#I’ve watched too much historical fashion content to know there’s more than just one dress in a lady’s wardrobe

[drachonia]

I have some (in)consistencies to inquire about—

Dunno if it’s considered spoilers to discuss clothing in CGs but like..I wanna talk about it.

Why is Emma never drawn in different outfits in Chev’s sequel? She’s the future queen, right? Why is she still wearing the same two copies of her red-skirted ensemble?

Like we can at least give her a couple dresses like in the main route, right?

#I’ve watched too much historical fashion content to know there’s more than just one dress in a lady’s wardrobe #ikepri spoilers #ikepri chevalier #ikemen prince #ikepri emma

[hrina]

1923, Pt. I - The Day

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: PG (for now) WORD COUNT: 7k REQUESTED: nope

hi everyone! here is PART 1 of my historical AU featuring harry as a groundskeeper/farmhand (i know that those two professions are slightly different but just let me have this ok snfjsjfnsdsf)

warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3

this series will be composed of three parts altogether, so i hope u all enjoy this first one! as always, please reblog the fics that you like! and don’t hesitate to send in feedback, i promise that we, as writers, always love to witness your reactions :) anywayyyy now that we’ve covered all the bases, go stupid with 1920s harry! can’t wait to hear ur thoughts 💌💌💌

~*~

    July 5th, 1923

“What if he comes back with a beard that goes all the way down to his knees?”

You snort and shake your head. “He’s only been gone for a few months, Dee. I don’t think it’s possible for one’s whiskers to grow that quickly.”

Lydia shrugs, toying with the hem of her pale blue dress. “What if he met an evil witch in New York who cast a spell on him? And now he’s doomed to live out the rest of his life with horrifying facial hair!”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. I don’t think that there are any witches in New York, you want to say, but you keep your mouth shut. Believing in magic is an integral part of childhood—you don’t want to be the one who takes that away from her. Soon enough, she’ll figure it out for herself.

You wind an elastic around your fingers, securing the end of her braid so that it doesn’t unravel. “That’s one,” you say, sighing quietly. “Turn to the side so that I can start on the other.”

She obeys, angling her head to the left. You gather her dark curls in a loose fist, skimming your nails against her scalp to collect every last strand.

Her hair has grown hot, absorbing the heat of the sun. It’s a beautiful day—there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. The two of you are sitting on the front steps of your home, looking out over the paved circular driveway and waiting excitedly for Andrew’s car to pull up to the iron gate. Realistically, you know that he won’t be here for at least another few hours, but Lydia insisted that you unwind outside to pass the time.

Somehow, she persuaded you to fashion her hair into twin braids. And though you had groaned at the initial request, here you are.

“He’s bringing a friend, you know,” your sister suddenly pipes up. “He told me in his letter.”

“Oh, really,” you say wryly. “And who exactly is this friend of his?”

“Martin Russell,” Lydia says, as though she’s reciting lines for a play. “He graduated from Harvard and then built his own company with nothing but a nickel to his name. Drew says that they’re trying to merge and become an empire.”

“An empire,” you echo, humouring her. “That sounds awfully intimidating, don’t you think?”

“Not to me,” she boasts, lacing her fingers together in her lap and squaring her shoulders. “Drew told me that I’m a businesswoman in the making.”

“That, you are,” you agree. You tie your remaining elastic around her second braid, fastening it in place. “All done.”

Lydia jumps to her feet, tugging down the material of her dress and turning to face you. She strikes a pose, placing one hand on her waist and lifting the other above her head. “How do I look?”

“Stunning,” you say, smiling up at her softly. “You’re the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.”

At that, she frowns.

“I’m not little!” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m thirteen and a half!”

“That’s little,” you say, laughing quietly. “Trust me. Once you get to my age, you’ll understand.”

“I’d rather be little than ancient,” she shoots back, sticking her tongue out good-naturedly. You scoff, bringing your fingers up to your forehead so that you can shield your eyes from the sun.

“Twenty-three is not ancient!” you say, baffled.

Lydia just giggles, twirling around a few times and watching the skirt of her dress fan out handsomely. Once she looks up, however, she freezes in her tracks. Your eyebrows knit together as she extends her arm in a frantic wave.

“Hi, Harry!”

You stiffen, reflexively following her gaze.

