy”. New merch? I’ve never seen something more perfect for harries, they should consider it! This shirt though is from a designer with a focus on gender neutrality who donates to queer youth charities. And Kid Harpoon said, about WS (modern version) “at first, and I get this quite a lot with his lyrics, I thought, that’s kind of weird. Then you’re like, man, it’s brilliant. I remember thinking that with this. Harry’s so good at lyrics, he’s really growing into his own thing.”

Meanwhile Niall reposted (to insta AND facebook) the same outfit of the day video post he posted and deleted yesterday but left it up this time. It is clearly NOT today’s outift- damn Niall is my whole life a lie?! What can we trust in this treacherous world?? NOT YOU I GUESS. He also popped up on twitter to claim “no idea what you’re talking about” wrt him and Anne Marie teasing their collab without offering any actual clues about WHEN-- mhmm, like I said...

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #niall horan #Arista is a Sony label and Simon Jones is a Simon Cowell associate who was PR for 1D and has been for Louis since he went solo #and who sucks a whole lot. That said I know very well that the reason people are so obsessed with Louis cutting all ties with his old labels #etc #is that they believe all stunts will immediately be canceled on that day and I have to say… I don’t really think so #and arista being somewhat tied to sony isn't actually particularly meaningful #still distance from the old teams is always nice to see and at this point Louis has very few threads left tying him to them #10 may 21 #bmg #bardcore #lttour #louis label #arista #anne marie #it's very early to post but I don't wanna have to rewrite this whole damn thing in an hour lol #even if we get more clarity later there are parts of the NOW discourse I want to address which there won't be space to do if more info #comes to light #I had to do RESEARCH this better get good notes and correct some misinformation going around #besides now I can focus on other things like FUCKING HELL I have to buy tickets for LA Again??? BOOOOOOOO #I ALREDAY DID THIS #AND IT SUCKED #AND i HAD GOOD TICKETS #arrgh #I don't usually do this but you know what? PLEASE REBLOG THIS #I just saw someone say that louis definitely signed a distro only deal and that syco was going to profit off it #i... don't even know where to beg #begin #syco literally no longer exists fro starters...

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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years

Text

Start Line (Part One of Two)

M/F Pairing: Fem!Reader x Bang Chan (SKZ)

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 7.2K

Genre: Boys over Flowers AU! Strangers to enemies to potential lovers!

Summary: Starting a new school is never easy, but the four rich and popular boys who pretend like they’re above the rest of the student population? Well, that makes everything even worse.

A/N: You don’t need to watch the show to understand, but it might be fun! AKA this is a Kdrama recommendation.

Also, I’m super sorry to the anonymous user who asked for this and probably impatiently waited for me to get a grip!!!

Tagging @skzwriternet

For my entire life, I’ve had to work harder than everyone else to secure the things that I wanted the most.

Which is why nothing could enrage me more than the sight of the four boys sitting on the bleachers together in my new school’s gymnasium.

I had just recently transferred into the school on a swimming scholarship, and a young student assistant offered to give me a tour of the facilities before my first day of scheduled classes. Her name was Suzy, and she had enough intel on the school’s population that even the CIA would be jealous.

I wasn’t normally one for drama, but Suzy’s warning about the school’s infamously named “F4″ was enough to leave me feeling cautious: “You see those guys over there?” she had asked when we sat down together on the bleachers. “It’s fair to say that they run the school, so most people try to avoid pissing them off.”

The boys in question were all starters for the school’s accolade-heavy basketball team. Apparently, that meant a lot in this affluent and well-endowed community, and I could tell that they considered themselves with the highest regard. Especially the oldest, a handsome blonde whose killer accent was surely the ruin of any one of those poor girls who flocked around them like they were desperate for attention.

“Bang Chan,” Suzy informed me. “He’s the leader, and his family owns an entire line of luxury hotel chains.”

“I guess that means something special?” I remarked, and Suzy gave me a curious look.

“His family owns the school, but if we’re talking worth, then his parents pretty much own this whole town.”

“So, he takes advantage of that,” I noted, and Suzy nodded her head before indicating to the other three boys.

“They’ve all been friends since they were kids, but everyone knows that Chan and Changbin are super close.”

“Changbin?” I questioned, and Suzy pointed to the introspective and sullen-looking student who was ignoring all of the other girls with narrowed dark eyes.

“His parents died when he was young,” she explained. “He lives with his grandfather.”

“Oh?” I wondered, and I looked at Changbin again with a fresh perspective - as someone who had experienced trauma that would follow him for the rest of his life.

“Felix and Minho are the real fuckboys,” Suzy continued. “They’re notorious for the weekend rule.”

“The weekend rule?”

“Find a college party, hook-up with a nameless girl, and then leave her before she’s too attached.”

“Fuck boys,” I grumbled in agreement, and Suzy sighed as if she had personal experience...but I seriously doubted that someone of her caliber would stoop so low knowing full well what kind of reputation she was dealing with.

“The entire school is at their beck and call,” she said. “They do whatever they want, and nobody ever questions them.”

“Well, I’m here to graduate and find a good college for swimming,” I said, meeting Chan’s gaze from a distance. “I don’t have time for games.”

The ominous faction leader smirked as he held my stare, eyeing me up and down with a flicker of interest that I chose to ignore when Suzy asked if I wanted to finish the rest of our tour.

Day One

On my first day of classes, Suzy was kind enough to stick close to my side, although I was beginning to see that she wasn’t very popular, and we were mostly ignored by the rest of the populace. Which was just fine with me.

“Check it out!” she exclaimed. “Our schedules are almost identical.”

“I’m glad,” I said, ducking my head to avoid a couple of rough-housing football players who were “playfully” knocking each other into the lockers. “I’m pretty sure you could get lost in here.”

“Well, ideally, most students start here in Elementary school, and they stay all the way through High School,” Suzy said.

“A pretentious education at its finest,” I remarked, wondering how much money was literally walking by me with every Luis Vuitton bag and Gucci-made uniform that passed in opposing directions.

“Do you start swimming after school?” Suzy asked, making easy conversation as we entered our first classroom - advanced biology.

“Yeah,” I said, following Suzy to the back of the room. “There’s a tournament this weekend.”

“Already?” Suzy gasped, and she plopped down into one of the desks next to me. “Will you have enough time to practice?”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured her, reaching for a spare notebook as the teacher walked in to begin one of the most intense lectures that I had ever attended.

But the school’s Academic reputation was no joke, and I imagined that they hired the finest teachers that the school’s infinite endowment could afford - a budget that would eclipse the remainder of the public schools in the district. Yet, no one seemed to blink an eye at how obviously unfair that was, as if these well-off students deserved a high-class education simply because their parents made more money than they could spend.

My new socio-economic environment was becoming more and more apparent, and I was suddenly feeling every part of the outcast who wandered into the wrong part of town with good intentions. But a moralistic attitude would get you nowhere in life if everyone else refused to acknowledge the fact.

I learned quickly that the students at this school were only looking after themselves, but the lesson was hard to accept. Which might explain my uncharacteristic heroism when it came to defending Suzy later on that afternoon when she agreed to give me a ride home after swim practice.

I was outside, sending a message to my mom, when I noticed a black SUV careening backwards at a speed that was far too fast. Meanwhile, Suzy had settled down inside the car to start the ignition, messing with the dials on the radio, when a powerful jolt sent her jerking forward. “What the hell?” Suzy shrieked, turning around in her seat only to startle with that “deer in the headlights” look of absolute horror.

“Shit!!” she cursed, and I watched her get out of the car before taking a deep breath and joining her on the opposite side of her smashed trunk where a huge crowd of students had started to gather around us.

They were talking rapidly amongst themselves, and I figured out why they were so interested the minute Bang Chan and one of his friend - Felix, perhaps? - walked up to Suzy with a bored expression. “You do this often?” were the first words I ever heard from Chan. “I can’t believe you got in my way.”

Suzy immediately bowed her head - submitting to the older Senior. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but I couldn’t stand to watch her expose her most vulnerable position.

“Hey!” I shouted, walking around Suzy’s crumbled form to stand toe-to-toe with the infamous Bang Chan.

“You must be the new girl,” Chan remarked, eyeing me up and down with vague interest. “I kinda expected something more when I saw you the other day...”

I seethed when his gaze fell lower, as if pointing out something that only hormonal teenage boys would care about. “I’m not here to impress you,” I replied, and he arched one brow.

“I don’t need to be impressed,” Chan said. “But your little friend disrespected me, and I think she should apologize.”

“You’re the one who wasn’t looking!” I snapped. “Anyone with eyes could see that you were too busy on your phone to pay attention!”

There was a collective conversation from the crowd, and Chan studied the growing conglomeration of students surrounding our confrontation. “Do you have proof of that? Or, is it your word against mine?”

“Someone with any sense of dignity wouldn’t act this way,” I countered, and Chan immediately started laughing.

“Oh? Isn’t that cute,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You have a lot to learn around here.”

“The only thing I’ve learned is to stay away from you,” I said, and Chan rolled his eyes like it was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

And the torment only continued.

“Hey!” I snapped when he knocked his shoulder against mine, coming to stand in front of Suzy again with disdain.

“Pay for the damages,” he ordered. “And then apologize to me.”

“Chan-” Suzy started, but I grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around.

“I wasn’t finished,” I said, and our noses almost brushed from the minimal distance I allowed between us.

“I don’t want to hear anything else about your idea of honor or whatever,” Chan sneered, but he paused when I held up my phone, pressing the play button on the video which provided convincing evidence of the incident.

“What about this?” I asked him, and I could practically see him come undone.

“Give that to me!” he demanded, but I took several steps away from him, returning my cellphone to my pocket.

“But I’m sure the police would be interested in seeing it.”

Chan’s eyes perceptibly widened, and I felt a surge of triumph in knowing that I had the upper hand. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” I taunted him, briefly glancing over my shoulder at his friend who had started snickering - like he was enjoying our fight.

“Fine,” Chan huffed. “What do you want?”

“You’ll pay for the damages to my friend’s car,” I said. “And...”

“And?” Chan snapped, clearly impatient.

“You can apologize to her instead,” I finished, and there were several consecutive gasps from the student population.

“Is he gonna do it?”

“There’s no way Chan will give in!!”

“Someone film this!”

My smile continued to widen at the jeers of my classmates, and Chan was finally at his wits end, spinning around on his heels to growl an imperceptible attempt at an apology to Suzy who could only look at him in awe. “We’re done here,” Chan said, and I shrugged nonchalantly, watching him storm away with his friend in tow behind him.

I sighed once they were both gone, feeling a sense of profound justice after proving that even the great Bang Chan could be defeated, but then Suzy appeared in front of me with a grave look in her eyes that told me this whole ordeal was far from over. “Y/N,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

Day Three

The next morning, I walked to my locker feeling every gaze turned in my direction. I frowned at each of them, wondering if this was the aftermath from the incident with Chan and his stupid friends. Yet, when I finally paused in front of my locker, an uncomfortable sensation of dread sent me into a cold sweat when I saw what was taped to the front of the door.

It was a red card with a black skull at the top and the infamous “F4″ written across the bottom.

“She got the card!” someone announced from off to the side, and it didn’t take long for other students to rush in my direction.

“The card?” I whispered to myself, remembering Suzy’s previous warnings concerning the exploits of the F4 boys. It wasn’t an accident that I had received this ominous warning, and I knew that I was in trouble.

Quickly, I darted through one of the exits leading outside, placing me somewhere on a small veranda where I leaned against the bannister overlooking the school’s athletic fields. “What the hell is wrong with this place!” I screeched, projecting my voice across the fields, and I didn’t expect anyone to hear me...

“Why the hell are you screaming?”

I paused at the sudden question, widening my eyes when I realized it was closer than I expected. “You come up here often?”

I staggered backward at the interjection, spinning around to locate the voice that had uttered the simple question. “Hello?”

There was a sigh, and then a familiar sweep of brown hair appeared from around the corner. “This is my spot, you know?”

“No,” I said, cringing at my tone. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

The recipient in question was none other than Changbin, one of the four members of the school’s notorious F4. His dark black hair was wind-swept across his forehead, falling in thin strands over attentive brown eyes while he leaned against the wall of the small patio sectioned off from the rest of the veranda. “Lesson learned,” Changbin continued, swaggering up the stairs to stand next to me, looking out over the playing fields. “I guess I can’t come here anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I found myself asking without really thinking about what it might look like to show that I was concerned. After all, he was a member of the same F4 that had just terrorized me with their stupid calling card.

“You’re here,” Changbin replied as if the answer might suffice. “I have a feeling this place will be too loud.”

He sighed then before starting for the exit. “W-wait!” I stuttered, unable to put together a logical sentence before Changbin was already walking back inside.

But Changbin’s unexpected appearance proved to be the least of my problems.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I faced an onslaught of humiliation courtesy of my classmates. Everything from jeers between classes, to more insulting pranks like decorating the desk on my homeroom classroom with vulgar language and pictures.

Yet, worst of all was coming face to face with Bang Chan himself who smiled some kind of sickening smirk at me before quietly asking if I had had enough of the torment. “This is nothing,” I growled at him.

“Oh? Well, it’s only gonna get worse,” Chan promised, and he left without another word, leaving me to stew over a powerful combination of anxiety and frustration.

However, Chan’s idea of worse was, indeed, inexcusable. And I nearly screamed when I went to swim that afternoon, only to discover the pool littered with trash. But there was nobody around to help, and I spent the entirety of my scheduled practice time cleaning up with water, wrinkling my nose at a few questionable banana peels.

“I guess he went through with it,” a familiar voice interrupted my trash session, beaming through the haze of disgust lingering with every brush of my fingers across sodden newspaper or moldy plates.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded of Felix and Minho - the infamous duo who were practically glued to Chan’s side.

“We just wanted to meet you,” Felix said, and I watched through narrowed eyes as they brought over chairs from the side to sit down at the poolside.

I frowned. Couldn’t they help? “Why are you interested?” I asked instead, bringing another load of trash to the edge.

“Well, it’s been awhile since anyone stood up to Chan,” Minho explained, and there was a playfulness in his gaze that left me feeling uneasy in concern to their real intentions.

“Doing what’s right shouldn’t make me a martyr,” I said.

“But it does,” Felix replied with a cheeky smile. “He’s gonna keep up the torture, you know,” he continued, waving his hand around to indicate the trash still floating on top of the chlorine-caked water.

“Forever?” I grimaced, hating that the word had slipped free without really thinking about what it would mean to admit such things to Chan’s friends.

Minho smiled, looking up at something over my shoulder. “I’m surprised to see you here, Changbin?”

I turned around as if it was instinctual, watching the same person from earlier on the veranda walk inside from the locker room. He seemed even more out of place than Minho and Felix, studying the pollution of trash swimming with me. “She’s interesting,” Changbin said, and I was surprised when my stomach did a few somersaults at his confession.

“I agree,” Felix inserted, leaning back against his elbows with his shirt sleeves rucked up high on his forearms. “It’s been a while since Chan has been this invested in something.”

“It would be nice if he could stop,” I grumbled, and I met Changbin’s sincere gaze as he knelt down next to the poolside.

“He’ll give up when he thinks you won’t back down,” Changbin finally decided, and I watched as he started gathering the trash floating in his direction.

Day Seven

In hindsight, my imagination ran wild with scenarios that were more insane with each progressive image that crossed through my head.

But what could you expect from someone who had just figured out that she was being followed by three burly men wearing suits like they were the Men in Black.

Each time I started to walk faster, they would also do the same. Until it got to the point where I was zigzagging around corners, doing my best to dodge out of their sight, only to find myself once again confronted with the strange men who had no intentions of leaving me alone.

Eventually, I paused on the sidewalk outside of the school’s entrance. I was running late that morning, which meant nobody else was around to witness this madness. But I was a strong, independent woman with a a no-nonsense attitude that compelled me to project my voice across the well-polished front lawn. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I began, holding up my hands when they grew closer. “What seems to be the problem?”

“We have orders to bring you to our boss,” they said, which only confused me even more.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know who you’re talking about?”

“Our apologies, miss,” the first man continued. “We were informed that you might try to resist.”

“Like I’m just gonna skip school and leave with a couple of strangers who have no conception of personal space,’ I glowered, but when I tried to spin around on my heel, I found myself colliding with an enormous chest, and I sighed, realizing that they had clearly been distracting me long enough for the third guard to sneak up behind me. “Fine,” I muttered, rolling my eyes when he grabbed my arm, leading me to the sleek black car running at the front of the school.

From there, my day only continued to grow even weirder, especially when I found myself walking up the steps of a gigantic mansion that looked like it could grace the cover of Vanity Fair magazine.

“Where am I?” I tried to ask, but the guards ignored my question, bringing me inside the house where I felt a twinge of misplaced guilt for treading my dirty sneakers across the pristine marble floors that practically shined with my reflection looking back at me.

“Greetings, miss,” a friendly tone greeted me, and I studied the older gentleman who dismissed the guards with a wave of his wrinkled hand. He was dressed impeccably in a suit with a long coat-tail, balding gray hair styled atop his head in a delicate swoop.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, but the butler was silent as he indicated for me to follow him. Down the crowded corridors, decorated with large, extravagant paintings, and down the granite staircase descending to the floor in a circular pattern.

Down a stretch of never-ending hallway that led to a bedroom at the end where two younger women - identically matched in uniform - greeted me by name before ushering me inside.

“Can you at least tell me where I am?” I asked the butler who followed us inside, giving out instructions as I was forced onto a stool in front of a vanity mirror, wincing when the woman immediately started to yank a brush through my long hair.

“This might take a while,” she said, and I frowned at her tone, coughing when a fresh puff of powder was streaked across my face - compliments of another girl who had a palate of make-up balanced on her hand like it was a paint tray and my skin was her canvas.

“I’d like to know something,” I insisted, but I was met with silence, crossing my arms across my chest as I resigned myself to the unexpected makeover since it was a thousand times better than my earlier scenarios where I envisioned myself dying from a James Bond-esque death.

It was only a half-hour later when the women declared themselves finished, standing back to admire their work while I had a staring contest with the girl looking back at me in the mirror. Because it was hard to believe that it was me with neat ringlets decorating my scalp, and sticky globs of mascara and foundation hiding the blemishes on my face.

I looked amazing, but it wasn’t really me. Still, I wasn’t given much time to study my new appearance, and I hesitated when the butler extended a black dress in my direction. “Our boss wants you to wear this,” he informed me, and I hesitantly accepted the expensive fabric.

“Who’s your boss?” I tried once more, but the butler simply smiled at me before waiting outside for me to get dressed, and I squeezed myself into the exquisite gown that swept the floor at my feet, hugging my curves and accentuating my figure in ways that my sweatpants and t-shirts couldn't.

When I finally walked back out, the butler smiled at me in approval before waving his hand in a grand fashion. “He’s waiting in the living room.”

I swallowed hard, following him once again through the maze of the house while wondering who I might be meeting. A rich donor? A potential Sugar Daddy?