Harry is about thirty feet from the steps, crossing the driveway with a heavy bag of soil slung over his shoulder. In his other hand, he’s carrying a bucket filled with rusted gardening tools. You had been so caught up in your conversation with your sister that you failed to notice him. He’s making his way toward the pretty garden that separates the entry and exit of the driveway, tucked between the two strips of road and outlined with smooth grey stones.

You swallow forcefully when he pauses at the sound of Lydia’s voice. He turns, and you get a full view of his broad chest, tanned skin peeking out from underneath his white shirt. Brown trousers cover his legs, held up by matching suspenders. His black boots are speckled with dried mud—you guess that he’s just come from the stables in the back.

Upon catching sight of your sister, he smiles and begins to walk over. You shift quickly, trying to focus on something—anything—else.

“Good afternoon, little bug.” Harry’s tone is deep, slow, rough. It sends a shiver down your spine. “You alright?”

“Very much so,” Lydia replies, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Harry, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” he replies.

Your sister glances over at you, her brows arched high on her forehead. “He’s practically primeval.”

“Dee!” Her name leaves your lips as an admonishment, but you can’t stifle your laugh.

She just giggles and turns back to Harry; he’s smirking slightly, watching your interaction unfold. “Are you going to be planting more roses?” Lydia asks, changing the subject.

“Yes.” He nods. He sets the bucket down and uses his free hand to realign the bag of soil on his shoulder. “Would you like to help?”

Lydia spins around to face you, her eyes wide and pleading. “Can I? Pretty please?”

“You’re supposed to take Artemis out for a ride,” you tell her, pursing your lips. “You know how antsy she gets when she’s cooped up all day.”

“Can’t you take her out?” Lydia asks, clasping her fingers together and bringing them up to her chest.

“Dee,” you start, shaking your head, “you know I don’t—I couldn’t possibly—”

“Harry,” she says suddenly, glancing down at him from over her shoulder. “Have you been in the stables today? Did you see Artemis?”

Harry hums dutifully. His eyes fall to you—you look away.

“And did she seem anxious at all?” Lydia presses expectantly, placing her hands on her hips.

He hesitates. “Well…no. But if you need to take her out, please do. I’m perfectly capable of planting by myself.”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving away his words. She turns back to you, jutting her bottom lip out into an imploring pout. “Can’t you ask someone else to do it? What about Penelope? Or Beth?”

“Beth’s preparing lunch,” you say, scoffing quietly. “Besides, she refuses to work in a messy environment. What makes you think that she’ll willingly go down to the stables, of all places?”

Lydia frowns, blowing out an annoyed sigh.

“Fine,” she acquiesces at last, rolling her eyes. She spins around, hopping down the remaining steps and fixing Harry with an accusatory glare. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes! Don’t you dare start without me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, little bug,” he replies, his lips twitching. You watch as Lydia takes off, her braids whipping in the wind as she sprints toward the side of the house. Once she disappears around the corner and out of your sight, you press your palms to your face, sighing loudly.

“She’s too much,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. Harry chuckles quietly from the bottom of the stairs; you freeze suddenly, remembering that he’s still there.

“I should—” You clear your throat, climbing to your feet. The light material of your dress tickles the skin just below your knees. “I should probably go. There’s still so much to do before Drew returns.”

You’re lying, of course. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m sure there is.” Harry nods, running his fingers through his hair. The dark strands curl beautifully behind his ears. You allow yourself to study them for only a moment before diverting your gaze up to the sky.

“It’s hot—are you thirsty?” you ask, squinted eyes trained on miles of cerulean blue. “I can get Beth to bring you some water, if you’d like.”

“That’d be lovely,” he says. “Thank you.”

You simply hum in response. Your hands are abnormally clammy when you wipe them across the thin petticoat covering your thighs.

“Right,” you say, chancing a glance back down at him. “Well…have a nice day.”

“You too, miss.”

You pause, fiddling with the satin bow tied at the small of your back. “You—you don’t have to call me that, Harry,” you remind him, shaking your head. “How many times must I tell you?”

“My apologies,” he says, shrugging. “Force of habit.”

“It’s alright,” you say, intent on avoiding his gaze. “It just—it makes me feel as though I’m your—your—”

You break off, uncertain of how to proceed. Thankfully, though, Harry seems to understand. He chuckles softly, bowing his chin in agreement. “I know.”

Embarrassment festers in your chest, creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks. You straighten, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat and retreating toward the door. “Lydia will be back soon, I’m sure. Good day.”

When Harry lifts his head again, his green eyes teem with an emotion that is somehow unrecognizable yet familiar all at once. The gruff timbre of his response makes your stomach churn nervously, flipping your breakfast of fresh fruits and toast. You hate it more than anything else in the world.

You don’t hate him, though.

No…you could never hate him.

“Good day, miss. Ah, I mean—” His face collapses into a grimace. He grunts at the thoughtless error, shaking his head. “—good day.”

~*~

It’s just past three in the afternoon when a car horn honks from outside. Lydia’s shrill squeal of excitement follows soon thereafter.

“Drew!” she cries. She rushes into the front foyer, white shoes squeaking against the polished floor. The bottom of her dress is dotted with faded spots of mud, a testament to her time spent in the garden earlier today.

“Dee,” you scold her, frowning. “I told you to change once you had finished planting.”

“Sorry!” she says, though her tone suggests that she isn’t sorry at all—not in the slightest. “Got distracted!”

She grabs your hand, and you yelp when she gives a mighty tug, towing you outside. You dust off the skirt of your dress, tucking your hair behind your ears and staring at the iron gate in the distance—it’s closing back up, metal spines glinting alluringly in the sunlight. On one side of the driveway, a bright red car rolls along the pavement, tires bumping merrily against the ground. Two silhouettes sit in the front; the man behind the wheel honks the horn again and extends his arm through the window, sweeping it upward in a triumphant greeting.

“Drew!” Lydia repeats. She charges down the front steps, her hands outstretched.

“Be careful!” you call after her, gnawing anxiously on your bottom lip.

The sun is still high in the sky. You crane your neck, surveying your surroundings. Heat rises from the driveway in murky waves, blurring the scenery. The large portico that spans nearly the entire width of your home is lined with bushels of potted plants—roses and peonies and daffodils. The lawn is bright and healthy, spearmint-green grass trimmed to perfection.

Something shifts in the periphery of your vision. Your head snaps to the left.

Harry is there, leaning against the corner of the house. He’s still sporting the same outfit as before, except it’s even more sullied, now. You’re not surprised. Gardening is grubby work, but gardening with Lydia…it’s a miracle that he’s not caked in mud, soiled from head to toe.

On cue, Harry reaches for a dirty rag dangling over his shoulder. He grasps the material with strong fingers, lifting it to his face and wiping down his forehead and his cheeks. You watch him closely, fascinated by the thin sheen of sweat sparkling on his skin.

As though sensing your stare, his eyes dart over, locking squarely with yours.

A soft gasp falls from your lips. You clench your jaw, incontrovertibly caught, and quickly look away.

As soon as Andrew steps out of the car, Lydia launches herself into his arms. He laughs gleefully, catching her with ease and spinning her around. He’s dressed in a cream-coloured suit, the collar of his periwinkle button-up peeking out beneath the lapels. His loafers are shiny and brown; a matching hat is perched atop his head, hiding his dark hair from view. The cap makes his ears stick out even more than usual—upon realising this, you smile.

“Look at how much you’ve grown!” Andrew grunts, setting Lydia back down on the ground. He puts his hand next to her shoulder, as though measuring her against an invisible wall. “The last time I saw you, I could’ve sworn you were only this tall.”

She beams before standing on her tiptoes and poking at his chest. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be gone for so long next time!”

“Touché,” he chuckles, nodding in assent. His fingers find the ends of her braids, fiddling with them absentmindedly. “And who’s responsible for these pretty things, hm?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question,” you interject, making your way down the steps.

Andrew looks up at you and grins widely. You hold out your arms as you approach, and he accepts your invitation with a happy call of your name. He’s tall—a few inches over six feet, if you had to guess. You hug him tightly, burying your face into his shoulder and flattening your palms against his back.

“You look very handsome,” you tell him when you break apart. “I like this colour on you.”

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the nape of his neck. “Do you? I was on the fence about it, truthfully.”

“You shouldn’t have been—it looks good,” you assure him, smoothing your knuckles over his collar. “What took you so long? You’re late.”

“Stopped off at the cemetery to visit mum and dad,” he explains. “Changed their flowers, too—calla lilies, this time.”