They were all grand ideas that proved to be far better than the truth, and I could only gape in surprise when I was led into the living room, only to meet Chan’s eager gaze from across the expanse of white, designer-brand carpet.

“You!” I hissed in an accusing tone, watching the butler leave from the corner of my eye.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Chan asked, eliminating the distance between us with a few calculating steps. “They were right about the dress. You actually clean-up nice, Y/N.”

I scoffed at the backwards compliment. “Are you serious?” I nearly growled. “You kidnapped me for this?!”

Chan looked at me in disbelief, and I wondered if it was the first time that he had ever been rendered silent. “Do I not get a thank you?”

“A thank you?” I repeated. Incredulous.

“I brought you here,” Chan said, but he was clearly hesitating. “I thought you might like the attention? The clothes aren’t to your taste?”

“Shit, you’re dense,” I muttered. “Why the hell would you think that?”

“It’s obvious,” Chan said. “Talking down to me the other day, pretending like you aren’t affected by the F4 card...you just wanted my attention. And guess what, Y/N? I’m willing to give it to you.”

I blinked once, trying to understand his ridiculous train of bullshit. “What?!”

“You can be my girlfriend,” Chan said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s a pretty big deal, but I’m sure you know that. I’ll even let you hold my hand between classes, and maybe come to your swim meets or whatever.”

“Chan...” I started, but then I broke off with a sigh because nothing I could think of seemed like an appropriate response. “I don’t think there’s even a remote chance that I would want to be your girlfriend.” I shivered, releasing a groan just saying the title. “Whatever you think is happening…it’s totally warped inside that screwed up head of yours.”

“Y/N-”

“Please,” I interrupted him, holding up one hand. “I’ve had enough, okay? I just want to go home.”

“But...” Chan tried to protested, stuttering around his words when I yanked off the expensive heels, chucking them off to the side. “How could you not want this?” he asked. “The outfit itself cost over $1,000 dollars.”

“$1,000 dollars?” I repeated, widening my eyes when I thought about how many hours my parents would need to put in at our local laundromat business to even make close to the amount he just threw away like it was nothing. “Chan, I might not live in the same world as you, but where I come from? You don’t make friends with money...you make them from the heart.”

“Impossible!” Chan protested, even as I turned my back to him. “Money can buy anything!”

“Is that why I’m leaving?” I returned, reaching down to hold my dress in place while feeling a small sense of satisfaction at having left Chan completely speechless.

Of course, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have tossed the shoes because the cement was hot against the soles of my feet, and I had attracted more than one curious look as I stormed down the street in search of the main road to take me back home.

“Stupid moron,” I huffed, practically jogging down the road with bare feet and my dress hiked up my legs to prevent me from tripping over the train. It was probably a sight for sore eyes when it came to the rich socialites who populated the neighborhood.

But like the sun’s rays penetrating the clouds on a rainy afternoon, I heard the sound of a motorcycle growing closer from behind me. Until the bike was right next to me, and the driver removed his helmet to expose a familiar bush of brown locks.

“Do you need a ride home?” Changbin asked, and I swallowed hard as I met his steady gaze. It was a simple question, but the fact that he didn’t even question me about why I was here? Nor could I detect any judgement in those impenetrable brown eyes that held all the allure, sending my heart knocking against my breastbone once again.

“Yeah,” I agreed, taking the extra helmet from him. “It’s been a shitty day.”

“I know how that feels,” Changbin said, and I was surprised by his easy conversation, planting myself on the seat behind him.

“Thank you for this,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist and shivering at the thick smell of his cologne.

“It seems like you might be worth the effort,” Changbin remarked before kicking his bike into gear, and my heart did something strange that might be considered very dangerous when it involved the F4.

But I couldn’t help it, and I had never been more at ease this close to someone else.

Day Ten

Despite my adamant protests, the school insisted that I needed to take a physical education course, which meant that I was forced to pretend to enjoy dodgeball with the rest of my classmates. Hiding out at the back while most of the other girls did all the hard work. But I was only meant for one sport, and dodgeball was as far from swimming as one could get.

It helped that Suzy had gym at the same time, and we talked between games, with Suzy leading most of the conversation.as she offered introductions for most of our other classmates. “Mandy,” Suzy grumbled at one point, indicating to a tall blonde with long legs and a permanent sneer. “She thinks that she somehow has a chance to be with Chan, even though he’s kinda made it obvious that he doesn’t think anyone here is good enough.”

“Really?” I snorted, seeking Chan out from the corner of my eye, playing basketball on the courts with the rest of the F4.

“It’s a running thing here,” Suzy continued. “But most people don’t even try since they don’t want to get on Mandy’s bad side.”

“Whatever,” I replied, averting my gaze when Chan’s eyes met mine. “He’s not even worth it.”

“Most of our classmates would disagree,” Suzy said with a shrug, nudging her shoulder against mine when one of the instructors ordered us to begin the second round.

As usual, I lingered at the the sidelines away from my team, making a half-hearted attempt to play along, especially since I seemed to be a recurring target, using other bodies to protect myself from stray plastic dodgeballs. “What the hell,” I grumbled, wondering if that stupid F4 card was to blame for my classmate’s sudden desire to single me out from everyone else.

I crossed my arms at the thought, finding myself once again looking back over at Chan...Did he think it was funny to make me a target of ridicule? Well, at least Changbin was being surprisingly nice, and just the mere mention of the older boy was enough to do crazy things to my poor heart.

But lost in my daydreams, I failed to notice that Mandy and one of her friends had stalked to the edge of the court, rearing back to throw their dodgeballs at me while I was distracted. “Y/N!” I heard Suzy’s voice scream from across the field, and I looked away from Chan only to find myself frozen in place while a dodgeball flew in my direction.

The sickening CRACK! of the stupid thing hitting my nose was audible, and I immediately tasted blood on my upper lip. “Go clean yourself up, Miss Y/L/N,” one of the instructors said, but I was furious that she was treating the situation so nonchalantly.

It was all Chan’s fault. Even if he hadn't thrown the ball, he empowered his classmates to belittle me at every opportunity, and I was tired of being the school’s metaphorical punching bag. And I hated the tears threatening to fall, refusing to show any signs of weakness as I stormed past Suzy for the girl’s bathroom.

“Fuck,” I cursed as I leaned over the sink, splashing some cold water on my face as I looked at my bloody and mangled reflection in the mirror.

This was the worst incident so far, and I hated that the situation had escalated to something physical, gripping the edge of the sink tightly as I closed my eyes to regain control over my breathing.

“Here,” a voice whispered from behind me, and I turned around with a glare already contorting my expression when I was forced to face Bang Chan once again.

“It’s your fault,” I replied, snatching the paper towel from him as I dabbed at my nose. “What the hell are you doing in the girl’s bathroom?”

“I’m sorry,” Chan said, but I refused to believe it was sincere, turning back around to check the damage of my nose in the mirror. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“You can’t be sorry after the fact,” I snapped. “You had every chance to make things right and leave me the hell alone.”

“Well, I can’t do that now...” Chan trailed off, and it was surprising to see him suddenly look so unsure of himself. “I'm just trying to help...”

“And who asked you to do that?” I returned, looking at him from the corner of my eye. “Even if you were the last person on Earth, I would never ask for your help!”

My exclamation was punctuated by a rather harsh sound after I shoved the paper towels into the trashcan, preparing to leave the bathroom before Chan grabbed my arm to turn me back around. “What do you dislike so much?” Chan whined. “I don’t understand...I’m rich, handsome, smart...”

“All of it!” I interrupted with a harsh tone, and Chan immediately stumbled back against the sink. “You must not realize, but do you think those things matter to me? Because I can’t even consider them when your entire personality is unattractive! Your arrogant attitude, your stupid face, and that ridiculous curly hair!!”

“Are you insane?” Chan asked, and his bewildered expression would be funny under any other circumstances.

“I’m not done yet,” I sharply interjected. “It annoys me that you guys are allowed to do whatever you want at this school, and the whole red card deal? Where you give everyone a free pass to bully other students? Like it’s nothing? That’s the absolute worst thing about you!!”

“Y/N...”

“Do I need to repeat it?” I interrupted once more. “I hate everything about you!”

The harsh exclamation was met by silence as Chan continued to stare at me, and I decided to leave him alone in silence to think about everything I had said, rejoining my classmates with a sense of relief at having stood up to someone who considered himself as better than everyone else.

Day Fourteen

“You should come with me,” Suzy remarked one afternoon, sitting next to the poolside with me as I swam my regular laps.

“I’d rather not,” I said, pausing at the edge of the pool to consider her request - a night under the stars, as the school’s dance team had proclaimed it, and it was one of the biggest school events of the year.

“Why?” Suzy whined. “The F4 revoked your red card, and you can meet some more people...maybe even score some connections.”

“Right,” I scoffed, thinking the idea absurd, but I guess it wouldn’t seem so outrageous to the ones who had been dealing with these politics for their entire lives. “I’m not really that outgoing.”

“It’s okay,” Suzy reassured me, and I could tell that she really wanted me to come with her, which is probably why I felt compelled to agree. But her smile and cheering was worth it, especially considering just how good of a friend Suzy had proven to be during the past two weeks.

And that’s how I found myself walking up to the school’s gymnasium that weekend, wearing an uncomfortable black dress that Suzy had agreed to lend me for the occasion. “You look hot, Y/N,” Suzy said, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my reflection reminded me too much of the time when Chan had brought me to his house to play dress-up.

“I can hear the music all the way out here,” I said, following Suzy up the gym steps.

“Yeah, this event isn’t regulated by the teachers, so it’s basically a free-for-all,” Suzy explained, and I desperately wished that I could find the appeal in that statement, especially once we entered the building, washing us in neon colors of purple and pink. “Let’s dance!” Suzy immediately cried, pulling me to the dance floor despite my protests.

Thankfully, I only had to awkwardly navigate the party scene for one song before Suzy became preoccupied with a very cute Senior boy from our homeroom. I was able to sneak away to the punch bowl, ladling some of the red liquid into my cup before bringing it to my lips. “Hmm,” I wondered, eyeing the drink because it tasted so familiar...”Oh well,” I said, shrugging as I proceeded to drain several more cups before sinking down against the wall, never noticing that a pair of eyes had been watching my every movement until a pair of Versace-toed boots stopped in front of me.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Chan remarked, and I was shocked that he had the guts to talk to me after honoring my request to be ignored for the past several days.

“What do you want?” I grumbled, reluctantly taking his outstretched hand to help me stand again because my vision was unusually blurry and my stomach was churning.

“The punch was spiked,” Chan said, chucking at my disheveled state.

“Spiked?” I repeated, finding myself totally incoherent as I leaned most of my weight against him. “When did that happen?”

“The Seniors do it as a prank,” Chan said, and his gaze seemed to soften as he held me close. “Do you want to sit down?”

“That would be nice,” I slurred, allowing him to guide me over to the bleachers where I dropped down with a thud!

“Damn, you’re pretty wasted,” Chan said, looking me over with an uncharacteristic amount of concern.

“I didn’t know...” I trailed off, pointing back at the punch bowl. “It tasted so good.”

“I bet it did,” Chan said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he cleared his throat. “I saw that you came with your friend, but maybe you might want some company?”

“Sure!” I said, patting the space next to me. “You’ve caught me in a good mood.”

Chan grinned - a genuine smile that I could hardly recognize - as he sat down with a sigh. “This doesn’t really seem like your type of scene.”

“Not really,” I agreed, narrowing my eyes when the room started swaying. “But you’re not my usual type of person.”

“Right,” Chan agreed, chuckling awkwardly as he messed up his hair - straightened instead of curly. “Maybe we could go somewhere else?”

I frowned because, even though I might’ve been a little more than tipsy, I still remembered that I didn’t like Chan, and there was no reason for me to go anywhere with him. “Are you intentionally ignoring everything I said from the other day?”

“No,” Chan murmured. “But I was hoping that I could give you space...and maybe a chance to prove myself?”

“Really?” I snorted. “How much have you changed since the last time we talked?”

“Probably not much,” Chan acknowledged, much to my surprise. “But after everything you said, maybe I’d like to? And I feel like you’re the only person who can be honest enough to help me.”

“Oh,” I replied, slightly disconcerted by Chan’s abrupt change in attitude. “Still, after everything you did...”

“I know I don’t deserve it,” Chan quickly agreed. “But I think you’re one of the rare kinds of people who believes in second chances.”

I exhaled loudly at his words, and in part to keep myself from throwing up after all the alcohol I ingested. “Where would we go?”

“What about a date at the diner downtown?” Chan asked, swallowing hard. “With me?”

“Let’s not call it a date,” I grimaced, and Chan agreed, even though it seemed to be a reluctant remission on his part. “But, yeah, that actually might be nice.”

“Perfect!” Chan said, and he was already on his feet with an energy that was impossible to ignore. “I’ll have Changbin tell your friend. Wait right here, and I’ll come back.”

“Okay,” I muttered, clutching my stomach as I watched Chan run off into the crowd. “Jeez, Y/N,” I groaned. “What are you doing with this guy?”

It might be one of the worst decisions of my life, but something he said struck a nerve deep inside of me. He might be unbearable, but he was right about one thing: people could always change, and I was the type of person who allowed second chances...just as long as someone was willing to earn it and prove themselves.

“Are we taking your car?” I asked, staggering against Chan’s hold as he brought us outside the gym.

“Yeah,” he said. “We can take my car, and you can sober up on the way.”

“Good idea,” I agreed, regretting the decision to drink so much of that stupid punch with every swaying step towards Chan’s expensive sports car.

He had the decency to open the door for me, and I fell inside with a grunt, waiting for him to turn over the ignition before he started fussing over me. “Do you need anything? Something to drink? Are you hot or cold? Should I turn on the music?”

“Don’t ask questions,” I gritted out - a response to everything while I leaned my head against the window.

“Got it,” Chan said, and he dutifully followed through on his promise, never speaking again until we pulled into the parking lot of the diner he had advertised earlier. “Do you feel any better?”

I nodded, an honest response. Because the drive had taken close to twenty minutes, and I had found a water bottle in the floor, downing the contents to settle my stomach and the wave of nausea that only alcohol could bring. “We can go inside,” I said, rolling my eyes when he made a show of coming around to help me out of the car, grabbing my arm despite my protests. “What is this place?” I asked when we walked inside, choosing an empty table near the back.

“My friends come here a lot,” Chan replied. “It’s quiet.”

“Quiet?” I laughed. “There’s no way it’s quiet if the whole school comes here.”

“They don’t,” Chan said, surprising me yet again. “Nobody knows we come here.”

He gave me a meaningful look, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was risking a lot by entrusting me with their secret. “Got it,” I said, miming myself closing a zipper across my lips (perhaps that was the drunkenness affecting my judgement).

But Chan still laughed, and then he went to the counter to order, leaving me to contemplate what the actual hell I was doing with the school’s literal celebrity who treated most people like shit, including me for a short while at the very beginning.

At this point, I really couldn’t blame the alcohol. So, what was wrong with me? Why was I doing this?

“Here,” Chan said, dropping a mug of something sweet down in front of me, effectively interrupting my internal conflict.

“Hot chocolate?” I asked, and I was definitely caught off-guard as Chan shrugged and sat down in front of me.

“I thought you might prefer this,” he admitted.

“Oh...” I started, searching for a good response. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Chan said, and he smiled as he watched me taste the foam resting on top. “Is it good?”

“It’s nice,” I admitted, and Chan had the appearance of someone who had just landed an acceptance to their dream college.

“You’re different from the others,” Chan said, switching the topic. “I like that about you, and it makes me regret everything I’ve done even more.”

“Yeah,” I huffed. “That red card shit needs to stop.”

“I agree,” Chan said, bringing his mug even closer. “My friends have wanted to stop for a while...”

“They’re way smarter than you,” I said, tilting my head to the side as if it might give me a different vantage point of the confusing boy sitting in front of me. “Did you really want to come here with me?”

Chan nodded, eyes gleaming. “You’re interesting,” he decided, mirroring the exact same thing that Changbin had said to me a while back. “I think I like you a lot, which is why what you said to me at my house and in the bathroom really made me reconsider a lot of things.”

“Oh?” I questioned him, amused by his reasoning, and possibly even endeared by his regretful expression. “I might learn to like you...” I trailed off, laughing at his puppy-dog eyes as he looked at me with obvious desperation. “If you learn to behave.”

“Is that so?” Chan remarked, and his smile was perfectly sincere. “Well, I think you’re the best person to teach me.”

And despite our complicated history together - unwinding after such a brief amount of time in one another’s company - I was more than willing to try for the very strange boy who was starting to show me the intricate layers underneath all the wealth and arrogance - a mere façade for something better, the potential for good if a brave enough person was careful enough to find it.

End of Part One

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belorage · 4 years

Note

IKMP & Y for wes bby? ♥(ꈍᴗꈍ)

Thank you, my dear! I am late as ever, but fully prepared to expose him on main for you!

I — INTIMACY

I hope you came prepared for an unnecessary novel of an explanation!

True intimacy is a complicated thing for Wes in general. He knew sex as an intimate undertaking first, before it became a coping method, a survival tactic, a transaction. At the time, it was his intent to reprogram it that way, though not in pursuit of an ideal. Indeed, it was a means of forsaking his ideal in order to distance himself from what he perceived as rejection, always one more body between him and the memory of sex as an emotionally vulnerable act. He was mostly successful; Wes is capable of sleeping with someone without it meaning anything to him. This isn’t a foregone conclusion in every single case, but by far the default.

Still, even at its most casual, he puts himself in people’s space. He wants to be touched by hands that are not his own. And at its best, sex reclaims a lot of its old significance, the act itself a suggestion of vulnerability, the threat of it, like standing on a bridge and knowing he could jump. This is only really applicable to whoever his designated (verse-dependent) romantic partner is; it’s an exception, but one that is immediate and intense, before he’s capable of defining it.

Wes is a naturally responsive partner overall—there’s a reason people like him—but when he sheds his fear of intimacy, he stops intentionally muting certain behaviors for his own sake. He’s more talkative, more vocal (less stifling or smothering of noises), holds more eye contact. And Wes is very hands- and mouth-on regardless, but he broadens their uses; his usual directness is supplemented by softer, more lingering brushes of his mouth and a more exploratory sense of touch, like he’s mapping everything out and committing it all to memory because he is.

K — KINKS

I answered something like this here! Wes has a great deal of experience with them, but all were done in a transactional way rather than an experimental one. That being the case, he’s willing to participate, but he doesn’t crave many for his own sake. He does like certain things to a higher degree, but I don’t find them extreme enough to classify as kinks. Still, as listed previously, those are: overpowering or being overpowered (consensually; I hope this goes without saying), marking or being marked, orgasm denial. And I definitely would not consider performing oral to be a kink under normal circumstances, but for Wes it piggybacks off a host of non-sexual oral compulsions (smoking, drinking, hand-to-mouth gestures), and he craves it to an extent that borders on fixation, so it might qualify.