You nod grimly, pursing your lips. “Mum’s favourite. Excellent choice.”

One of the car’s doors slams shut; the noise pulls your attention away from your brother. You peer past him, eyes landing on the man who has just exited the passenger side of the vehicle. His skin is a fair shade of olive, complimented beautifully by the beige jacket slung over his shoulders. Checkered brown pants cover his legs, and he’s clutching a sturdy briefcase in one hand. Andrew retreats, keeping a palm on the small of your back as he leads you over to his companion.

“Girls,” he says, tipping his cap, “this is my business partner, Martin Russell. Martin, these are my sisters.”

Martin bows his head. “Lovely to meet you both.”

“Are you tired, Mister Russell?” you ask. “It’s been a long journey, I’m sure.”

“I’m quite alright, miss, thank you,” he replies.

You don’t miss the way his amber eyes trail along your figure as he straightens up. You step back before you even have the chance to register what you’re doing.

“Hello!” Lydia—much to your relief—butts in, grabbing Martin’s hand and shaking it frantically. “I’m Lydia. Say, how would you describe your time at Harvard? Did you enjoy it? Was it a lot of work?”

Martin chuckles nervously, taken aback by your sister’s blathering. “Er,” he starts, “I—”

“Dee,” Andrew says, snickering quietly. “At least let the man get settled in before you begin interrogating him.”

“Sorry,” Lydia mumbles, shrinking away.

“That’s alright,” Andrew says, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have plenty of time to chat with him over dinner tonight, won’t you? Is it true that Beth is preparing my favourite?”

Your sister beams and nods. “I asked her to!”

“That’s very kind of you.” Andrew smiles. He looks up at the house, his forlorn gaze running over the plethora of pale bricks and clear windows. Abruptly, he pauses, squinting and lifting his fingers to shield his face from the sun. “Is that…?”

Your blood runs cold.

Andrew raises an arm high above his head. “Harry!”

And suddenly, staring down at the ground becomes your most pressing concern of the day. Harry makes his way over, a mountain of handsome grime. It’s unfair, really, you think. How does he manage to look so fetching, even beneath a thin layer of soot?

“How have you been?” Andrew asks, surging forward and shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Harry replies, grinning. “I’ve been alright. Keeping the garden tame, keeping the stables clean.” He tosses a pointed look in Lydia’s direction. “Keeping this little bug out of trouble.”

“Hey!” she protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry just chuckles.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Andrew says, nodding in satisfaction. “It’s nice knowing that there’s still a man around the house to take care of these two.”

You bristle at his words, scowling in mock-offense. “We are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

“I know.” Your brother shoots you a mischievous wink, and only then do you realise that he’s merely trying to get a rise out of you. You roll your eyes, though you can’t quell the fond smile that creeps onto your face.

“Let’s go in,” you suggest. “You can say hello to the rest of the staff, and then we can all wash up before dinner.”

Andrew hums in agreement. He tilts his head to the side, attention fixed almost exclusively on Harry. “You should come, H,” he says swiftly. “It’s been too long; we need to catch up.”

“Drew—” Your shoulders tense, and your nostrils flare. “I don’t think—”

“I’d love to,” Harry interrupts. He hooks his thumbs beneath the straps of his suspenders. “Thank you for the invite, Drew.”

“Of course.” Your brother nods before turning back to Lydia and Martin. “Shall we, then?”

The three of them push between you and Harry, climbing up the steps and disappearing through the front door. Inside, your sister unleashes a stream of fleeting questions: What’s it like in New York? Are the people nice? How was the food? Did you see the Statue of Liberty?

Gradually, her inquiries fade away. You stand there, chest inflated with a held breath and fingers fidgeting anxiously with the skirt of your dress. The sun beats down against the crown of your head, triggering a mild fit of dizziness.

Or maybe that’s just Harry.

“So…,” he begins, blowing out an awkward sigh. “What shall we be eating tonight?”

You scoff, unable to help yourself. “You accepted the offer without knowing exactly what it was?”

“Should I know?”

You swallow heavily, pinning your gaze on the scarlet vehicle still parked only a few feet away. “Minestrone,” you say. The word is clipped. “Drew loves it.”

“I’ve had it,” he tells you. “Beth always saves me a bit if there’s some left over.”

You nod wordlessly.

“Are you upset with me?” Harry asks, digging his hands into his pockets. You’re so taken aback by his question that your head snaps toward him, brows cinched together in confusion.

“What?” The question falls from your lips before you can blink. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You won’t even look at me,” he hums, shrugging casually.

“I’m looking at you right now.”

“Not before, you weren’t.”

“I—” you break off, pursing your lips and squeezing your eyes shut. You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to keep yourself composed. “I have to go.”

“As do I.”

“Right.” You avoid his gaze. “Goodbye, then.” You whip around, hurrying up the steps.

“Goodbye,” Harry replies from behind you. The smile in his voice is painfully conspicuous. “See you at dinner.”

~*~

You’ve just pinned a final clip into your hair when Lydia comes barrelling through your bedroom door with no warning whatsoever. You’ve long since given up on reprimanding her for it. She always forgets to knock.

“Can you button me up?” she requests, spinning around and exposing her bare back.

“Did you run down the hall like that?” you ask, laughing at her eccentricity.

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “But don’t worry—I made sure that the coast was clear.”

“Brilliant. Your reconnaissance skills are truly a sight to behold.”

She scoffs, smiling at you from over her shoulder. “Are you going to help me, or not?”

“Patience, Dee,” you say. You turn back to your own reflection, twirling your finger through a loose strand of hair and letting it fall picturesquely against your temple. “There.”

Her feet scuffle absentmindedly against the floor as you approach her. She’s wearing a pastel pink dress with short, puffy sleeves that cinch at her skinny biceps. The bottom hem of her petticoat tickles her knees, which strain against transparent white tights. You remember wearing something nearly identical when you were her age. The outfit isn’t a hand-me-down, though. The stitching is brand-new, and the fabric is crisp and fresh, like it’s never once seen the inside of a washtub.

“It’s nice having Drew back home, wouldn’t you agree?” you ask your sister. She squeals when the nail of your index finger ghosts playfully up her spine.

“It is,” she concurs as you begin to fasten the clasps at the small of her back. “I’ve missed him terribly.”

“So have I,” you hum, pressing your mouth into a thin line. “There are some things that I could do without, though. Like that comment he made about us not being able to take care of ourselves.”

“He was only teasing,” Lydia says. “You know that. Besides—” She shrugs, puckering her lips idly. “—he was right. Harry does take care of us, even though we may not always need it.”

At that, you pause.

“‘Harry takes care of us’?” you parrot, your brows knitting together. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” she starts, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Who trims the lawn and tends to the flowers early in the morning? And who cleans out the stables when they get messy?”

“We pay him to do those things, Dee,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “It’s his job.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agrees. “But he does so much more, don’t you think?”

You say nothing. She takes your silence as an invitation to elaborate.

“For example,” she says—declares, “he never gets irritated with me whenever I prattle on about my day.”

“Oh.” You smirk. “So you are aware of your tendency to talk too much.”

“Not funny,” she deadpans. You giggle.

“He always lets me follow him around whenever I get bored,” she adds, her eyes glazing over. “And he likes to make sure that you’re alright, too.”

Your fingers fumble with the last button at the top of her dress. You pray that she doesn’t detect the sudden blunder. “How so?” you probe, trying to keep your voice level.

“You know,” she indicates, even though you most certainly do not. “Like today, as we were planting the roses. He asked me how you were doing—if you were eating well, if you were getting enough sleep. Those are fairly standard inquiries regarding one’s wellbeing, I’d say. Do you disagree?”

“No,” you murmur, gnawing on your painted bottom lip. “I don’t.”

You finish your task, fastening the final clasp on her dress and smoothing your fingers down her sides. “There you go,” you say softly, your throat dry. “All done.”

“Thank you,” she singsongs, twirling around to face you. She studies you closely, soaking in the black floor-length gown cascading down your figure. “You look beautiful,” she says, her tone sincere. “Martin’s going to be utterly speechless when he sees you!”

A weak chuckle falls from your mouth. “Shall we go down?” you suggest, wrapping a loose arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward the door.

“Yes, please,” she replies. She places a palm over her stomach, features crumpling into a theatrical scowl. “I’m famished.”

You smile.

And as you exit your bedroom with your sister in tow, you realise that she may have been wrong about which man you’re hoping to impress.