M — MOTIVATION

This was also answered in the same link as above, so forgive me the shoddy copy/paste job! The things that make Wes horny include: oral (giving or receiving), any attention paid to his neck whatsoever (lips, teeth, hands—gentle or otherwise; biting and choking are both gucci), touches and kisses to his stomach, his spine, or the insides of his shoulder blades, thighs, or hips, being manhandled (regardless of intent—yikes), pursuing or being pursued by Lyra Isabela Fairbanks-Seed, vaguely sexual and pointedly threatening radio broadcasts (this is privileged information; tell no one).

P — PACE

Unless a partner is disinclined, he defaults to quicker and rougher, and this is true whether giving or receiving. Wes is passionate and impatient by nature, so wildfire escalation comes with the territory. He’s capable of slow and sensual if there is a prevailing need to temper his behavior, or if a partner dictates it (which Wes greatly enjoys on an intimate level, even if his factory setting is feral; being made to savor something has its merits). As far as duration is concerned, a single marathon event is desirable enough if time allows, but he would just as soon approach sex hastily and in several rounds.

Y — YEARNING

Both psychologically and physiologically speaking, his drive is high. However, Wes does not desire promiscuity for its own sake. Novelty and conquest are meaningless concepts. Seeking out out a stranger for sex has historically been a means to various ends—distraction, shelter, money, validation, human contact. If none of those needs apply, he’ll just take care of himself and be done with it. Recreation and person-centric desire only really function as motivators when he has a committed partner in mind, at which point he is nigh-insatiable.

#oc: wesley brooks #ch: wesley brooks #v: ouroboros #oc asks #ask games #asks #honeysides #nsft

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callboxkat · 4 years

Text

A Little Nightmare (part 9)

Author’s note: Thank you to everyone who’s stuck with this story! I hope you enjoy its conclusion!

Warnings: Illness and injury, fear, arguing, fear of being kept against your will, dog mention, food mention, near-drowning mention

Word count: 6416

A Little Nightmare Masterpost!

Writing Masterpost!

...

It turned out that sleeping was a lot easier when Remy wasn’t afraid of a gigantic bloodthirsty beast barging in and devouring her alive. Joan’s goofy looking corgi, Marco, didn’t exactly inspire the same paranoid insomnia. He was still a dog, but he was nowhere near what she had been imagining.

Maybe it was actually too easy to sleep, if the fact that she didn’t wake up until well past noon was anything to go by. She didn’t have a clock at her disposal in the room; but she could tell she had slept late as soon as she woke up. The placement of the shadows in the room only confirmed this feeling.

On the one hand, Remy was both a bit embarrassed and annoyed to have slept for so long. On the other, there were only a few hours left in the deal she had made with Joan, where she had agreed to stay with them for two days to recover in exchange for being brought back to the place where this had all begun. The place where Joan obviously believed she had family waiting for her; but which in fact only gave her an opportunity to retrieve her lost supplies and continue on her dangerous mission to find a home. The place where she had very nearly died, in the very undignified manner of drowning in a bucket.

She’d be lying if she tried to say that returning to that lifestyle, especially given her recent brush with death, didn’t fill her with a mixture of dread, anxiety, and profound exhaustion. But she knew she had to go. There were no other options. Or at least, no good ones.

Remy sighed, pushing away the blanket, sniffling. She slowly got to her feet, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and walked to the small shot glass of water that Joan had left behind for her. She picked up the aluminum cup that sat beside it, which she had refolded—Joan should really stick to things their size. This, she used to scoop up some water. She settled herself down beside the shot glass to drink it.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door, which slowly opened.

“Hey, Nunya, sorry to wake you, but I need to let Marco… oh, hi.” Joan seemed surprised to see her already up.

Remy sipped her water.

“Good morning. Or, I guess it’s technically afternoon. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I’m taking Marco out of my room. He needs outside.” They leaned on the door frame. “Want some food when I get back?”

“Coffee?”

Joan snorted. “Yeah, I’ll get you coffee. But what about food? I’d assume you’re hungry.”

Remy wasn’t incredibly hungry, since she’d just woken up, but littles were not ones to turn down food. “I mean, like, yeah.”

“Cool. Breakfast or lunch?”

Remy furrowed her brows, tilting her head as she stared at them. “…Yeeessss?” Was there a difference? Food was food.

Joan frowned slightly at her reaction, seeming confused. “Well. Okay. I’m gonna go take Marco out now. I’m probably going to let him hang out in the kitchen while I cook, too, so you know.”

Remy appreciated that Joan had kept their word about giving her a heads up, so she just said, “Don’t forget my coffee.”

Joan saluted and ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind them. There was an odd look in their eyes as they did it, but Remy decided not to dwell on it.

…

“So… how long until 3:30?”

Joan paused, their fork hovering over their own bowl of noodles. They swallowed. “A little under three hours,” they admitted, tapping their fork on the side of their dish before scooping up another forkful of food.

Remy shifted. “You’re still taking me back, right?”

Joan quickly chewed and swallowed. “’Course. I promised, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Joan watched her for a moment, making Remy feel self-conscious. She pretended not to notice, just eating her own meal.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did, girl.”

Joan rolled their eyes, then looked at her with a more serious expression. “It’s just that you always say, “take me back”. Never “take me home”.”

Remy forced herself not to react too strongly. Instead, she folded her arms, and raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So, I just… I don’t know. You do have a home, right?”

“Girl, like what are you even talking about? Of course I have a home! What do you think we’re doing here? Jeez.”

She wasn’t sure Joan was convinced, but they just sighed. “Sorry, I’m just… you know, I want you to be okay after you leave.”

Remy muffled a cough. “Bruh. Ma’am. Girl. Whatever. Maybe I just don’t want you to know where I live. Did you ever consider that, Joan?”

The human frowned slightly. “Maybe.”

“And like, you don’t get to decide if my home’s good enough to go back to, or whatever, so stop acting like you do. It’s not a good look.”

Joan looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then nodded. “Okay, yeah, fine. Sorry if I came off that way. I am taking you back today.”

“At 3:30?”

“At 3:30.”

“Gucci.”

Joan looked baffled. “You know what Gucci is?”

“Yeah. You know, like, good? I’m not an idiot.”

They looked no less confused, but they just said, “Right.”

Remy went back to eating. After a few seconds, so did Joan.

“So,” they asked after a while, “what do you want to do until 3:30? We’ve got some time to kill.”

Remy thoughtfully chewed on a piece of carrot, then swallowed. “Do you have a sewing kit?”

Joan nodded. “Yeah, I have a sewing kit. What for?”

“I’m going to sew a human trap.”

Joan smirked. “Ah, I see. You’re going to need a lot of thread, then.”

“Mmm, maybe.” She shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Really though. What color thread do you need? Any fabric?”

Remy stared at them for a few seconds, vaguely suspicious, then gestured at her jacket. “This color?”

Joan leaned forward, the smallest trace of hurt flashing in their eyes as she leaned back in response. She almost felt bad about it.

“Sure, I can do that,” they said.

Silence fell after that, slightly uncomfortable as the two simply ate their meals. Finally, Remy cleared her throat—a mistake, her painful ribs immediately reminded her.

Joan glanced up.

“So… how long have you lived in this place, anyway?”

“Oh, you’re curious?”

“More like bored.” And trying not to think about how nervous she was about the end of their deal, which expired in less than three hours.

“Ah, I see.”

“So? Is this, like, an old building?” Remy asked. “Have you lived here a long time?”

Joan shrugged, considering. “Yeah, it’s pretty old. I had it remodeled a bit after I inherited it, about... I guess it was around seven years ago now. But it’s mostly the same. I’ve lived here since then.”

“Inherited?”

“You know, like when your family member dies and what was theirs becomes yours.”

Remy frowned up at Joan. “So... your parents died?” That was unfortunate. She had thought that humans usually got to be older before they lost their parents.

“No, no, my uncle.” Joan corrected. “He and my aunt didn’t have any kids, and she isn’t into this whole landlord thing. So it got left to me, and I split whatever profits I make with my aunt. Basically, people pay me to live here, and I keep everything running and fix it if it breaks, and take care of stuff like… ah, sorry, that’s boring. Anyway, I never really planned on being a landlord; but I figured it was better than selling to somebody who’s probably going to double everyone’s rent.”

“That sucks,” Remy declared. Your uncle dies, and then you have to do work? Yuck.

“It’s not so bad,” Joan shrugged. “I get to work from home, I don’t have to pay rent... could be a lot worse.”

Remy shrugged, sticking another noodle in her mouth.

“You like the pasta?” Joan asked.

Remy slurped up the noodle like she was a character in Lady and the Tramp. “Girl, you should never trust someone who doesn’t like pasta.”

Joan chuckled. “Noted.” They set down their fork and started to get up. “I’m going to go put this in the kitchen, and get that sewing kit. I’ll be right back.”

Remy watched as they left the room. When the door shut, the coughing fit she’d been fighting back for the past few minutes refused to be put off any longer, and she shoved her face in the crook of her elbow to muffle the noise, her other arm wrapped around her painful ribs as the coughs wracked her frame.

…

Remy pulled the needle through the fabric, pausing to inspect her work.

Not bad, but she remembered now why she’d put off adding pockets to her jacket for so long. Stitching fabric was a pain in in the *ss. This was an opinion which was probably only strengthened by the fact that Remy was… not especially good at it. She’d never been interested in it much, even though her parents had tried to teach her. And it had never come easily to her. At least her girlfriend had been willing to help out, when they had been together.

…Nope, Remy was not thinking about her. She was still salty about how things had ended, and going down that rabbit hole wouldn’t help her.

Too clingy. She wasn’t too clingy! She was, like, the perfect about of clingy, thank you very much.

Remy coughed, going back for another stitch. So much for not thinking about her.

She finished up sewing the first pocket, pausing to look over her handiwork. Kind of uneven, but it would serve her fine. She shoved her jacket around in her lap until she was at the opposite side, and picked up a piece of graphite Joan had brought her to mark a line where the second pocket’s opening would go. Then, she picked up the miniature pair of scissors. They were cumbersome, since they were still far too big for a little; but her handmade knife was in her backpack at the bottom of a water-filled bucket, probably rusting and rotting away. So she’d have to make do with the scissors.

She carefully lined up the fabric, then pushed down on one side of the scissors to make the cut. The fabric shifted as she did, so it ended up crooked.

“Girl, come on,” she moaned.

It was only crooked by a couple of millimeters, but she was still pissed. Sure, she could sew it up and try again, but there’d still be visible stitches, and Remy did not want to repeat this whole process when she might well get it wrong again.

So, crooked pocket it was.

She sat down, pulled over the fabric, sewing needle, and thread, and got back to work.

…

By the time the fateful hour finally came, Remy had finished her jacket modifications and put everything back in the sewing kit, although perhaps not as neatly as it had been when she got it. Now, she waited, sitting on the blanket, sipping coffee from an aluminum cup. She had a feeling it might be the last coffee she got for quite a while.

She sniffled and resisted the urge to wipe her nose with her sleeve. Stupid cold.

She held on tight to the shovel-spoon sitting across her lap, ignoring the way her stomach churned with nerves.

Everything would be fine, she told herself. Joan would take her back, she’d get her supplies, and she’d bounce. She’d find a new home. She would be okay.

Finally, there was a faint knock on the door, and it opened. Joan stood there. They looked rather dejected, but attempted a smile when they saw her. It didn’t quite reach their eyes.

“Well… it’s time,” they said. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

Remy ignored the nagging feeling in the back of her mind, simply saying, “Yes.” She set her jaw, waiting for their inevitable attempts to renegotiate their deal.

“Okay. That’s chill. Just let me go get my car keys.”

Remy’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re actually doing it? You’re letting me go? Just… like that?”

Joan sighed. “Look, I think we both know I’d rather you stayed longer. And that’s an open invitation. But I promised that I’d take you back, and so I will. I don’t break promises.”

Remy opened her mouth and shut it again. “Well… good,” she finally said. “Let’s go, then.”

Joan nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right back.”

Remy watched them go, a bit of anxiety fluttering through her sore chest. Rationally, she supposed she should have known what Joan taking her “home” would involve, but now that the moment was here, she still couldn’t help but be… well, more than a little scared, that was for sure.

Remy waited, sitting on the blanket, listening as the human walked around the apartment, pausing here and there, before disappearing, presumably outside.

They were back before she had too much time to dwell on whether this was really what she wanted. Remy finished off her coffee, stashed the aluminum cup in one of her new jacket pockets, and got to her feet, leaning on her plastic shovel-spoon like a cane.

Joan knelt down in front of her, hesitated, then held out a hand. “Ready to go?””

There was a small pause.

“Is this okay?” Joan asked, biting their lip. “I can find something else to carry you in. I know you said “no carrying”—several times, actually,--but I do need to carry you into the car. There’s not really a way around that. Sorry. We could try the sled thing, but we can’t do that outside.”

Remy knew they were right, as much as she disliked it. She could tell them to pick her up in something else, so she wasn’t in their hand, but she supposed that would just give them more time to change their mind, and her more time to chicken out. So she slowly got to her feet, and she climbed onto Joan’s hand, hoping they couldn’t feel her trembling.

It was… really f*cking weird.

The fleshy walls of their palm and fingers were all around her, radiating warmth as their fingers curled in closer. She stiffened despite herself, but they didn’t restrict her.

Joan let out a slow breath. “Okay. I’m going to pick you up now.”

Remy’s eyes darted up at them. “Get on with it, b*tch not-a-boy.”

Joan blinked, then let out a surprised laugh that turned into a cough. They took it slowly as they stood up, which Remy, on one hand, appreciated, but also couldn’t help but be annoyed by, since it meant she had to be in these hands all the longer.

Joan put the hand to their torso to hold it steady and stared walking. Remy clutched tightly to their hands, well aware of the drop below, and justifiably nervous about the whole situation.

“Ow,” Joan muttered. “You’re pinching me.”

Remy let go. Sort of.

They kept her close to their chest as they made it down the hall, through the kitchen, and to the front door of their apartment. It was weird to see it all from this high up. It made their furniture and belongings almost look normal sized, they appeared so small. Someone of her size probably looked like an ant to Joan. She shivered at the thought.

“Everything okay?” Joan asked under their breath, opening the door.

“Fine,” Remy mumbled, hunching down in the hand. As weird as it was to be in a freaking hand, she would happily press herself further into it if it meant keeping herself from being seen. Joan seemed to have a similar thought, curling their fingers more closely around her.

“Just a short walk,” Joan said in a low voice. They turned and closed the door, locking it behind them, and walked more briskly after that. Remy squeezed her eyes shut, the movements sending waves of pain through her sore body, but she didn’t dare ask them to slow down. She knew this was for the best, anyway. Less time in the open meant less time for somebody to see them. And the sooner they left, the sooner she’d be out of there for good.

There was a gust of wind that ruffled Remy’s hair, prompting her to open her eyes. Through Joan’s cupped fingers, she could see enough to tell that they were outside. The lower temperature and slight drizzle might have also given that away, though, to be perfectly fair.

Joan walked up to a blue car parked on the street and opened the passenger side door.

“Thank you for choosing The Spectacular Joan’s Transportation Services, today, miss. I’ll be your driver, Joan.”

Remy dared to shoot up a baffled look. Joan looked quite pleased with their joke, although Remy didn’t understand it at all.

A part of her wanted to ask them to explain, but she shook her head, admonishing her own curiosity. No. Why should she care about a human’s jokes?

Besides, jokes weren’t as funny if they had to be explained, anyway. But it was mostly the why-should-she-care thing. Obvs.

“I figured a seat belt might not be so good for… someone your size,” Joan whispered, ”but I don’t want you just sliding around every time I have to brake. So…” They uncurled their fingers enough to let her look. Sitting in the passenger seat of the car was a smallish cardboard box with what looked like a shirt folded up inside it. Parts of the fabric were pulled up in the front and back of the box, forming soft walls there.

“It’s not glamorous,” Joan admitted.

“Please tell me that shirt’s clean,” Remy said, staring down at it mistrustfully.

Joan exhaled, amused. “It is, don’t worry. Is… is this okay?”

Remy hesitated.

As much as she wanted to believe that Joan was keeping her word, as much as evidence seemed to show that they would, she couldn’t help her fear. What if Joan wouldn’t take her back? What if they were taking her somewhere else? Somewhere she’d be killed, or tortured, or exposed to the world?

…No, she reminded herself. That didn’t make sense, did it? They would have just let her die if they wanted her dead. And they didn’t need to leave their apartment to reveal her existence. She knew about phones.

She might have worried that Joan had grown bored of her, but Remy was the life of the party.

…Okay, maybe not for the past few days. Maybe her usual spunk had gotten a bit… damp. But she was not boring.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that cardboard box, though. It was possible that Joan wanted her to get inside to be easily trapped.

But, again, what would be the point? And why would they want to? How would that fit in at all with everything else they’d done over the past two days?

She needed to just trust that they were keeping their word, and that going back was the right decision.

“I just want to go home,” Remy said at last.

That was not a lie. It also wasn’t quite the truth, either, since it implied she still had a home. But Joan didn’t need to know that that didn’t exist at all. She would just stick to her plan. Get her hook, go fishing for her backpack, and blow that popsicle stand. She’d find herself a new home. One with coffee and everything else she needed, and with no humans who knew about her. She’d be able to start fresh. She hoped.

Joan seemed to accept her answer. But when they moved to lower her down into the box, Remy tensed again, gripping their hand hard enough to pinch.

Joan paused, and she slowly let go.

“What now?”

Remy swallowed. “I just… I’ve never been in a car before.”

“Um. Yeah, you have.”

Remy pouted, glaring at them. “Don’t be a smart*ss. You know that doesn’t count!”

“Okay, I guess you’re right. It’s not so bad. It’s probably going to be weird at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

“…Fine.”

They lowered her down to the box, and she didn’t stop them this time. They let her scoot off of their hand and into the container. She sat down in the cushioning the tee shirt provided, pressed against one of the cardboard walls. Joan closed the door and walked around to the other side of the car.

Remy closed her eyes, her heart hammering. And then she sneezed, which proved to be a pretty effective distraction. For as long as it took Joan to walk around to the other side of the car and sit down in the driver’s seat, anyway.

…

Joan got settled, casting one glance at their passenger. She was watching them from where she sat, pressed up against one of the walls of the shoebox they’d buckled into the seat. Their mom would be proud of their consideration for safety.

“Bit of a noise,” they warned, before putting the key in the ignition and twisting it. The engine roared to life. “And now we’re moving.” They pulled out and they stared driving in the direction of their aunt’s house. The tiny young woman might have squeaked as the car first began to move, but she seemed determined to pretend it hadn’t happened, and Joan saw no harm in letting her.

As they drove, Joan couldn’t help the heavy feeling that rested in their chest. The fact was, they didn’t want their guest to leave. Not at all. And not only because she was still hurt, but because they… well, they liked her. They liked her sass. She was fun to talk to, when she wasn’t being combative or fearful. She’d really come around in the past couple of days, despite their screw ups.

Joan would have liked to consider her a friend. They almost believed the feeling might be mutual.