~*~

Dinner is full of surprises, many of which present themselves in the form of Martin Russell. It’s astonishing, you think, because the man who had barely spoken ten words upon first meeting you is now commanding the table at which you’re sat. Andrew is perched at the head, with Martin just off to his right. Lydia is next to him, and you’re directly across from him. And that means that Harry…

Harry is right next to you.

You do everything in your power to avoid looking in his direction. Thankfully, it proves to be easier than expected, considering the fact that Martin has been droning on about his company for the past fifteen minutes. You don’t believe that anyone else has managed to squeeze in a single word.

There’s wine, candles, and the finest china your family owns. But all of that pales in comparison to the man sitting beside you.

Harry cleans up exquisitely. Upon first entering the dining room, you were shocked to find him in a black tuxedo with a white bowtie resting just below his throat. It appears that he even combed and gelled his hair, though some strands have fallen free from the style and now hang down over his forehead. You don’t mind it, though—if anything, it’s a hint of the man you know peeking through. And the man you know is handsome—alarmingly so.

Drew had whistled as you descended the stairs. He then offered you his arm, patting your hand and telling you that you looked wonderful. Martin hadn’t been able to control his reaction, his eyes raking up and down your figure like you were a lavish meal on a silver platter. It had taken everything in you to hide your distaste.

But Harry…

Harry hadn’t said a word. He’d fixed his face perfectly, showing no sign of emotion whatsoever. You’d been hoping for something—anything—indicative of his opinion toward your outfit, but you observed no such consequence. He’d only acknowledged you with a curt nod before settling into his chair and pointedly looking away.

And now, here you are—a bowl of minestrone in front of you, a wineglass inches away from your lips, and an irritated groan simmering on the back of your tongue. Martin’s voice is growing more and more irksome by the minute.

“And then, it was as though they couldn’t get enough—”

“I had assured them that I would bring in at least twice the revenue—”

“It was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it—”

You polish off the rest of your wine, reaching across the table for the half-empty bottle. No one notices as you pour a bit more of the alcohol into your glass, sneakily surpassing what would be considered appropriate for a lady to consume. You set the bottle back down with a silent huff, lifting the goblet to your lips and letting your attention wander.

You freeze when you catch Harry staring at you out of the corner of his eye. The edges of his mouth are curled up ever-so-slightly, nearly imperceptible. Heat rushes to your cheeks; you gulp down a large sip of wine, averting your gaze.

You deposit your drink onto the pristine white tablecloth, glaring intently at your food. You can feel Harry’s playful stare burning a hole into the side of your head; you suspect that he’s trying his hardest not to laugh.

Your soup has cooled substantially. You shovel a spoonful past your lips, swallowing it with a considerable amount of difficulty. Everyone else has nearly finished their dinner, save for Martin. You want to thrust his face into his bowl—maybe then, he’ll finally shut up.

You lift your wine back up to your mouth. The action draws Martin’s focus. His eyes flit down to your minestrone, and then jump to the other empty dishes around the table. At last, he seems to realise the disparity between your meals,  because a small, sheepish smile creeps onto his face.

“Lord,” he chuckles, settling into the cushion of his chair. “You all must’ve been ravenous. I’ve hardly touched my food.”

“It’s hard to eat whilst boasting, I’d imagine,” you mutter into your glass.

A loud, hacking cough breaks you out of your little bubble. Your head snaps to the left. Harry is choking on his own wine, chiseled cheeks growing red with exertion. He curls his fingers into a firm fist, pounding a few times on his chest to dislodge the liquid stuck in his windpipe. Reflexively, you place a hand on his arm, your forehead wrinkling in concern.

“You alright, H?” Andrew asks, leaning forward over his plate.

“Fine!” Harry croaks. He makes an indiscernible gesture with his hand, waving your brother’s worries away. “I’m fine, thanks. Just went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

He coughs again, burying the sound into the crook of his elbow.

You watch him with troubled eyes. When your gazes lock, only then do you realise that your palm is still splayed out over his bicep. You pull away quickly, recoiling as though you’ve just passed your knuckles through an open flame. Harry’s body rumbles as he clears his throat. He hooks two fingers into the collar of his button-up, loosening it from where it’s secured tightly around his neck.

Lydia is talking, now, but her declarations fade into the background. You wish that you could concentrate on them—you really do—but you have more far more pressing matters at hand.

Like Harry shooting you a swift, secretive smile, and every piece of the puzzle clicking perfectly into place.

His unassuming sip…your quiet quip…

He’d heard you.

You sit back in your seat, your ears ringing. Harry places one of his hands on the wooden arm of his chair; his knuckles flex painstakingly. Across the table, Andrew and Lydia have resumed their lively conversation. Martin scarfs down the rest of his soup, trying to catch up. The candlesticks perched between your plates melt slowly, a mess of waxy dribbles and drops.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, you become aware that—for the first time tonight—no one is paying you any attention. The realisation makes you feel giddy, drunk on power and anonymity.

Or maybe that’s just the wine.

You peer down at Harry’s nails, studying them absentmindedly—they’ve been scrubbed clean.

And before you can even begin to register what on earth you’re doing, you reach out, tracing the veins on the back of his hand with one finger. Harry tenses; his concentration immediately falls to where you’re touching him. When you finally muster enough confidence to meet his gaze, you find him watching you with wide, awestruck eyes.

A small part of you is smug—that’s the reaction you’d been searching for at the beginning of the evening.  That’s how you’d wanted him to look at you when you made your entrance, wrapped up in a pretty black gown and layers of opaque red lipstick.

You cease your movements and retract your arm, tucking it back against your side as you turn your interest elsewhere. In the periphery of your vision, Harry has pinned you with an unwavering, stunned expression, his body rooted in place. Despite the rapid thumping of your heart, you keep your gaze trained ahead and your chin held high, pride swelling in your abdomen like a hot-air balloon.  

Lydia laughs at something that Andrew says. Martin tugs haughtily at the lapels of his suit. You release a heavy exhale and nudge your bowl a few inches away from your chest, completely sated.

~*~

Once everyone retires to their rooms for the evening, you wait approximately an hour before slipping out. You’re light on your feet, sneaking past Lydia’s quarters and the guestroom that was given to Martin for the duration of his stay. He snores—quite loudly, too. You can hear him as though he’s right next to you, even from where you’re hovering out in the hall.

You make your way down the spiral staircase, heading toward the large double doors leading to the backyard. You quickly tug on a delicate pair of slippers before sneaking out into darkness’ cool embrace. Midnight is only a few minutes away.

You pull your wool cardigan a bit tighter around your torso. The hem of your silk nightgown is shorter than that of a standard dress. The wind nips teasingly at your knees, making you shiver. Blades of grass tickle your ankles as you march toward the stables. There’s a single light hanging above the entrance, bathing the wooden panes in a faint yellow glow. Green grass gives way to dry soil and the odd piece of straw littered across the dirt.

Inside the stables, only two of the six pens are occupied. The first one houses Apollo, Andrew’s stallion. His skin is like chestnuts, his mane the colour of the sun. You’re sure that your brother will take him out early tomorrow morning—you doubt that he was able to find many docile steeds in the bustling streets of New York.

You bypass Apollo completely, stopping in front of your horse—Artemis.

She’s a sight to behold, white skin and jet-black hair. She reminds you of the first snowfall of the season: crisp and pure, untainted by footprints and pollution and everything else in between. She’s been your partner in crime for the past decade, even though you’ve spent the last few years simply guiding her along with your feet on the ground and a hand tangled in her reins.

Somewhere beneath the rational layer of your brain, you like to think that she sympathizes with your hesitation to get back on the saddle.

“Psst!” you hiss, leaning against the wooden gate of her pen. “Artemis! Come here, my love.”

She lifts her head up from the floor, chewing on a handful of hay. You dig your fingers into the material of your cardigan, producing a sugar cube from the depths of your left pocket. Artemis’ nostrils flare as you hold it out in your palm; she trots over happily, drawn to the sweet treat.

“Haven’t come to visit you in a few days,” you murmur as she dips her mouth against your hand. You stroke your knuckles down the side of her neck, petting her softly. “I’m sorry about that. Things have been so chaotic back at the house. I’ve barely gotten a moment to breathe.”

She whinnies quietly.

“Did you miss me?” you ask. When she nuzzles her nose into your arm, you smile. “I missed you, too. I thought that maybe you were developing a preference for Lydia. But that’s not possible, is it? I’m your favourite.”

Someone clears their throat from behind you. You gasp and whip around, hands flying to your chest. Your gaze locks onto an amused smirk and a pair of impish green eyes, and your stomach lurches uneasily.