They rode in silence, and they made good time for the first part of the trip. Their passenger seemed to grow used to the sound and movement of the car, curling into a corner of the box and making herself comfortable.

Just at the halfway point of the trip, they hit a snag.

“There’s a train going through town,” Joan sighed, coming to a stop near the tracks. “We’ll have to wait for it to pass. Sometimes they take a while, especially if its switching direction. Sorry about that. We’ll get going as soon as it’s gone.”

No response came from the box, which surprised them. They’d have expected a comment about how they were probably just stalling. Some kind of sass, anyway, at least. They glanced over.

The girl was sitting in the box, leaning against the wall of it. She was slightly slumped forward, her head lolling down.

Joan paused, then lowered their voice. “Nunya?” they asked quietly.

No response. She must have somehow managed to fall asleep along the way, despite how bouncy the ride must have seemed to her, and stayed that way despite how loud the bells at the railroad crossing were. Joan looked over her tiny, sleeping form, then sighed through their nose. They were silent for a moment, watching the train cars pass by.

“I hope you really do have a family out there,” they commented softly. “Or someone who’ll take care of you, anyway.”

Sure, the tiny woman was very much alive, but she wasn’t exactly ready to go roughing it out in the world. Not by a long shot. Not as far as Joan was concerned. The image of her when they’d found her, half dead with blue lips and water in her lungs, was still all too clear in their mind.

But they had made a promise. Maybe it was a mistake, letting her leave so soon. But Joan knew that that wasn’t their mistake to make. She was her own person, and Joan was not planning to hold her against her will. They just had to hope that she would be alright.

They watched her for a few moments where she sat, unmoving, her dark hair falling into her face and mostly hiding it from view.

The train rolled along, very slowly, making a rhythmic clacking sound that they could hear over the sound of the bells. Normally, it would drive Joan crazy how slowly the train moved through town; but today, they were almost glad for it. This was one time that Joan didn’t mind the train lengthening their trip.

They looked back to their passenger, “Nunya”.

“Are you even really asleep?” Joan mumbled aloud, keeping their voice soft to avoid waking her if that actually was the case. They wouldn’t have been surprised if she was faking it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She didn’t react to their question. If she was awake, she wasn’t planning on sharing that information.

Joan gripped the steering wheel, then put their hands in their lap. They watched the train again. More graffiti-decorated cars rolled past, one after another after another. It was a long train, and not in a hurry.

A car horn sounded, and Joan rolled their eyes. Someone had pulled up behind them and was apparently not pleased by the delay. Joan didn’t know what the driver expected them to do about it. They had many talents, but driving through solid steel train cars was not one of them.

The horn honked again. “Nunya” jerked slightly, making a sound. Joan glanced down at her, but she had gone still again, her head now resting against the side of the box.

The car behind them suddenly swerved away and gunned it down a road parallel to the railroad tracks. Probably hoping to find a detour. It might have been a good plan, except that as soon as they were out of sight, the last railcar rolled past.

Joan laughed silently, then released the brake, easing the car up and over the tracks. The bumps shook the car despite their low speed, bumps that Joan never would have paid much attention to normally. They cast another glance at the girl in the passenger seat, who had shifted slightly as the car was jostled, but hadn’t woken. In the absence of the train and the bells, and with the car’s slowness minimizing the sound of the engine, they just barely made out a quiet snore when they strained their ears.

The last time she had feigned sleep, they remembered, she hadn’t snored. She wasn’t faking. She really had slept through all of that, despite being in a moving car at her size, at railroad tracks, as a train passed by.

She definitely wasn’t well enough to be alone. She was still hurt and weak from her ordeal; and they were pretty sure she was sick, too. And based on some of the things she had said, Joan was beginning to suspect that there really might not be anyone waiting for her to come home. If she even had any sort of home to return to at all.

Am I chauffeuring this girl to her death? Their throat constricted, and their clothes suddenly felt too tight. They pulled over to the side of the residential street and put the car in park, breathing as steadily as they could.

Joan tugged off their beanie and leaned forward until their forehead rested against the steering wheel, listening to the rumble of the engine. They closed their eyes, breathing heavily and attempting to stomp down their oncoming panic. They turned to the breathing pattern that they often used whenever they felt one of their annoyingly common panic attacks coming on. They breathed in. They counted. They breathed out. Again.

4… 7… 8… 4… 7… 8….

A few more times.

The familiar pattern and the distraction it provided slowly allowed them to calm down. They kept their forehead on the wheel for a moment, just breathing.

Their companion was still asleep.

Joan allowed themself about thirty more seconds to calm down before they put the car back in drive and pulled out onto the road.

They made it to their aunt’s house without any further incident, and they carefully pulled the car up to the curb. They put it in park and turned it off, and then sat there for a second or two in silence. The time had arrived.

Joan had to say goodbye.

They turned to the seat beside them and looked down at the cardboard box buckled in there. It seemed the sudden absence of the sound of the car engine had finally roused their passenger: she was shifting where she sat, blinking groggily. She straightened up and looked up at Joan, wiping at the corner of her mouth. She subconsciously smoothed down her hair, looking around.

“What…? Why’d we stop?” she asked, sounding sleepy and vaguely suspicious. “Are you like stalling for time or something?”

“No,” Joan said quickly, before she could grow alarmed and start trying to ‘escape’. “We’re here. I just didn’t want to startle you.”

She stared. “We’re here already?”

Joan shrugged. “I mean, yeah. I think you fell asleep, but it’s not a long trip anyway. I did tell you it was like ten minutes.” They decided it wasn’t important to mention that it had actually taken longer than usual that day, especially after she’d already accused them of stalling for time. They weren’t sure she’d really understand the concept of a railroad crossing.

“Well, yeah, girl, but come on. I thought you were, like, exaggerating.” She pushed herself to her feet and put her hands up on the side of the box, going up on her tiptoes to try to see better over the edge. “Can we get this over with, then? I’ve got places to be.”

Joan frowned, wondering if they’d imagined the slight tremble in her voice. Most likely, they had, they supposed. They just wanted to believe that she might want to stay with them. Or maybe she was scared they wouldn’t let her go. Which was… well, not a comforting thought.

“Sure. Let’s get this show on the road.” They unbuckled their seat belt and went to open the passenger side door, trying to ignore how heavy their heart felt.

…

Remy stared up at the car window, the blue sky and part of a tree visible through it, expectant. Still, she couldn’t help but jump slightly when Joan’s huge form came into view, blocking most of her view.

There was a loud click, and then the door opened.

Joan smiled down at her. “Alright. Thank you again for choosing The Spectacular Joan’s Transportation Services for all your transportation needs. Make sure to leave 5 stars and a good review.”

Remy blinked, not understanding the joke any better the second time. “Um… sure.”

Joan’s smile faltered; and then their expression turned more serious, almost sad. They hesitated for a few seconds.

“You sure you want to go?” they asked. “I mean… it’s dangerous, isn’t it? I’d be perfectly happy to let you stay a bit longer, until you’re healed. Heck, you can stay indefinitely if that’s what you want. I’m not going to force you, I swear; but… I really don’t know if you leaving is the best idea.”

Remy picked up her shovel-spoon and took a wide stance. “I want to go home,” she said, her voice as firm as she could make it.

Joan let out a long breath, and then nodded, apparently letting it go that easily. They reached towards her, and Remy braced herself, but all the human did was unbuckle the seatbelt that held the box still. Then, they paused. “How do you want to do this?” they asked.

“Um… I guess you could just… like, put me on the ground? I’ll be fine from there.”

Joan glanced around, probably to make sure no one was around, and then reached for the box. They picked it up, and Remy braced herself in the corner to keep from falling.

She felt the grass brush the bottom of the box as it was set down. Joan hesitated, then silently brought their hands towards her, pausing as if to ask permission. She took a half step forward, and they gently scooped her up and set her on her feet in the grass.

Remy shivered in the chill air. Dew clung to the waist-high grass, encouraged by the faint drizzle and cloudy sky. She could already feel the dampness trying to seep through her clothes, and she had to hold her tail aloft to keep it from getting in the muck. She sniffled. You’d really think her nose would be more considerate about timing. If she wasn’t careful, Joan would think she was crying or something. And then this would get even more awkward.

“So, that’s it, then?” Joan said softly.

Remy looked up at them, and she nodded. She looked towards the house, holding back a cough. The yellowing leaves fluttered on a scraggly tree in the yard. She could see the work bench from where she stood.

“Hey, um, before you go, could I ask you something?”

Remy blinked, glancing back. “Sure?”

“You don’t have to answer, but… what’s your name? Your real name? I just… I don’t really want to remember you as “Nunya Business”, you know?”

The little chewed her lip, then nodded to herself. “Remy,” she said. “My name is Remy.”

“Remy,” Joan repeated, trying it out.

“Don’t wear it out,” She said, rubbing her arm. “And I’m really not a borrower, by the way, so don’t go writing that in your diary.”

Joan laughed in a slightly-forced way. “Well, what are you then, Miss Totally-Not-A-Borrower?”

Remy looked at them for a moment, then decided there wasn’t much harm in them knowing. “A little. I did not pick the name. But I still hope you’re not stupid enough to go telling anybody, dumb name or not.”

“A little,” Joan echoed. They seemed to mull it over for a moment. They were probably trying to decide if it was a joke, like “Nunya Business”; but they seemed to accept that she was telling the truth.

A long moment passed.

“Remy?” Joan ventured. “Something wrong?”

Remy took a few steps, then stopped. She put her arms around herself and looked down, then slowly turned towards Joan.

“I…” she swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, “for helping me.”

Joan smiled, although it looked forced. They almost looked like they wanted to cry. “Anyone would have. I’m glad you’re… yeah.”

Remy nodded, glancing away again. She tapped the tip of her shovel-spoon absently on the earth.

Joan shifted, then nodded. “I’ll just… get going, then.” They got carefully back to their feet, picked up the cardboard box, and started back towards the car.

Remy watched them go, shifting where she stood.

They made it as far as the curb.

“Wait!” Remy cried.

Joan froze, brought up short.

She swallowed, then steeled herself with determination. “If… if I come back with you… I want you to do something for me first.”

…

“Here they are. One hook and rope, and one very soggy backpack.”

“Aw, thanks. How thoughtful.” Remy watched as Joan set them down in the box with her. The rope and hook looked fine, maybe a bit damp. The backpack, though… well, she’d have to see if anything could be salvaged from it.

“I didn’t even notice the hook last time I was here,” Joan said, watching as she pawed through the soggy items. “And the backpack… well, I kind of thought it was some old leaves or dirt or something.”

Remy sighed, pushing it away and wiping her hands on the tee shirt that formed the floor of the cardboard box. “Nasty,” she muttered.

“I wish you’d said something about this stuff. I’d’ve come to get them a lot sooner.”

Remy avoided their gaze. “That was kind of the point.”

Joan nodded slightly, moved to turn on the car, then paused and turned back to Remy.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Well… I never got to finish my ice cream, did I?” she pointed out mildly, crossed her legs.

Joan huffed out a laugh. “That’s true.” Their fingers tapped on the wheel. “So… is someone going to be missing you?”

She glanced away. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“What happened?”

“Who says something happened?”

“Just your tone of voice. And you don’t really strike me as a loner.”

“Girl, you’ve known me for two days!”

“I learn fast.”

Remy shook her head, looked up at them, and then sighed. “Fine. You win. I’m just a lonely b*tch whose girlfriend broke up with her for being too clingy, and whose house got… got fumigated, so I had to grab some sh*t and run so I wouldn’t die. And then I almost died anyway. Happy?”

Joan’s eyes widened. “Fumigated?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. I think that’s the word. They thought they had rats or bugs or something. Guess I wasn’t a good roomie.”

Joan was silent for a long moment, and Remy realized that she hadn’t mentioned before that littles lived with humans. Whoops.

“I’m sorry that happened,” Joan said at last. “And about your girlfriend. That sucks. I’m really glad you got out okay, though.”

“Thanks,” Remy murmured.

“If you ever want to talk about it, well… we can always talk about it. Maybe have some coffee. Or a lot of coffee, assuming you didn’t sneak into the kitchen and drink it all already.”

Remy’s mouth twitched.

Joan turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. “Ready to go home, then, Remy?”

Home.

Remy considered the word.

She was going home, wasn’t she?

She felt nervous, but something deep within her told her that this was the right decision. Maybe her future was a little uncertain; maybe there were probably definitely some kinks that would have to be worked out along the way; and maybe she would never know for sure what had really happened to the littles who had once inhabited Joan’s walls; but this felt right. She settled in for the ride, and smiled up at Joan.

“I’m ready.”

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #infinitesimal!sides #ts sides #ts joan #ts remy #remy sanders #sleep sanders #joan stokes #infinitesimal!remy #infinitesimal!sleep #ts fic #ts fanfic #sanders sides fan fiction #fanfiction #ts #a little nightmare fic

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modafactor · 4 years

Text

OFF THE GRID: “A Symbol for the New Era” BY GUCCI

“Designed for those mindful of their environmental impact, Gucci Off The Grid is the first collection from Gucci Circular Lines, created in line with the House’s vision for circular production.” -Gucci

The fashion system exists on a linear model: Clothing is produced, it’s shipped to a store, it’s purchased by a consumer, and eventually, it’s discarded. Circularity is the solution, a concept that bends the straight line from product to consumer to landfill by designing clothes with their “end of life” in mind instead. The goal is to ensure as many “lives” as possible for a garment by using materials that can be broken down, recycled, and made into something else on a constant loop.

Reference- https://www.vogue.com/

That shift won’t happen overnight, mostly because so much of what exists is made from synthetics and complicated blends, which are nearly impossible to recycle; the best bet for those pieces is the secondhand market. To get fashion on the road to true circularity, designers have to completely rethink the way they make their products, down to every stitch—starting now.

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Gucci is one of the first luxury houses to commit to a circular future, starting with its new capsule, Gucci Off the Grid, a unisex offering of sporty daywear and accessories made from organic, recycled, or bio-based materials. A persimmon GG-logo’s windbreaker, for instance, comes in Econyl, a regenerated nylon that can be infinitely recycled. Even the details we rarely consider were updated: The drawstring in the hood is made of recycled polyester, and the snaps on the pockets are recycled plastic. A pair of high-top sneakers has a similarly meticulous construction, with Econyl uppers, recycled steel eyelets, and organic cotton and viscose linings. The handbags feature the same Econyl material in bright citrus hues, plus metal- and chrome-free leather trims and recycled brass hardware. Every item will arrive in an FSC-certified recycled cardboard box and a recycled nylon dustbag.

Figuring out all of these elements—and how the materials would work together—required deep collaboration across Gucci departments. “Working on this project was very interesting, because I would say my job [is], above all, experimentation,” creative director Alessandro Michele tells Vogue. “I like to test myself on the most unlikely projects. This one was stimulating because I worked in close contact with the design office, the technicians, and the manufacturing researchers to reach a common goal. We realized we could produce something that was 100% in compliance with our desire to create using only recycled, regenerated, and sustainable materials, without forsaking quality, design, or performance,” he continues. “The project has become a symbol for the new era.”

Off the Grid is part of a larger initiative called Gucci Circular Lines, which will focus on minimizing the brand’s use of new raw materials and explore all manner of regenerated textiles. Maybe natural fibers like cotton and cashmere will be next, and in the near future, we might see actual garments and accessories be transformed into something new. That would be consistent with the strategy Kering, which owns Gucci, outlined last year at the Copenhagen Fashion Summit; its chief sustainability officer Marie-Claire Daveu said upcycling is “the future,” and Gucci has taken quiet steps in that direction in recent years. Between 2018 and 2019, the brand reports it was able to save and repurpose 22 tons of leather scraps from its factories.

Beyond educating its customers about Econyl and leather scraps, Gucci’s major contribution will be influencing other designers—and other industries—to take climate change seriously and invest in circular models. It’s an understatement to say that where Michele goes, others tend to follow; in this instance, a little imitation would be the best-case scenario. His broader vision is for a calmer, more conscious world in which fashion can exist in harmony with nature, a concept mirrored in his campaign starring Jane Fonda, King Princess, Lil Nas X, David Mayer de Rothschild, and Miyavi. They’re photographed in a treehouse surrounded by skyscrapers, a vaguely surreal reminder that “our planet exists, even when it seems [like] it’s not there, or it’s far away.” The concept came together before the pandemic, but it feels prescient now—especially for us New Yorkers. Shop the first Off the Grid collection now at gucci.com.

Checkout more products on- https://amzn.to/3bVSAKN

Checkout fashion essentials at- https://amzn.to/3quFuZ4

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poignantpulchritude · 4 years

Text

Silly Pleasures-Chapter 5

I starred at the text for fifteen minutes before I walked into Molly’s room.

“I don’t know what to do,” I pouted, collapsing onto her floor like a toddler. She looked down at me from her prone position on her bed. Molly was no doubt irritated that I interrupted yet another episode of Made in Chelsea with my frequent interruptions. She should be happy I at least had clothes on this time.

“With what?”

Instead of answering, I shoved my phone in her direction, urging her to take it from me. She looked puzzled at the device in her hand, glancing up one moment to speak, but she decided against it and went back down to the text at hand.

Hiya Jeanne! Interested in getting drinks Friday night???

“I’m confused,” Molly finally stated. I gave her a blank look, waiting for her to continue. Along with knowing a great deal about my life before London, Molly also knew that very few boys were in the picture ever since we started living together over a year ago. I kept my male interactions mostly virtual. Any message from a boy, besides Keith, was shocking. “Who is this anyways?” she finally asked, noticing there was no name at the top of the message

I mumbled his name under my breath.

“Huh?”

“Harry,” I whispered again.

“Who the fuck is Harry?” she asked, confused. I just looked long and hard at her before something clicked in her head. She suddenly leapt up on her bed to stand, her skull almost touching the ceiling. “No!” she yelled with eyes wide and voice alarmed. “No fucking way! You’re lying! Oh, my god! Yes, yes, yes!” She continued the squealing for a few more moments before she jumped off the bed and got close to my face, kissing my checks ardently. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Help me!” I whined back at her.

“Oh, this changes everything! Okay. Okay, we can do this.” Molly took a deep inhale and exhale before continuing on. “So obviously, the answer is yes! But your-“

“I don’t think I can say yes,” I interrupted her.

“What! Why?”

“I’m so awkward around guys that are cute! You should have seen me at Dallas’s yesterday,” remembering my abnormal behavior towards Harry and feeling embarrassed all over again.

“I’ve never understood this with you! Like…you sort of flirt for a living? May I remind you that you literally masturbate on the internet for crowds of people!”

“That’s different! They pay me and I don’t meet them!” I defended. “Besides, they are extremely horny so they are less focused on me and instead are paying attention to Phoebe, their ‘horny cum slut,’” I told her, raising the pitch of my voice to match a girly stereotype.

“Eww stop!”

“That’s my shtick, it’s what paid for this flat!”

“But you don’t need to be so vulgar about it, I already have to hear it when I’m home,” Molly sulked. I was immediately concerned.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it bothered you that much. I’ll by some more sound proofing equipment-,” she cut me off before I could finish.

“No, it doesn’t bother me terribly. It just reminds me sometimes of how little I get shagged on the daily. And I hate the c-word.”

“Cum or cunt?”

“STOP!”

I smiled jokingly at her at her reaction. As I spoke my next few words, my tone became more serious. “I’m just shy,” I said quietly, “He was really nice and I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t even know what ‘it’ is. To make it worse, there are so many logistical problems to even begin to fantasize about going out with him.”

“Well, you should try. Don’t count yourself out before you even know.” She gave me a sweet, yet slightly pitiful look. I so often made excuses to avoid situations that had the possibility of being painful or upsetting. If I never leave my comfort zone, nothing is scary-and I was okay with that. Molly clearly had different ideas for me. We made extended eye contact and I could tell that this was her way of urging me to take my phone from her hand.

“Should I pick the location or have him do it,” I conceded. Molly smiled brightly, before starting to draft the most appropriate response. “And you’re coming with me!”

“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t be doing shots in the back of the Uber, Jeanne,” Molly communicated to me on our way to a fancy bar in North London. I was taking swigs of vodka from a flask shaped like a tampon on our way to meet Harry. With the help of Molly, I was able to solidify plans with him to have drinks at a bar in his area of town. I begged Molly to come because I knew myself well enough to know that meeting Harry Styles by myself at a bar would give me severe anxiety. Though she at first was against the idea of her joining me, I could tell that she was secretly freaking out inside. Luckily, the whole hang out was more casual, with his other friends already invited.

Even though I had backup in the form of my best friend, the liquid courage that good Russian vodka delivers could not be forgotten tonight. Molly quickly ripped the tampon from my hand as I went for a third swig. “C’mon now, you are not getting blacked out before even saying hello to him,” she chided sternly. To keep my mind off of the impending meeting, I started to fiddle aggressively with the frays in my demin shorts. Though it was September and the air was getting less and less friendly, it was hard to force myself into jeans, especially when going out drinking. Molly also encouraged me to show my personality through my clothing, so paired with the jean shorts were black cowboy boots, just in case people couldn’t get from my accent that I was American. On top, I settled on a white, long sleeve bodysuit, tight, but also practical. Molly looked much chicer than I did, in nice dark jeans and an expensive top. I looked a bit like I didn’t belong, though she assured me I stood out because I was different.

The vodka started to buzz through my veins when the Uber pulled up in front of the cocktail bar. “Should we wait here and I’ll just text him to come out and get us?” I asked her nervously. She gave me an annoyed look before pushing me out of the car first. I took a few deep breaths before finally turning towards the bar and walking inside.

Far from your average pub, this bar was sleek, with marble counters, leather booths, and bartenders that looked down on you if you ordered well liquor. It was comfortably crowded for a Friday, with people lounging in the elegant booths all around the room. As I searched the space nervously, I heard my named yelled from somewhere to the right. I spun to see Harry walking happily towards me. I noticed that even though he was such a well-known face, few people were gawking at him as he walked over. It must be a place he frequents, I thought.

It hurt to look at him. His hair was pushed high up his head and managed to look purposeful yet messy. My mouth dried up when he went in for a hug when he reached me. The shock I felt quickly melted away to awe when I noticed how good he smelled and felt how soft his cotton shirt was. But-

“Are you wearing a sweater vest?” I asked as I pulled back from the hug, not actually greeting him. He looked down at me, I was quite a bit shorter than he was, and smiled wide.

“It is! It’s Gucci,” he told me proudly, pointing out the animals scattered through the design.

“Bitchin,” was my only response. Nailed it. Molly cleared her throat softly to notify Harry of her presence.

“Oh hi, I’m Harry! You would be Molly then?” Harry asked sweetly, leaning in to hug her. Molly blushed deeply as he spoke to her, trying her very best to make coherent conversation.

After the brief introductions, he pointed towards the back corner of the room where five other people were sitting around a large, blue leather booth with drinks dispersed around the small tables before it. As we walked, I jumped slightly at the feeling of Harry’s hand lightly between my shoulders, guiding my way towards the group. My body suit was thin enough that I could feel the rings on his left hand. The pads of his fingers were rougher than I expected, surely calloused from frequent guitar playing. I covertly turned my head to look back at Molly behind us to see her mouthing words of encouragement and clapping excitedly. I did my best to hold in the shiver of excitement, not wanting him to feel just how jumpy he was making me.

“Everyone, this is Jeanne and Molly! We have here, Sara, Pixie, Francis, and then Nick and Eliot, who you’ve met Jeanne.” I wasn’t sure if our brief interactions were really considered meeting, but I smiled politely anyways and waved at the group. “Did you want a Mule?” Harry asked me as we took a seat and he caught the attention of a waiter. Molly sat down strategically, ensuring that I sat next to Harry near the end of the booth so she could prevent me from avoid Harry’s questions or jumping into conversations with other people.

“Oh, sure, that sounds great,” I smiled up at the waiter. Once he left, I looked back at Harry and muttered, “You remembered.”

“How could I forget the girl with the crazy tattoo and three condoms,” he responded, amused.

“Well, I only have one tonight so I’m breaking protocol.” I wanted to slap myself in the face at my words, but he seemed to enjoy the banter, eyes crinkling with laughter. I relaxed a bit, reveling in the knowledge that my random bursts of wit were pleasant to him.

“So, you said you are a model? Will I be seeing you in any shows soon?” He asked politely, trying to make genuine conversation about London Fashion Week starting in a few days.

“Definitely not!” I laughed, passing off my discomfort for humility. “I do, alternative modeling I guess,” I replied, as vaguely as possible. “Not runway.” He opened his mouth to clarify my answer when a Moscow Mule was placed in front of me. I took that distraction as an opportunity to move on. “I am a student though.”

“Oh really, what are you studying?” he inquired, sufficiently interested enough that the modeling questions seemed done for.

“Getting a PhD in History,” I affirmed proudly. His thick eyebrows rose, clearly impressed at my words.

“Well that tattoo really makes sense now,” he pointed to my left arm where my snake tattoo was hidden beneath fabric.

“Yup, thinking about Ben Franklin gets me wet.”

Harry choked on the beer he was swallowing as I spoke and I couldn’t help but giggle. Molly whipped her head away from a conversation with Pixie to glare at me. I ducked my head in shame at her gaze. “Oh shit, sorry Harry. I’m really vulgar on a normal day, it only gets worse when I-,”

“You’re good, you’re good,” he laughed, finally catching his breath. “Just a bit shocked is all.” I smiled awkwardly. “Speaking of tattoos, how’s Cecilia?”

“Oh, she’s good! Healing up nicely I think. How does Eliot like his tattoo?” I asked, referring his friend across the table.

“It’s fantastic! I’ll have to head back to that shop for some work sometime.” 

“Absolutely, they are brilliant.”

“You and your tattoo artist seemed very close, do you go to him often?”

“Yea, he’s done all of my tattoos here in London. That’s probably why we started dating.”

An awkward pause followed. That comment was a mistake on my part.

“Oh, you have a boyfriend?”

“No, no, no. I should have clarified, we dated for about a month around January.”

“Cool, cool,” Harry said slowly.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked politely, though I already knew the answer.

“Uh, no. That ended a while ago.” Harry’s tone became tinged with sadness at his own words.

In an effort to liven up the mood I responded, “Well, I don’t have a girlfriend either so we are in the same boat there.” That brought Harry mostly out of his obvious stupor, I could see his shoulders relax again.

“What is your favorite vulgar word?” Harry asked out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry?” I replied confused, tripping on the switch of conversation back to myself.

“You called yourself really vulgar, and saying you’re wet isn’t terribly vulgar. You can do better than that I’m sure.” My eyes widened at his words. I could not understand why this was the conversation he wanted to have. If Molly was in-between us, she surely would have pulled me aside and scolded me for even thinking of responding. But, alas, Molly was three people away.

“Okay, but are you prepared for how much you will cringe?” I asked him, getting excited from the alcohol in my veins. These types of conversations relaxed me immensely, I felt like I was talking to a close friend-not a godly man in a sweater vest that smelled like summer fruit.

“Bring it on.”

“Okay, so it’s my favorite because it’s used as a term of endearment. Just remember that, to me, it is an endearing phrase.” Harry looking at me in anticipation, nodding at my qualifying statement. Instead of blurting it out in front of all of his friends, I leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Oh, not this again!” Harry noted loudly, before I could speak, referencing our first meeting at Paradise. I playfully slapped his shoulder and he grinned back at me. As I leaned towards his ear I was thankful that he could not see the flush in my cheeks in response to his smile. The heat was radiating off of his skin as I whispered the vulgarity in his ear. As soon as the last syllable left my lips, he slammed his drink down on the table, inadvertently getting everyone else’s attention. “How is that endearing? Who calls you that?” he asks shocked. From my peripheral, I saw Molly lean her head down on her hand in embarrassment. I could tell she knew what we were talking about, clearly not meeting her standards of sweet, date conversation.

“I have lots of fans,” I responded humorously.

Harry leaned closer to me, blocking the view the others in our group had of my face. He attempted to make his face stern, but his voice was light as he said, “Now listen, you aren’t actually a prostitute, right? I can’t be catching a charge; my second album still has a few months to go.” I cackled at his words and pushed him lightly again.

“No, I’m not, stop with that now,” I playfully chided.

Harry looked at me silently for another moment before continuing. “I knew that night at Paradise you weren’t behaving that way just because you were drunk.”

“What do you mean?”

“All flirty! I thought for a minute at Union Jack that I completely misread you, but now I can tell I’m right.”

Choosing to brush over the knowledge that Harry thought I was flirting, albeit effectively, I fell into the trap to flirt more. “How do you know I’m not drunk right now?” I asked, feeling the alcohol in my veins, but knowing full well that I was far from drunk. He did not respond, and instead gave me a knowing look. I shrugged, “Well, I did take shots in the car on the way here,” and took a big sip of my own drink. Harry bellowed out a laugh in response.

Around 11, I felt it was time to depart from the bar and head home. Molly gave me pointers before meeting Harry that I should ‘leave him wanting more’ which meant leaving before he got tired. In an interesting turn of events, the vulgar conversation with Harry completely erased my nerves. The entire rest of the night I teased and giggled with him like we knew each other years prior. It was so weird, at one point, I entirely forgot he was a famous millionaire, only noticing because of the radio DJ sat beside him. He just became Harry. When I stood to leave, I accidentally brushed against Harry’s hand that was outstretched to place his glass down. This left a trail of goosebumps from the edge of my shorts down to my right knee up. I felt giddy.

The entire group walked outside together to wait for cars and to say proper goodbyes, free of the more confined space. Molly ended up bonding with Harry’s group, getting the numbers of everyone and promising to pass them onto me. Even though these people were also well known socialites, I felt completely comfortable in their presence. Harry did not strike me as someone to hang out with people he did not truly enjoy being around. Our car arrived first, just as I was finishing up hugs, ending with Harry. I was enveloped in his warmth again and his arms were tighter on me than earlier in the night. “Are you sure you don’t want to pop by Nick’s?” he asked, my stomach fluttering at the hopeful tone in his voice. I needed to keep him on his toes and I also knew I should really get home and get online. Bills do not magically pay themselves and nights were my most lucrative times for work. I shook my head.

“I should really get back home, I’ve got some work to do,” keeping it as ambiguous as I could. He released me as I moved to get into the car behind Molly. “Bye Harry.”

“See you soon, cum bucket!”

“Harry!” I squealed, looking back at him, as Molly roughly pulled me into the car. I could see through the windows of the car his beaming smile, so I decided to roll the window down and stick my middle finger outside. I heard a loud, hiccupping laugh on the sidewalk in response. Delighted and giggling, I turned back fully into the car to see Molly glaring at me.

“Cum bucket? Really J?” I heard the Uber driver snort in front of us, but try to hide it with a cough. I didn’t respond to Molly, choosing to lean my head onto her shoulder and muffle bits of my laughter. I slowly felt her body shake too. “You’re so nasty, but I guess he is too,” Molly said, laughter and awe in her voice. “But, Jesus, how is that endearing?”

#Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #one direction fanfiction #fan fiction #silly pleasures

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enzointokyo · 4 years

Text

April 2003

I’d allowed myself a 12 month folly Japan. It would be an adventure where I could work, save a bit of money, do some traveling, meet some interesting people and experience the craziness of Japanese culture. Then I would return home and get a proper job. Having just completed my post grad diploma it was about time I started a career but I really just wanted that one more year off adventure before settling down.

I arrived in Japan in January last year so 3 months overdue on my self-promise and I’m still not ready to go home yet. Not nearly ready to go home.

But then, I could never, not in a million years, have predicted where I’d be right now, lying in bed next to Nobuko, the beautiful wife of a pro baseballer, in her beautiful house in a Den En Chofu.

I took an instant disliking to Nobuko when I first met her at Stella, the English school where I was working. I remember seeing her for the first time, waiting in the reception area as I exited a teaching cubical, She stood out. She was beautiful, dressed and groomed immaculately. Perfect hair and makeup. Wowsers, she’s hot I thought. But then I quickly realised her face was scarred by a perma-scowl. I saw the way she talked to the Japanese reception staff. Demanding, snobby rude. My Japanese was basically non existent back then but it was good enough to get the gist of her attitude. She was causing a fuss, demanding a last minute change to the timetable. What I didn’t realise is that she was demanding

After she caught a glimpse of me she insisted that I be her teacher for her 1 hour English lesson. Students were not not able to request specific teachers for their lessons but Nobuko always paid extra for the private 1-on-1 lessons, for both herself and her son and she was...Nobuko so she got what she wanted. Her son, Airo, was no nicer than her. A very good looking kid, maybe 9 years old and already a promising baseballer, Nobuko doted on him. Plenty of just the right right ingredients to produce a spoilt brat.

During our lessons Nobuko didn’t bother to speak much. She mostly sat there looking bored, expecting me to entertain her for one long hour. And when she did deign to speak it was mostly in Japanese. I would initiate lots of conversations and try to keep them going, occasionally managing to say something silly enough to get a smile or small laugh out of her. At least I would get a little bit of practice listening and speaking Japanese during Nobuko’s lessons.

Airo was no more interested in learning English than his mum and taking his lessons was way worse than taking Nobuko’s. I’d much rather be stuck in a small study room for an hour with a beautiful mum than with her petulant brat of a son.

I quit working at Nova after about six months and Nobuko was definitely one of the students I was glad I wouldn’t have to see again. But I underestimated her tenacity. Two months after leaving Nova I got a text message. “Hello is this Enzo? I am Nobuko. I am student from Stella...” Christ.

We now shower off together. Japanese and their bathing. It’s not unusual for me and my students to have a shower before and after sex (and, of course, during). Japanese excel at bathrooms and toilets. They excel at cleanliness. This particular bathroom is full of marble; ornate, ostentatious and flashy. Not exactly my style but undeniably luxurious. There’s plenty of room for the two of us under the giant shower rose. I get changed into my designer suit and gather my various designer belongings, all of them gifts from students. The Issey Miyaki watch, Hugo Boss wallet and Gucci satchel. I wouldn’t wear this kind of stuff back home in Australia. It’d look ridiculous to my friends and family. But it looks appropriate in Japan and I’m glad to be wearing nice clothes, especially in my current occupation. Funny how I now notice most gaijin looking so sloppy and careless with what they wear. Exactly how I looked not so long ago.

Nobuko, topless, comes to hand me the envelope. Our arrangement is always settled quickly and discreetly. As she nears I grab her her and pull her hard up close to my body. My right hand squeezes the entirety of her left butt cheek and we share a deep kiss for 10 seconds. I take the envelope and put it in my satchel next to the English teaching books. Before I leave the house I quickly check myself in the huge full length mirror by the front door, making sure nothing looks amiss and as I exit the house I put on a show of bookmarking one of the English texts. For a wealthy housewife, having private English lessons at home is a nice status symbol. But while I’m sure Nobuko is quite happy for the neighbours to speculate about the exact nature of my visits, I still try to make everything look ostensibly legit.

I walk to the nearby train station to pick up my bike. I always lock it up a little bit away from my students’ homes, just to have that extra degree of separation. And I don’t tell them where I live. “Near Futako Tamagawa” I answer vaguely when asked.

It’s an easy 25 minute bike ride from Den En Chofu station to my apartment in Sakura Shin Machi. Tokyo is a huge city but you can get around surprisingly well by bike, especially if you’re lucky enough to live reasonably close to where you work. Six months ago, when I got serious about my current gig, I drew up a territory that’s close to my apartment and all accessible by bike. Lots of riding also helps keep my body ripped.

When I get home I take the envelope out of my Gucci satchel. It’s a classy envelope with made with thick paper. There’s some Kanji printed on it which I don’t understand but no doubt it is just the right envelope, chosen with care, for this particular purpose. Inside is Y500,000 for my 2 hours’ tuition. Nobuko is a bitch but she always pays me with no fuss. She’s all business which I appreciate. The envelope goes into the recycling bin along with the others and the money into a safe in my bedroom.

I grab a beer from the fridge. This is my winddown habit. No. I put it back. Beers used to be my winddown. I need to stay focused and disciplined. I start making a fruit smoothie. 6 more months in Japan and I’ll return home with Y10m, enough for a deposit on a house.

I have a very comfortable set up. In one bedroom I have a bench press and some gym mats. My own private gym you could say. I sleep in the tatami bedroom and there’s a decent size living/kitchen/dining area. I’m very happy with my digs. A two bedroom apartment in a nice area like Sakura Shin Machi would seem like quite an extravagance. But the apartment is old and quite far from the train station which helped reduced the rent. Being far from a train station is not a problem for me when I can cycle most places. I figured I’d done my penance staying in the shitty Nova apartment for my first 9 months in Japan so I could enjoy some comfort for my final 12 months in the country.

After the fruit smoothie I do a couple of hours of exercise in my gym, then study Japanese for a few hours in the evening. Discipline.

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vndicate · 4 years

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aka the plot hole where they were like here’s some shit called the black oil / black cancer and it’s legit for alien colonization and mul.der was infected in it and the show talked about it like one valid time and then used it as a plot device to say he’s not only fine but incredibly medically healthy !!!! and that’s bananas so now i’m here. im just gonna ramble off the series of events that took place and the overall effect, with a simplified summary at the very bottom if you don’t wanna read this whole spiel. the first few paragraphs are literally just going to be a timeline and recounting.

in earlier seasons mu lder was seen having what was known as ‘ black oil ’ ( or the black cancer or purity ) poured into his face, an alien virus that was chillin in some deposits in the earth after a meteorite struck tunguska in 1908 ( the meteor actually happened google it ). in the show they displayed some wild russian gulag where random individuals were having it tested on them trying to find an immunity and mul.der got wrapped up into it. obviously, a lot of prisoners began to die due to it, but mul der eventually managed to fight his way and break free with no evident initial side effects or any influence until season 6.

the black oil is an alien virus used to infect other species in order to overtake them; essentially, it enters the body and can have a multitude of effects, including taking over full control and having the body do the aliens’ bidding as they choose. it’s an organic mind control. the entire purpose of it is to reproduce and conquer other species.

three years later, upon finding an artifact that provided proof that humanity may have been created by aliens ( gotta love txf ), mu lder falls into a crippling state as the artifact re-activates the black oil. while the reactivation doesn’t serve its initial purpose ( he’s not being controlled by anything ), the alien dna activates in a part of his brain. agent mul der begins to feel severe migraines by the first episode, but before long falls into an extremely manic state and displays abnormal brain activity, eventually deteriorating so far as being admitted to a mental hospital in a padded cell where he’s unable to communicate and is extremely violent.

our good pal kritschgau ends up helping along as well, a former character who knows about these experiments with the alien virus on humans and injects mul der with medication to slow down his brain activity. they test mul der to find he has the ability to read minds, and that he / his brain is essentially frying from all the activity and over-stimulus and etc. he is dying. he also falls in and out of a catatonic state throughout the episode, as well as falling into a seizure from the various medications he’s injected with, etc.

eventually, mul der is kidnapped by csm and diana to undergo a surgery to remove this portion of his brain. later on in the show as well, after muld.er’s eventual abduction, mul.der is said to have been dying from a brain tumor, as further indication the the oil may have done more damage while it existed. the tumor was going to take his life in less than a year by that point. returning from his abduction he died, but scu.lly had found evidence in other abductee’s bodies also exposed to the oil, that the black oil was resurrecting them to turn them into alien hybrids for colonization. they were able to save and revive mul.der with no lasting impact of the colonization.

that being said, everything after this point is going to be headcanon, everything above was just canon retellings :

fox for sure still has moderate influence from the alien dna. viruses that target specific areas of the body can absolutely cause a long term impact and scarring, and there’s no reason to expect that a virus attacking his brain and trying to change the way his body works and even beginning to succeed slowly would simply recover without a hitch. while it was said to have only effected a portion of his brain in the temporal lobe, the resiliency of the brain and its tendency to rewire and reconfigure itself based on need seems like it would be impractical if all of his issues went away because this random human brain surgeon was like i can probably just take this out and we’ll be gucci, and then later when it’s proven to still be there because of his resurrection, that anti-virals and temperature control would manage to kill it and his body could heal perfectly. that ain’t it chief.

i wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s maintained the ability to read minds explicitly, but it’s definitely tied in further with his natural intuition. as is, fox has an incredible ability to understand situations and people in realms beyond logic and science and he’s almost always right. he can set himself into different perspectives masterfully. to tack onto that : since the events of the alien dna in his brain, some of the capacity to tap into the extraterrestrial side remains, unknown to him. he isn’t aware that he can work himself harder into perceiving things greater than him, touching on reading minds or experiencing strange explainable sensations and leads from nothing again. he doesn’t even know some of the alien dna still left irreparable damage, and it may be no guarantee medical examination would be able to show the results of something that’s so unique. a medical examination may identify damage but not what. what was before a bit of uncanny luck and coincidence due to his intuitive nature is now extremely so on the occasions that he heavily exerts himself, unknowing he’s pushing himself to the limits of heightened brain activity and beginning to utilize the minimal remnants of his reworked mind. he’s grazing read minds and emotions in such a way he isn’t even realizing it, but gaining feelings, sensations, sometimes even pictures or clues or colors in ways he never has before and sometimes in manners that don’t even make sense. it’s like seeing his emotional victims/suspects/etc, finding a dead end, feeling that frustration and analyzing all the information over and over and it may be even the slightest suggestion, the image of something in his brain like an old memory he’s about to forget and all of a sudden so much makes sense but he could never explain the leap it took to get there. he often keeps these findings to himself until they make sense, but he does go out of his way to look for them and make the pieces connect as they have reliably in the past.

the temporal lobe also has dealings in memory, that is facial recognition, language / speech recognition, etc. fox has always had a fairly keen memory and a spectacular attention to detail — i would say it’s only sharpened it vaguely, in such a manner that it was surprising before, it’s not much more surprising now. scu lly would truly be one of the few people to notice any of these differences in mul der, and even then, they’re so wildly minute and specific he hardly even notices them. this is mostly important as well due to all of the concussions and knocks he’s had, a risk to his mind / memory i won’t go too deep into, but having that heightened resiliency is insurance he won’t begin to lose it or face complications in the near future in that regard.

a side effect of these heightened abilities is overworking — he can’t quite strain himself in the way he used to. the more he forces, the more he tries to focus on, the more likely he’s going to burn out and a severe migraine will begin to form like those he had initially gained from the alien artifact. he’s known to push himself for over 24 hours sometimes on some cases, and for it to be an unconventional chase where he’s going entirely off of a hunch and then some, a lot of that strain and searching for a small detail, a literal needle in a haystack, can be so painfully infuriating. bright lights begin to bother, etc.

#.☄ ° ゜ as you claw the thin ice . ⇢ fact.#i added more to the post-abduction era and etc.#not many of the long-term effects are on there but

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cvteeds · 5 years

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ME!

minnesotamemelord on AO3

Richie adjusts his bow tie one last time in the side mirror of the limo. He can hear the seemingly deafening roar of the crowd, of the reporters and nominees and everyone else outside. His manager sits across from him, spouting off reminders. Richie barely hears him.

”-and if you lose, look happy anyway. No one likes a sore loser, and if you want another season, you’ll-“

”I got it,” Richie says, cutting him off. He can’t take it anymore. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” His agent and former manager, David, sighs.

“Fine.” He checks his watch and looks around nervously. “Are you sure you don’t want someone to walk the carpet with? It’s not too late, I hear Zachary Quinto’s still available-“

”I don’t need a date,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I’m still married. Even if he’s not here.”

”Of course.” Before David can say anything else, Richie opens the door and steps out into the Los Angeles evening, his brand-new converse sneakers sinking into the plush red carpet. The sneakers are his signature, and it’s written into his contract that he gets to wear them everywhere. Even, as is specifically stated in the writing, to the Emmys. They do not go with his tuxedo, and he has been reminded of this every single minute of every day since his nomination was announced. Well, nominations.

”Richie! Richie, over here!” Some reporter shouts. He vaguely recognizes her from a popular morning talk show that he always gets up too late to watch, but hears about constantly from his early-bird husband. He puts on an easy smile as he approaches, hoping it doesn’t look too fake. It’s not fake, not the excitement, but he can’t help but think that he should not be alone right now.

”I’m here with Richie Tozier, writer and star of the hit new horror-sitcom, ‘The Losers Club’, streaming now on HBO. Now, Richie, you’re famously very good friends with author William Denbrough.” It takes all of Richie’s self control not to laugh. Hearing people call Bill ‘William’ is like hearing himself called ‘Richard’, which only ever happens when Eddie gets mad. “Lots of people have drawn comparisons between ‘The Losers Club’ and Denbrough’s books. Was there any inspiration that came to you from reading your friend’s writing?” Richie laughs good-naturedly.

”Wow, starting off with the tough questions. Aren’t you going to ask me who I’m wearing?” The reporter chuckles politely. “No, but seriously, both Bill and I take our inspiration from our childhoods. We grew up together, and the kids we write about are definitely inspired by ourselves. So in a way, yes, I do take some of my inspiration from Bill, but it’s more from the person himself than his books.” She nods, clearly surprised by the eloquence of his answer. “And, uh, this suit is Gucci. Just so you know.”

He fights his way through the crowd (metaphorically, of course. He still stops for photos and interviews, and to talk to the odd acquaintance) and finally gets inside. He finds his seat between two of his co-stars, a young woman who resembles Bev in almost every way except that her hair is black, not red, and a man who resembles Eddie so heavily that Richie has, much to his husband’s annoyance, mistaken for him at least five times. The lights dim, the show begins, the host launches into her monologue, and Richie hardly even notices. It is a blur of standing, sitting, applauding, laughing, of lights and sparkles and the swish of gowns and tuxedo pants. Jameela Jamil leans back for a selfie. Tony Shalhoub accidentally knocks his glasses off on his way up to collect his award. John Mulaney cracks a joke so funny it takes all of Richie’s effort not to laugh through the ‘In Memoriam’ video. And then it is his award, Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series. The announcer, a young woman Richie vaguely recognizes from this summer’s biggest action movie, flashes a brilliant white smile and lists off the nominees, ending with “...Richie Tozier as Bradley Thompson in ‘The Losers Club.’” She opens the gold envelope with delicate hands and Richie can feel his breath catch in his throat. He hardly expected to be nominated. He would not win. And yet, he has never been more anxious in his life, except on the day he asked Eddie to marry him.

“And the Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series goes to... Richie Tozier for ‘The Losers Club!’”

Richie doesn't register the shock at first. He thinks perhaps it is a dream, and when he stands on the stage to collect his award, he will be in his underwear. Or maybe it's Eddie, who had mocked him with this since his nomination was announced (lovingly, of course). But no, it's real, and he realizes it when his female co-star throws her arms around him, squealing excitedly. He rises to his feet, smiling unsteadily, and scoots out to the aisle. He was not supposed to win, he thinks. That's why they put him in the middle of the row instead of the end, where he could get out more easily. The probable winners are always in the aisle seats because it gives them an easy path to the stage. It's an odd moment of clarity, and it passes quickly, and then he is rising the stairs, and he's being handed the golden statue, and his face is warm under the lights. He blinks, expecting the glare of light on glass, but it never comes. He wears contacts now, he remembers, and laughs at his own short-mindedness. He has to bend down a little to reach the microphone, and as he pats his jacket pocket, realizes he has forgotten his speech at home. Fuck. He's going to be "that guy", the guys who forgets his notecards and has to make the whole thing up on the fly. Still, it's probably better than standing in awkward silence, which is what he's doing right now.

"Um... as a kid, I told a lot of jokes. And mostly, they weren't funny. But if you told that kid that one day, he'd be standing on this stage, he probably would have said 'yeah, right' and then made a crude joke about your mom." There is a smattering of polite laughter. He is building speed now, snowballing. "But that kid from Maine couldn't have gotten here without a lot of help, so there are some people I need to thank. My parents, Maggie and Wentworth, for always laughing, even when I was being a complete idiot. My agent, David Lukas, who convinced me to make the move from stand-up to TV. I'd like to thank my co-stars, who are the funniest, sweetest, best people I could have asked to work with, and for never being dicks about being more attractive than me, even though you clearly are. You're the best minions I've ever had. But seriously, I sometimes feel like the show was written for you guys, even though I literally had no idea who any of you were before the first day." Richie scans the room. He sees a hundred people he knows and a thousand he doesn't. He sees friends and idols and people he doesn't even recognize. And in all of them, he sees the one person he wishes were here most, the one person who isn't here.

"And last, but absolutely not least, there's one more person I need to thank. My husband, Eddie, the light of my life. Without him, this show wouldn't exist. When we got together three years ago, I was still using a ghostwriter. It was writing jokes about Eddie that got me to write my own material, and then my agent approached me about writing a pilot for this show, and now here we are, and it all came from him. This show is inspired by our childhood, growing up together, then reconnecting as adults. He's my constant inspiration. I do everything I do for him. He's at home with our son right now, because he said he wasn't going to come all the way from New York to LA just to watch me lose- that's a direct quote. And as he knows damn well, there's nothing I love more than proving him wrong."

He looks directly into the camera now, smiling wider than before. "I won, baby, I did it. And I did it for you. I love you, Eds." He blows a kiss to the camera and flushes, maybe from the heat of the lights, maybe from the out-of-character gesture. He embraces the announcer, kissing her cheek gently as he exits, desperate for the first time in his 43 years of life to be out of the spotlight. He is almost back to his seat when he stops fast, nearly slamming into the figure that he hadn't seen before in the dark theater. His gaze travels up from the impeccably polished shoes to the neatly pressed tuxedo pants, to the burgundy velvet jacket he had custom-made as a birthday present last year. It is Eddie, he knows it is, before his eyes finally meet the tear-filled, puppy-dog brown ones of his husband.

"You came," he says, his eyes turning from gray to a watery black.

"You won," Eddie replies, and Richie's tearful face breaks out in a huge, toothy grin. He cups Eddie's cheek (the one with the scar on it) in his broad, hairy hand, and leans down, pulling Eddie into a long, feverish kiss. The cameras catch every second, but they don't notice, nor do they care. Richie leads Eddie by the hand into the row of seats, and they sit beside each other, their legs scrunched together in the limited leg room.

"I know you didn't come just because I won," Richie whispers. "You would've had to leave seven hours ago. At least."

"I realized, like, two hours after you left that I was basically being a massive piece of shit. So I hopped on the next Delta flight here- way less nice than the Cessna, by the way- changed in the airport bathroom, and came straight here. I had to call David and have him talk to security just so I could get in. Apparently, the photos of our wedding are not enough to prove we're married."

"I'm glad you're here." Richie intertwines his fingers with Eddie's, then gasps. "Fuck. What'd you do with the baby?"

"First of all, you gotta stop calling him 'the baby.' Stan's almost three."

"Yeah, but he's my baby."

"Good luck with that once he hits school age, my love. And in terms of what I quote-unquote 'did with him', I called that sitter, the one Blake and Ryan recommended at poker night. And before you asked, yes, I interviewed her; yes, she speaks three languages; yes, she can bake, play guitar, and has half the best doctors in Manhattan on her speed dial. She's perfect, and has been texting me updates every half-hour." Richie's head lolls onto Eddie's shoulder, and they nestle into each other like puzzle pieces. Richie's show wins again and again, the articles the next day will say it swept. Richie's hotel room is paid through for another day, but Eddie helps him pack. They load what little luggage they have into the back and take off (the first thing Richie did after returning from Derry was get his pilot's license). The palm trees and city lights below give way to dark, lightless desert, and then mountains, then cornfields and lakes and long stretches of empty plain. And then, just as the dark violet sky begins to fade into the faintest streaks of yellow and pink and blue, just as the star begin to disappear and the moon becomes almost translucent, the silhouette of the New York skyline appears against it.

"Home again," Eddie says, his eyes tired, but he has never looked happier, except maybe the first time he saw Stan.

"Finally." The plane touches down at an airfield in Queens, and they step out, stretching their tired limbs. Richie stares up at the sky, in which the sun is steadily rising. They go home to their Upper East Side condo, careful to shut the door behind them as quietly as possible. The windows are dark, but a thin stream of light flows out from under one of the bedroom doors, the one with a big green 'S' tacked to it. They open the door as softly as they can and look in on the young, curly-haired boy asleep, his Star Wars nightlight the source of the light. They leave him asleep, and the Emmy on the mantle. Eddie steps into the bathroom, and Richie can hear the shower start. He tosses his jacket on the chair in the corner and yanks his shirt and tie over his head. He goes to the terrace and looks out at the East River below. It's a chilly early morning, very early, and the breeze ruffles the thin layer of dark hair on his bare chest. He hears a honking horn, a couple arguing, glass shattering and water crashing. They are all sounds he heard before, in Derry, in Chicago, in Los Angeles. But they sound different here. Or maybe he is just seeing the world through new eyes, different eyes. The eyes of a man who has everything he wants. He feels cold tears on his face and brushes them away half-heartedly. He has not realized until now that his life is perfect. Legitimately, genuinely, certifiably perfect. Out of the closet? Check. Dream job? Check. A loving husband and son? Check. And now, one last validation that he is, in fact, on top of the world. It's sitting on his fireplace right now, but it's nothing compared to the boy with the Star Wars nightlight and the man in the shower. They are worth every award, every affirmation, every positive review, every selfie with a fan, everything.

Richie hears the shower shut off and the snap of the towel as Eddie pulls it off the hook. He sits on the bed and wiggles out of his tuxedo pants, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He does not turn around when he hears the door behind him open, nor does he move when the other side of the bed sinks under Eddie's weight. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, folding around his upper arm. Feather-light kisses brush his other shoulder, tracing a line across his shoulder blades. He twists his upper body around to face Eddie, who smiles serenely up at him. Richie places a hand on his chest, his thumb gently circling one of Eddie's two black star tattoos.

"How's it feel to be back?" Eddie asks, leaning into Richie.

"I liked the ocean air, but I have to say... I missed the smog." Eddie chuckles and fidgets with his his inhaler (it's new, and he carries it with him everywhere. It's more of a security blanket than anything else.)

"I don't know, I mean... since we spent those few months out there shooting the show, I've given it some thought, and... what would you say to moving? Somewhere else? Anywhere else?" Richie looks up in shock.

"You serious?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's not like I want to move back to Derry or anything, but think about it. If we went to Pasadena, or Santa Monica, or San Diego-"

"You really liked California, I take it?"

"I did, but if you think about it, it'd make perfect sense for us. And we wouldn't have to live in the middle of the city. I- I love New York, Richie, I do, that's why I moved here, but it's never where I imagined raising kids, if I imagined that at all. But we loved it there. And Stan loved it there. And if we went there, he could grow up on the beach instead of the sidewalks, and he might actually be able to see the stars at night, and-"

"Okay, Eds, calm down." Richie laughs and flops onto his back. Eddie falls beside him, and they turn to look at each other. "Let's do it?" Eddie cocks an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You're right, as always. And besides, it's warmer there. It's too goddamn cold here." Eddie curls an arm over Richie and buries his face in Richie's chest.

"I love you, you know that? And I literally couldn't be prouder of you if I tried." Richie pulls Eddie in closer and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"It's all for you, Eddie. All of it. That statue out there is yours, baby. And so am I."

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unimpressedperson · 6 years

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Jackpot | pt. I

(Found this picture in @youthstuffs , thank you for posting it)

Genre: Fluff and Crack, I guess...

Warnings: Mentions of lap dance, boner and ejaculation (it’s not smutty, tho)

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x @taesbetch , Kim Namjoon x Reader

Word Counting: 7.6k

Synopsis: Nya spent her whole life in Las Vegas, she would never imagine that local knowledge would ever be useful. However, her vision changed when Kim Seokjin appeared and introduced her to a few friends, film producers, whose needed guidance through Las Vegas underrated places for a movie. She agreed in working for them, and in that moment none of their lives would ever be the same. What happens in Vegas, not always has to be kept in Vegas.

A/N: Heeeeeeeey Nya!! Here is the first part of your one shot (now two shots? Lol), well. First thing first, it’s not a proper romantic chapter, since I used it more for entertainment and slyly making the characters bond, not explicitly making them stay together. It was fun to write and create every place I described (none of them actually exists in Las Vegas, I mean there is something similar to Eleganza & Extravaganza, but in Brazil). I made a bunch of references to RuPaul’s Drag Race, and some from movies (The Hangover, Showgirls, Agent 83, 21, etc). Hopefully you’ll enjoy it, I swear the second part if fluffier and way more what’s expected from an one shot. Forgive any grammatical mistakes. Good reading xX

- x - x - x - x -

The air smelled like whiskey and freshly cleaned wood. The slots were noisy and people yelled at them. The red walls and black carpet covered by footprints. Behind a long and wide curtain, a whole bunch of casino tables were in use. Blackjack making the dollar bills fly from hand to hand, trading them for casino chips. Money was lost and gained. People got in hopeful, chances mostly playing against their odds, but still willing to try and gain a fortune.

— Not everyone is Rain Main, though. - Namjoon said whilst looking through the tables, accompanied by his fellows Jungkook, Yoongi and Hoseok.

— Totally, why are we here anyways? We don’t gamble. You always told me not to play with lucky. - Jungkook held tight on his leather jacket sleeves.

— Do you know how to count cards? It’s illegal. If you get arrested I’ll show up only to mock you in jail. - Yoongi said, but decided to chill and buy a drink, tapping on his back pocket, looking for his wallet, not feeling it. - Shit, I think I lost my wallet with my cards, ID and money.

— You dropped it on the elevator’s floor. - Hoseok threw the wallet in Yoongi’s direction and grinned. - You took an eternity to notice.

— Why did I even brought you guys? Everyone is behaving like underage virgins trying to get in a strip club with an illegal ID. - Namjoon rolled his eyes and stopped, turning around on his calves. - Pull yourselves together, we are here ‘cuz Seokjin told me there’s someone willing to guide us through Las Vegas. It’s a woman and she works here.

— I miss Jin-hyung. He never denied a drink to his pals. - Hoseok said pouting, then getting back to his grinning self. - Is she that clever? Like, we travelled from England to Las Vegas short-noticed, she must be an ace, human map.

— You trust me, I trust Kim Seokjin and he trusts Nya. - Namjoon said and kept walking, looking for the indicated woman. According to her profile picture on Whatsapp, she had a curly brown hair, big dark eyes, with delicate yet strong facial traits. He checked the time on his cellphone, 7 p.m, Nya should finish her shift in one hour, but checking twice never harms.

- x - x - x - x -

Nya was feeling hot with her uniform. Not hot as sexy, but hot in the sense of igniting. Her white long-sleeved shirt was buttoned up, the vest warming everything even more. Not mentioning the constant stinging on her legs, caused by hours standing still distributing cards and, occasionally, trading money for chips. Still irritated, she focused on something else, specifically four koreans lads, dressed in casual clothings and staring around, as if they were looking for someone, Nya knew whom, but couldn’t yell or wave to call, since her manager wouldn’t approve such behavior.

A few months before she met with another korean guy, Kim Seokjin, with his broad shoulders covered by expensive suits, impeccable black hair and sharp tongue. Nya liked to chat with him, and shortly after found out he was looking for a guide to shown places in Las Vegas, affording to pay for the service. Everyone around were trying to get money through gambling, but the lucky one didn’t even touch a slot. Jade earned over US$1 thousand grands for her service.

Not long after, Seokjin contacted again claiming that he had indicated her work for a few friends. Acknowledging how rich he was, then a group of friends could pay even more. Whilst listening to the man explaining who the clients were, Nya was mentally chanting to ‘Billionaire’ by Bruno Mars.

The man sent a contact named ‘Kim Namjoon’. Nya and the new customer discussed additional informations, such as location and time to meet. Of course she knew he could show up earlier to check. Every sane one would confirm.

However, taking an attentive look at Seokjin’s friends, no one impressed her much. They were beautiful, specifically the taller one with lilac hair, Kim Namjoon himself, but also seemed to be a group of penny-pinchers. Great, there goes her ‘Billionaire’ dreams, landing straight on ‘Thrift Shop’ by Macklemore.

Once Namjoon finally detected Nya, he pulled his group of friends in the table’s direction, seating on a vague chair and staring at her, talking politely to the other players: an old lady wearing a thick fur-coat, black hair in a high ponytail and a white man with brown curly hair and using a Gucci sweater.

— Is that a lucky table? My friends here insist in saying I’m a jinx. - Namjoon asked and smiled, making the old lady blush and Nya side grinning.

Hoseok decided to take Yoongi and Jungkook to the bar, leaving the lilac haired man there, but promising to bring him a drink. Namjoon didn’t seem to care, trying to find a subtle way to ask Nya when her shift ends. He wasn’t aware if everyone knew about the side job as a guide.

— Oh, one of my fellows stopped by a few hours ago and played on that same table. When will your shift end? Isn’t that overworking? - Namjoon “casually” questioned. trying his best to sound chill and not psycho.

— Do you want another card, miss? - Nya asked and pulled one ‘red queen’ from the deck of cards, watching how the lady huffed in frustration. - Yes, today I worked literally for two. I’m covering a friend of mine. Thank you for your concern, but my shift ends in… Fifteen minutes.

— Oh, I worked in a bar once. It’s tiring. You should receive extra; - The man with curly brown hair said and asked for another card, completing a Blackjack and hissing in happiness.

Namjoon grinned flashing one dimple, looking at his wallet and casually announcing that he would buy a ‘lucky charm’ (a green drink, actually) before playing and stood up, giving a tip to Nya. Between the bills there was a paper saying he would wait for her at the bar.

Particularly, Namjoon felt stupid about being so secretive, the same did Nya. Behaving like they were trafficking drugs or selling a kidney for the Black Market. However, it also added to the experience of exploring Las Vegas, a Mission Impossible sort of situation.

Oh, Namjoon wished to be wearing a suit to feel like Agent 83, pondering the idea of looking for a phonecase shaped as a shoe.

- x - x - x - x -

— So, what are your names again? - Nya asked walking off the casino door, being followed by the four men. She was now wearing a black skinny jeans, plain white t-shirt and carrying her jacket on one of the arms.

— Kim Namjoon. I’m the one who contacted you. - The tall man with lilac soft hair said, a deep voice matching his very well distributed body form. Nya found him interesting and smart.

— Min Yoongi. - The tiniest one with black hair and round glasses said, whilst checking something on his phone. He seemed a little intimidating, but in certain angles his cheeks became chubby, giving a much cuter air. What a duality.

— Jung Hoseok, but call me Hobi. - The one with blonde wavy hair pronounced, smiling and flashing his small dimples around the mouth. A cheerful aura seemed to surround him, maybe it was all the neon lights coming from every casino and hotel.

— My name is Jeon Seagull. - Jungkook said and watched Nya’s expression switch from playful and calm to confused.

— What? Is that serious? - She asked furrowing her eyebrows.

Everyone laughed loudly, confusing her even more. She never felt comfortable not understanding inside jokes from friends, the brown haired woman felt slightly left out from the conversation.

— No, I’m just kidding. My name is Jeon Jungkook. - He said and shook her hand, smiling and shortly after continuing. - Do you want to know the story behind the whole Jeon Seagull thing?

Before she could answer, Jungkook began telling his story. Apparently the boy with cherry coloured hair used to be an idol in Korea, in a boy group from 15 to 21. When he decided to quit singing dumb songs about girls and conquer his dreams.

— When I chose to become part of that group, the managers decided that Jungkook wasn’t a good name, so based on where I was born they decided to call me Jeon Seagull, supposedly appealing even to fans from outside Korea. - Jungkook said and wagged his hand around. - Well, after years I quitted, graduated in cinema and went to England, where I met these douchebags.

— Is there anyone hungry or just me? I know a place with good and cheap food. - Nya said and glanced in Namjoon’s direction. - It's also very private, so we can discuss my commission and, once again, clarify your intentions, places to visit and contacts needed. Even a girl with good friends requires some checking before confirming.

Hoseok felt his stomach complaining. The peanuts eaten whilst waiting for Nya didn't trick his greedy and quick metabolism. Also, Yoongi was sick worried about some account numbers from the previous project, trying his best to fix finances before engaging in international business, but food and a good cup of coffee would help him think rationally. The men agreed and watched the woman waving her left hand to stop a cab.

- x - x - x - x -

Nya took the group to a small diner. They sat down and ordered some coffee and bagels with cream cheese, as an entrance. ‘The Devito’ had a lot resemblances with Pop's from Riverdale, which itself reminded any 50s diner. Red couches instead of chairs, white tables, everything decorated with vintage chachki and posters. The ambient music (Livin’ On A Prayer by Bon Jovi) provided by a wooden jukebox. The waiters and waitress all dressed in white pants, cream and red plaid shirts, rolling around in expensive looking skates (Namjoon was surprised, claiming he could barely stand still in hard ground. Yoongi confirmed telling that the first time they met, they almost managed to get killed by a bus in London, after the taller one tripped on his feet and nudged him).

Whilst eating bagels and chatting about impersonal topics, Namjoon took a sip from his coffee and began the business talk.

— So, Nya. What's your price? - Namjoon asked not looking straight at the woman’s eyes, trying to see what Yoongi was doing on his phone.

— Hm, it depends. - Nya said, brushing off the conversation with Jungkook about Transformers being sorted in Hogwarts houses (Optimus Prime is totally a Ravenclaw, Bumblebee despite of his colours is a total Gryffindor). - See, Seokjin paid me US$1k because he is rich and cocky, but I accept less. Also, I take in count how dangerous wherever you want to visit is. I ain't gonna risk my neck for a few dimes. Also, if I understood it right, then we’ll be together from now til morning, did I get it? Maybe a bit of the afternoon, but since I worked two shifts today, conquered the right for a day off.

— Fair and right. - Yoongi said and popped his tongue, putting his phone down and digging in relief. - See, we can pay US$600 for your job, maximum. You are not going to take us in dangerous places, mainly because we are tracking and trying to rent establishments for filming. I personally don't think it's secure to break in a crack house, aimed with expensive professional cameras, and other cinematic knick knack. At least not with an indie production budget.

— Oh, I get it, but you still didn't clarify what kind of places we are going. - Nya looked at Yoongi, but shortly after glanced in Namjoon's direction again. - Where do you want to go tonight, sir?

— Our new project is rather bold, and sassy, and if you want to use the right vocabulary, then it's also fierce. - Namjoon said smiling, not a large full of teeth kind of smile, but a proud and dimpley one. - We want to attend Drag Queen clubs, stripclubs, bars, cheap hotels and stores, specifically department stores and somewhere to buy wigs.

The woman tried to imagine their upcoming movie, with drag queens, strippers, cheap clothings, alcohol and possibly a whole load of LGBT representation. Yeah, Namjoon made the right choice, Las Vegas had everything they needed for under loan prices. She herself knew people who could snatch someone's face to star in a movie. Differently from Seokjin (who paid for attending comedy shows, expensive hotels, top knot restaurants, he also wanted to meet famous people, and Elvis matchmaker. His movie was cliche, a common romcom), Min Yoongi, Kim Namjoon, Jung Hoseok and Jeon Jungkook wanted to go further, know the veins and core of Vegas. Entertainment in it's raw and most interesting form. Nya was excited.

— This sounds so amazing. It seems like a match between Priscilla and Showgirls. - Nya spoke wistfully and with a lightweight looking face. - What's the movie about?

— Well. First thing first, our last project wasn't very acclaimed and complimented by critics. They said the movie was predictable, quality so low compared to previous releases. Deception, that vastly said word really bugged us. - Hoseok took the word and began talking, tapping his long and skinny finger on the cold table material. - After a few weeks thinking and searching, me and our main writer, Taehyung, decided to dive in LGBT culture. Months of writing and studying brought us the golden idea.

“A famous drag queen in Vegas, confident and talented. She spent her life dancing and lip syncing for money bills during night, whilst writing for a local newspaper on the astrology column during day. One night, though, during a show she meets with a drag king. - Hoseok took a sip from his coffee and continued. - That night changed everything, Moonchild, as we named the character, learns what love is and how narrow minded LGBT community itself is, cuz between drinks and night outs with Jimmy Humble, she finds out he is actually a transman. They also meet a girl working on the same restaurant as Jimmy, and she is a stripper dealing with some problems related to genetics. The story is very angst, fluff, defying… Fierce.”

— I already know where to take you. - She pronounced and drank the last bit of coffee. - Also, I won't charge the guidance with a simple condition: you guys will employe and give screen time to a few people I'm going to introduce. Genius artists with a career slamming on their backs, but poor chances of starring something without incentive and purpose.

Namjoon and Yoongi glazed down at her with a weird expression. No grand service comes for free. Was Nya being serious? Guiding a bunch of foreigners through Las Vegas streets charging not even a dollar? They stared at each other, having a silent talk, the kind of talk only people really close can have.

— Ok, so you don't want the US$600? You are willing to drag us around for free, only with a guarantee that we are hiring a few friends of yours? - Yoongi asked, raising one eyebrow, suspicious, almost suspecting on her kindness.

— Yeah, you got it. - She confirmed and put both hands together on her own lap. - You pay my friends and I give you informations obtained after years wandering around Las Vegas.

— Geez woman, if Seokjin mentioned you were Jesus Christ level of humble, then I'd have brought something for you to bless, or I don't know, a leprous to cure. - Jungkook told between chuckles. - You are a saint.

— Don't exaggerate, Kook. - The lilac-haired man slapped lightly the younger's hand. - But in fact, it's very humble of you. Although, we will still pay for cab and every meal or drink you have. We are not Scrudges after all. Except for Yoongi, he has a scorpion in his wallet poisoning whoever tries to spend more than the affordable.

They ordered dinner (burgers with cheddar and barbecue sauce). Hoseok stood up and had a toast in Nya's name.

- x - x - x - x -

After having a great dinner, and Namjoon paying for her, Nya decided to begin the night by heading to a bar. Mainly because it was near and they could get there in five minutes. Also, she knew who owned it, even though nothing glamorous would be seem, the place could be weirdly welcoming with cheap drinks, bitter beer and mostly mushy peanuts.

The establishment was small. Diego, an immigrant from Mexico, opened his pub in 1991 and struggled to keep it alive, until a horde of hipster decided to use his place as a meeting place, boosting his cashier.

Rustic but endearing. Namjoon felt amazed by how both adjectives coexisted perfectly. Las Vegas had so many bright neon lights and huge bars with overpriced HORRIBLE drinks, yet Nya managed to find somewhere small and cozy. Even though Yoongi complained about how weird the peanuts and pistachios tasted, they agreed on considering it to rent as a location to film, discussing how to fit flawlessly with the script.

The walls were light green full of colorful images from beautiful latina women, contrasting with the plain black floor. Small brown tables with two plastic chairs each. The drinks served weren't diversified, basic and some of them traditionally from Mexico. Kim Namjoon paid a round of tequila for everyone and turned his shot in a gulp.

The lilac haired man was paying attention to Nya, who chatted animated with the owner, a tanned man with a shaved face and big cheeks, bald and skinny, beside his preeminent belly, result of years drinking doses and doses of beer. They seemed like family, catching up on how Cousin Shirley is no longer working for him, because she moved to New York binging graduate college there. Also, Namjoon overheard something about a relative dead after trying to cross the border between USA and Mexico.

Sad. Nya’s expression turned from lightweight and joyful to sorrow. Apparently she knew the dead man and couldn't attend his funeral. Namjoon took another shot of tequila and tried to focus on Yoongi and Hoseok fitting the bar into a scene, apparently there was a moment where Jimmy Humble tries to mingle among cisgender people in a bar, but the result is saddening.

Jungkook was a clever guy, genius filming and editing, but very naive on daily basis. Whilst chatting with the bartender he decided to play arm-wrestling, even though the lady clearly had the task of carrying gallons filled with beer, so she was strong, toned and tanned arms, wide shoulders and a pin-up tattooed on her biceps, the face delicate, like a sunflower surrounded by black curls instead of petals. Beautiful, a very beautiful young lady, whose beat Jungkook three times in a row.

The guide in charge dried a small tear and glanced at the lilac haired man. He was quiet and observant, whilst his friends were mingling and socializing (or like Yoongi, just chatting with someone here and there), Kim Namjoon observed and drank from a huge mug of beer, such as soaking his brain in new visual information, reading the place and absorbing its story and culture. Nya liked that about him, even meeting him for a few hours now, she could tell Namjoon's soul had been around for ages. Hoseok and everyone else were smart, but the tall guy was wise.

— Why did you choose to become a movie director? - Nya sat beside Namjoon and queried, shortly after took a sip on her own beer (“Here mi hija, a treat from Tio Diego. Give your silent friend one too”).

— I don't know. - Namjoon replied, mind still wandering around the bar, asking himself if Tio Diego actually met all the ladies framed around in pictures. - I actually started working with audio, producing music and stuff, but after a couple years only dealing with sounds bored me. I was happy, but not joyful. So I decided to change a little and start a job with movie soundtracks. Not long after and directing became an interest. So I joined college to study cinema. Now I’m the Captain Kirk of my Enterprise, controlling the british indie cinematography market, and all with my oldest friend Spock, as known as Min Yoongi.

— Interesting. Deeply interesting. - Nya cooed and soaked her throat with a long sip of beer. - Have you never considered the idea of working for big studios? Like, Paramount?

Before properly answering, Namjoon chuckled and took his phone from one of the pockets, unlocking it and looking for something on internet. He passed the mobile to Nya’s hand. Shining under her sight was a movie poster of a man dressed like a doctor, butterflies flying around him.

— Butterfly Voices. - They said in sync, however Kim continued speaking in a slow pace. - Three years ago I tried to get in the selective environment of mainstream cinema. I spent years working on a script worth of Hollywood. My great chance appeared, I held it with teeth and claws. The budget wasn't great, mainly because most people weren't aware of me. After the release, tabloids spread false informations about how much the film cost, also whenever you hit a great public in theaters and become a so called ‘popular director’, critics seems to get dumber. Their criticisms about Butterfly Voices weren't serious, only mean comments on nonexistent things. After understanding how poisonous fame is, I decided to go focus again in producing my independent movies. It's less tiring and weary.

— Oh my god. Is that the movie about the doctor who married another doctor, and after his wife passed away her spirit became a kind of guide, helping him to make decisions and ace surgeries? - Nya questioned and Namjoon nodded quietly. - I cried like a baby when her soul began fading after a psychiatrist friend gave him pills to schizophrenia, and he realised his wife's image was nothing but a trick from his widowed mind. You are a good director.

— Thank you. It's a pity Rotten Tomatoes critics didn't have the same thought. They classified Butterfly Voices as frustrating and merciless, on the edge of a low budget Sixth Sense. - The lilac-haired was feeling comfortable around Nya, maybe the alcohol began kicking, or maybe she was actually chill and trustworthy. - I never really talked about my experience with mainstream cinema. Everyone always looks up on my finances, criticizing and judging how much less money I gain from producing indie movies, of course comparing with what I got paid in Hollywood. I don't care about it. My mental health is a priority, and dealing with popularity amongst tabloids made me have anxiety attacks.

— Yeah. Michael Jackson tried to advise us. Only the fools ignored the King of Pop. - Nya slipped one hand and touched lightly Namjoon's pinky, blushing and watching him smirk with her side vision.

They stayed there, touching pinkies and nonspeaking for over ten minutes, until Jungkook came closer and asked when they were heading to another place. In Namjoon's opinion the young cherry-haired lad got tired of losing to Tania in arm wrestling, even though he would never admit it.

— Where are you taking us now, Nya? - Yoongi turned to look at her with smiley eyes, matching his gummy grin.

— Let me see… What about a bar RuPaul's Drag Race themed? - She scratched her own chin, as if expressing doubt. - Then a strip club where I know a few girls.

— It's a yes from me. - Hoseok yelled from one of the corners.

- x - x - x - x -

— Glamour. EXTRAVAGANZA. Fierce. Bang! Bang! Bang! Yaaaaas kweeeeeen! - Hoseok got in ‘Drag mode’ as soon as they arrived, making the use of every LGBT slang he knew.

— Hobi, I'm telling you this as a friend, don't overuse your drag vocabulary. - Namjoon said putting one hand on his shoulder. - I don't want to be kicked out a place cuz my friend is borderline offensive when gets excited.

— Don't you throw shade at me, henny. - Hobi replied and poked out his tongue.

— You really made a deep research before writing the script, didn't you? - Nya raised an eyebrow in Hoseok’s direction.

— Absolutely. - Hoseok answered mimicking Gia Gunn [a Drag Race competitor from season 6].

Despite the long waiting line, Nya's contact allowed them to get in before everyone else. The group entered and took a sit on one table decorated with glitter and a menu where foods and drinks were named after RuPaul’s Drag Race queens. Ambient itself was pure glam, with pink walls ornate tiles and frames of quotes, queens, RuPaul herself, etc. On a huge TV screen was airing an old episode of RPDR. Waitress were all in drag, most of them looking like Trixie Mattel, but with slightly less makeup.

— Hm, I'll have the same as always, Peeps. A ‘Naomi Smalls’ with extra ice. - Nya pronounced after asking how the waitress in front of them was doing lately. - What do you guys will want?

— I don't know, this Monique Heart seems amazing, but I'm not in the mood for ice cream and Coca-Cola. - Yoongi cooed and stared down at the menu, turning the page and his eyes began glowing. - Oooh I want a Cuba Libre, I mean, a Bianca Del Rio.

— I will have one of my favourite queen. - Hoseok said and popped his tongue, again, for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, chosing a drink made of strawberry juice and vodka. - Make me an Alyssa Edwards, please. Okurrrr?

— I'm so sorry for my friend. - Namjoon said and rolled his eyes. - I want a portion of ‘backrolls’ [basically fried pork] and one Charlie Hides, I prefer Guinness, but I can have whatever beer it is.

— Gosh, there are over 100 options. - Jungkook pointed out, still paging through the menu, eyes brightening after seeing an Amarula drink. - But, a Bebe Zahara it will be.

— Nice choices. I particularly prefer a dose of Adore Delano with portions of Latrice Royale. - Peeps told and wrote their order in a beautiful calligraphy, leaving quickly right before.

— I loved this place. I’m gagging, bish - Hoseok chanted, smiling so big you could see his molars. - Namjoon, I know we won't film here, image copyright and all, but can we help them out? Announcing their establishment during the movie.

Namjoon sighed deeply and glanced at Yoongi. They spoke again with looks and eyebrow raises.

— As long as they don't charge a fortune to borrow their front door, we can try to get an agreement. - Yoongi affirmed petting Hobi’s forearm.

Nya kept on admiring Namjoon. Everyone seemed so chaotic or worried whilst himself, the boss in charge, was chill and mostly unimpressed, even surrounded by tall men dressed in drag and serving food. How could he not even express amusement to everything around? Wasn't it all different enough? She wasn’t getting paid for guiding them, but still would feel so much better having at least a glimpse of his approval. Jungkook was clearly rolling on joy like a pig in mud, Hoseok after spending so much time searching and digging in LGBT culture, had the time of his life in a RPDR themed bar, Yoongi felt content with good drinks and slowly solving their filming location problem. But what about Namjoon?

Well, he was sipping on his beer and chatting mostly with Yoongi, occasionally smiling and flashing dimples. The neon lights reflected and turned his hair even more purple, also turning Jungkook’s wires into a brighter cherry red. They seemed comfortable, which was great. Nya reminded when some homophobes tried to destroy the place by throwing rocks and setting fire. Eleganza & Extravaganza almost turned into ashes and dust. However, allies and LGBT folks raised money to reconstruct everything broken or burned.

The woman felt tempted to ask for a sneak peak on the script, but they would never reach that level of intimacy in only two hours. Her relationship with them was strictly professional by now, even having fun and possibly end up getting wasted in Las Vegas.

Nya loved her self-proclaimed job.

It’s not like Nya used to guide people around Las Vegas often, actually the first time was when Jin offered cash, in exchange of a sightseeing based on a local point of view. As he said, no one knows good places better than someone residing there. Even not expressing, meeting new clients made her restless for days, always rattling or zoning out. What if the experience end up being a deception? Despite Seokjin compliments, every single one has a different predilection, maybe bringing them to places she thought were appropriate and not regular ones, could go right or could go wrong.

Fortunately, Yoongi cackling and almost choking over Jungkook trying to sip his drink through with the nose, oh small - yet unbelievably bizarre - moment like those boosted her confidence. Nya laughed out loud when Hoseok punched Jeon’s shoulder:

— You better respect this temple, you heathen, RuPaul faithless. - The blonde one pronounced in a mocking tone. - We ain’t here to parteeey.

Namjoon rolled his eyes and slapped lightly the back of Hoseok’s head. They definitely were having fun.

The lilac-haired man was also admiring Nya. As someone living off of a business where, in its essence, who you know defines who you are, watching someone with so many contacts amused him. Although, what actually got his attention was how caring the woman behaved towards everyone, she literally spoke to whoever approached them as relatives. Uncle Diego, Aunt Tania, whilst the waiter/waitress were treat like cousins. It seemed like outcasts from Las Vegas were her family.

How did she knew so many people? Nothing plausible actually occurred to him.

- x - x - x - x -

After leaving the Eleganza & Extravaganza a bit tipsy, one more drink and Namjoon would lose control over Hoseok and Jungkook, so he decided it was time for finding a strip club, since one of the characters worked as a stripper. After jumping in a cab and Nya saying where to take them, everyone agreed in not having more alcoholic beverages until the end of night. As if.

The cab dropped them in front of a very common-looking strip club. Seriously, it was almost comic on how stereotyped the place seemed to be. Teets had a huge neon billboard with a female body traced in red, a huge bodyguard (whose looked a lot like Thing from Fantastic Four, before being turned into a walking rock), no line though. Nya hugged that man and waved at Namjoon and his friends.

— Uncle Ben, those are friends of mine and we need to get in Teets. - Nya stated smiling brightly, one of his HUGE arms around her small shoulders, whilst she pointed at Namjoon. - This is Kim Namjoon, Jung Hoseok, Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook, they are entrepreneurs from the cinema business and need a location for their upcoming release.

— Hi guys, nice to meet more friends of Nya. - So called Uncle Ben shook hands with everyone. Jungkook and his nerdy ass really inquired if everything was a dream or a joke, someone looking like Thing from Fantastic 4, with the same name, but changing everything when “uncle” word appeared first. A punchy Jeon Jungkook looked around trying to find cameras, Human Torch or someone, ironically, named Peter Parker. - Nice to know you guys are interested in using Teets as a location, they could make the use of some promotion.

— Well, we are here and willing to help. - Hoseok babbled and grinned, still fazed by their previous location.

— I’ll let you guys in, but don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want to kick your arses out of stablishment. - Uncle Ben sounded serious, and no one wanted to play with Uncle Ben.

Ben stepped aside and allowed them in. Jungkook, who was biting inside his cheeks desperately trying to contain any unnecessary commentary, turned around and said, with brawn and brain.

— We will behave. With great powers comes great responsibility. - Jungkook felt flushed, yet content and relieved. Namjoon and Yoongi on the other hand almost choked, considering the idea of kicking the youngest one out themselves.

The black hallway, illuminated by dirty yellowish lights, was full of pictures, mostly old Playboy Magazine posters and covers, but a few original pictures from their most successful strippers also existed. Before reaching the main room, where the stage and bar resided, Nya stopped them and turned around.

— So there are a few advices I feel the need to give. - Nya cleared throat, scratching the back of her neck uncomfortably. - First: don't touch the girls, unless you pay for more physical contact, or they find you cute. I don’t know how strip clubs in United Kingdom works, so better to be safe than sorry. Second: lap dances will most definitely happen, so just try not to get stuck in the heat of the moment, ‘cuz no one would feel comfortable around an unsolved boner.

She swung her weight from one foot to another, trying to gather words. Nya knew a few girls working there, some actually used to be classmates during high school. Old friendships and, just like every other, valuable ones.

— Some of the girls I want to be casted are here. - She mumbled, mentally thanking God for the soundproof walls. - I know them every since high school. Carol studied scenic arts, but never succeed. Whilst Sasha, Gabe and Sharon deserves a better life, maybe a bit of help by appearing in a movie could push their careers. Don’t make anything inappropriate, please.

— Scout promise, Ma’am. - Yoongi made an “X” shape in front of his chest.

— Good. Now let’s go. - She opened the red door and heard the loud music invade her ears. “Purple Rain” by Prince blasting the old soundsystem. - Welcome to Teets, boys.

The lighting was weak, yet a bar with colourful bottles could be seen across the room, surrounded by small teal benches. Tables and chairs were placed around a medium sized stage, where a pole stood still (with a naked woman dancing around it). A common strip club, with a few men sitting and watching the blonde lady swinging her nude hips sensually, some ladies in latex clothing or lingerie wandered around, serving drinks and giving lap dances. All four men tried not to focus on them, finding details everywhere.

Nya took a sit next the stage, watching how chill Hoseok, Yoongi and Namjoon acted, contrasting completely with Jungkook’s behavior. The young man was shifting uncomfortably on his seat, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, if you paid attention could even see tiny droplets of sweat pooling around his hairline, never looking straight at the stage.

Namjoon and Nya leaned close to each other, getting lost in a conversation about how the atmosphere smelled like incense. According to her, the owner is brazilian so he always orders tons of Dama da Noite scented incense (a nightly blooming flower from Brazil) and purposely lights them close to air ducts, making air steamy. The effect caused was a sort of erotic odour consuming and confusing everyone's senses. Gossip says some men can get horny only by the expectation brought by the ambience built around.

Jeon Jungkook was clearly one of those men.

After a few more minutes of “Purple Rain”, Cherry Pop left the stage with a few dollar bills in hands. Jungkook took a deep breathe and relaxed. Unlucky, his whole body tensioned again when another song began and a woman with ebony coloured hair braided to perfection, curvy silhouette made of wide hips and natural boobs covered by a set of black and lacy lingerie, connected to a pair of sheer socks by garters, high heels emphasizing how toned her legs were. The woman's body was so far from being a small frame, yet sexy and attractive as hell.

— Guys, this is Carol, her stage name is Cristal Malone. - Nya cooed in awe. No one would ever deny how heavenly gorgeous she looked.

The air seemed to get heavier and sexier, “Voodoo” by Patrick Paige II played around them, Carol swayed along with the music. Jungkook wanted to avert the gaze and focus in somewhere other than her, but something on how she moved around lightly and feeling every note wouldn't allow him. It was hypnotic, she captured his glare and wouldn't release. When garters were abandoned close to Jeon's eyesight, the expectation for seeing more of her beautiful bare frame grew stronger.

Nonetheless, Carol knew who the guys drooling at front row were, Nya told about them and mentioned a chance of appearing in a movie. Decided to convince of her professionalism, she walked slowly around stage and went down stairs, grabbing dollar bills from admirers and leaving it close to her garters. Mentally playing eenie meenie miney mo, Cristal Malone chose who would be the lucky one to receive a special lap dance.

When she stopped in front of Jungkook and stared down at him, he felt his pants tightening more, but his amusement wasn't showing, the doe eyes were widened and almost jumping their orbits, cursing silently how odds weren't at his favour. She looked even better closer, carved features in a smooth caramel skin, irises shining like black pearls, a thick trace of eyeliner, mouth painted with a lustful shade of glossy red. Somehow, the atmosphere made Jeon smell of sex around. Carol looked at him with one eyebrow raised slightly, sensing his tension and grinned for nanoseconds, assuming her dominant position again. Taking advantage of the exact moment when one song changed to another, she lightly pushed his legs open, following the tempting rhythm of “Earned It” by The Weeknd.

Carol positioned herself over one of his muscled thighs, not sitting straight there, moving hips front and back, left and right, watching how his arms were pushed behind the chair, one hand holding the other. Getting closer and allowing his upper body to touch hers, Jungkook almost passed out. His face expressed a mix of embarrassment, excitement and, deep down, lust. Carol moved a leg to the side, getting off his leg and posing her hands where body was previously touching.

Using the hook between the verse and the chorus, she turned around and sat on his crotch, moving along with The Weeknd's voice.

Jungkook zoned out in the moment Carol sat on his thigh. His mind and body weren't connecting, not when his thinking head felt embarrassed and the down one was clearly enjoying some friction. Rationally wishing to be someone else, bodily drinking from every moment. That confusion made his penis semi-hard, not being able to get fully erect considering the situation. He wanted to melt, but also be there. How would Jeon face his hyungs after that particular show? HOW WOULD HE FACE NYA? Why the song seemed to last forever, yet so short?

Whilst Carol made Jungkook feel a mix of excitement and embarrassment, Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok were surprised and a bit jealous. Lucky little bastard. Nya knew the stripper would do it, but never imagined the exaggeration.

The song was about to end, Jungkook sunk down on the chair when an already known satisfying feeling ran through his veins, like electricity. He came on his pants and the combo excitement+embarrassment was replaced by a profound shame. Cumming on his pants like a teenager.

The stripper got back on stage ready to continue her routine of striptease. Yoongi threw a US$20 bill and blinked. Jungkook's face grew redder every second, he turned around and said to Namjoon, stuttering and almost crying.

— I gotta change my pants.

— Why? Oh… - A very flustered and wide-eyed Namjoon held a chuckle down his throat. It was tragically comical. Jungkook had to change his pants.

After a few moments deciding what to do, their focus was no longer on Cristal Malone. Namjoon turned and told Nya what happened, she looked at Jungkook and stood up. Everyone followed her lead in the bar's direction, Jungkook walking weirdly and feeling, almost hearing the spunk sticking to his underwear.

— Hey Abby. - Nya waved for the bartender, a middle aged woman, with greyish ginger hair pulled back in a ponytail, brown eyes and peaceful features. - Do Teets still has the Lost & Found?

— Hey Nya, how are you? - Abby was drying cups and glasses. - Yes, it's in the back now. Close to where the girls change.

— I won't use some pervert’s trousers! - Jungkook exclaimed, hands firmly covering his crotch. - How does someone forgets its pants?

— You don't have plenty of choices, Kook. - Hoseok couldn't look straight at his friends. Even feeling aroused himself (thankfully he decided to semituck his dick), at least he didn't ejaculate.

— See, I warned about what was about to happen. Why don’t you use something from them? So we can drive to a convenience store or 24/7 Walmart to buy you new trousers? - Nya was deadly serious, even internally giggling.

The group began considering every possibility. Jungkook was zero into the idea of picking something from their Lost & Found, whilst Namjoon agreed with Nya, Hoseok defended the idea of gaining a few dimes by allowing Jeon to perform a striptease (“C’mon prudes! We all know there are a lot of bisexual guys around, and a bit more money is never too much”), Yoongi ordered a tonica and sipped without opinating, watching when one of the girls in latex approached and pronounced startling everyone.

— Hmm, I couldn’t stop myself from listening. Sorry. Hi Nya! - Her hair was a wavy and pink, skinny body with thin thighs, using a latex black leotard and knee-high boots. - Is the Jungkook lad someone open-minded when it comes to fashion? One of the girls who quit last week left a few pieces of clothing, and there is a long skirt. She had a waist about his size.

— Hi Sasha. Thank you, if Jungkook is okay with using skirts, then it’s better than nothing. - Nya stared at the youngest of them. - Oh where is my politeness? These are Namjoon, Hoseok, Yoongi and, well, Jungkook. They are the film producers I mentioned earlier.

— Well, it’s better than using a pervert’s trouser. - Jungkook still felt uncomfortable, giving his most sincere half-hearted smile. - Nice to meet you, Sasha. Where do I grab my new skirt?

— Nice to meet you, Sasha. - Yoongi flashed his best gummy smile at her and then turned to Jungkook. - With some lucky, your skirt will match your whole outfit.

— Fuck you, hyung. - Jungkook got even more flushed.

- x - x - x - x -

— How’s the feeling of wearing a skirt? - Namjoon mocked Jungkook, watching him spin around and staring at the mirror, checking his reflection with a long navy-blue skirt.

— Well, my balls and ding dong are dangling freely, it’s a bit chilly, but at least it’s not stained with cum… I hope. - Jungkook was feeling himself and, honestly, enjoying the experience. Also, the skirt matched his outfit. - Although, I still want to buy a new pair of trousers and fresh underwear. Where is the nearest Walmart?

They were all sprawled around in a pink and small dressing room, crowded with one or two girls walking around and gathering their costumes. Hoseok found a few pieces of clothing from previous special shows, the last one was Cabaret themed so dazzles, sequins and feathers were everywhere. Yoongi studied how cameras could be positioned around. Nya was sitting on a fluff couch close to where Jungkook stood, Namjoon beside her.

— I liked here. - Namjoon threw his head back, staring at the ceiling. - Not only the girls, they are gorgeous and all, but the ambience seems appropriate for our movie. Carol is casted for sure, Sasha, Gabe and Sharon are also amazing, Jungkook never felt more pampered in his whole life. It’s quite a lot, considering he used to be an idol.

— They are amazing, I’m happy you guys liked it. - Nya smiled and Namjoon thought it was probably the most adorable thing ever, a sincere kind of smile. - I’m also glad Jungkook behaved so well next to Carol, she played dirty giving him that intense lap dance. He was clearly the most tense.

— Honestly, I don’t judge Jungkook. If Carol sat on my lap like she did with him, I’d probably bust a nut as well. She is hot. - Namjoon was embarrassed after pronouncing such words, but he felt madly comfortable around Nya.

— Oh, I don’t judge too. I’d also bust a nut if Carol ever sat on me. - Nya looked at Namjoon and saw his wide-eyes, laughing right after and watching him chuckles. His adorable dimples could kill someone.

Namjoon got distracted by Hoseok fazed with a huge fur coat which covered his whole body. It wasn't impossible to understand why Nya accepted and enjoyed that place, in contrast with what it looked like, Teets wasn't a regular strip club. There were way too many costumes, from cabaret to pimp or odalisque. The purple haired man questioned why.

— Everyone dreams of something. Most girls working here wished to become actresses, but somehow never reached it. - Her eyes became a bit sorrow, but got bright in nanoseconds. - Fábio, the manager and owner, understood and decide to help them a little. Twice a month their performances are themed. The girls chooses a subject and prepare presentations based on it, so they can play a character. Fábio also always encourage them to create a personality to their stage names. Cristal Malone is a dominatrix, Cherry Pop was inspired by Harley Quinn, Fendi Dust is based on Liz Taylor's interpretation of Cleopatra.

If there were any doubts in regard of renting the place, they vanished immediately.

To be continued...

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