“Hello,” you stammer, air caught in your lungs.

“Hello,” Harry replies.

He’s still dressed in his attire from dinner, though his appearance is significantly more relaxed. He’s abandoned the white bowtie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, allowing his collarbones to peek out from beneath the pallid fabric. The cuffs of his suit have been rolled up, and his hair has completely fallen from its acute coif. Glossy strands tumble down around his temples, curling in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch them.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. You hope that he doesn’t hear the twinge of embarrassment in your voice. He caught you in the middle of a one-sided conversation with your horse, after all.

Harry holds up his hand. There’s a pale pink envelope clutched between his fingers.

“Post,” he says, like it’s the only reasonable explanation. It is, you suppose. “I was on my way home when I spotted you.”

Home. The little cottage just down the trail—the groundskeeper’s residence. It was built years ago, only a few acres away from the main house. You pass it sometimes when you take Artemis out for a walk. More often than not, you’ve found yourself studying its red bricks and white windowsills, yearning for a peek inside.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, wrenching you from your thoughts.

“Yes.” You nod, blinking twice. “Your letter—,” you say, desperate to change the subject. “—who is it from?”

And you immediately want to sink into the earth, because it’s none of your bloody business, is it? You have no right to be poking around and questioning him about his personal life. A slight grimace tugs at the corners of your lips, smearing a pained expression across your features.

But Harry just hums, unperturbed by your inquiry.

“My sister,” he tells you, shrugging. “She writes to me from Paris.”

He has a sister?

“Paris,” you echo dumbly. “France?”

His lips twitch. You want to set yourself on fire.

“Does she like it?”

“I think so,” he says, watching you with twinkling eyes. “She wants me to visit her soon, but I’m—” He hesitates, looking away. “Well, I won’t bore you with the details.”

And though he hadn’t let the words slip out, you know exactly what he meant to say.

She wants me to visit her soon, but I’m stuck here.

A pang of guilt ricochets through your chest. Blood thunders in your ears as you direct your attention to the ground, kicking at the dirt below your slippers. You suddenly realise that whilst Harry is fully clothed, you’re dressed in nothing but a flimsy silk nightgown. You wrap your arms around your torso, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your knuckles.

“Er—”

You glance up at Harry when the awkward noise falls from his mouth. “Yes?”

He lifts his chin and gestures toward Artemis, who has returned to her tasty pile of hay. “She belongs to Lydia, does she not?”

“No, actually,” you reply. “Lydia takes her out, typically, but…she’s mine.”

“I see.” His face renders an innocent type of curiosity, one eyebrow cocked high on his forehead. “Do you ride?”

You balk, nearly choking on your own saliva. “I beg your pardon?”

And just like that, the innocence is gone. Harry’s features melt into a portrait of wicked mirth. His irises glint roguishly as he fixes you with a shrewd, crafty smirk.

“The horse,” he says slowly, his tone ripe with amusement. “Do you ride?”

“Oh,” you croak. “Sorry, I—”

Your nostrils flare as you avert your eyes, too humiliated to meet his gaze. He’s aware of the way in which you interpreted his question. He understands why you were so appalled. He knows exactly where your mind went.

“No,” you answer quickly. “I don’t. Not anymore, at least.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, confused.

“How long has it been?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mount.”

“I stopped a few months before you came to work for us,” you say, playing with a loose thread hanging from your cardigan. After a beat of silence, you add, “There was…an incident. I fell.”

“Oh.” He recoils slightly, taken aback by your revelation. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s alright.” Your feet scuffle against the dusty ground. “Sometimes, I catch myself longing for it, but I just—” You shrug. “I can never seem to get back on.”

“I understand.” His response is excruciatingly sincere.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He takes an experimental step forward, gauging your reaction. When you don’t make a move to retreat, he does it again. You chew on the inside of your cheek as he draws nearer, and your heart stutters beneath your ribs when he angles his body to the side, offering you his arm.

“May I walk you back?”

Is there a hint of fondness in his voice, or is it merely your imagination?

“You may,” you concede weakly.

You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow and bid Artemis goodnight. The two of you stroll back up to the estate in silence, enjoying the tranquility of the evening. The wind whistles through the thicket of trees lining the edge of the property. Crickets chirp loudly, seeking shelter between blades of grass. Harry’s body is unbelievably warm, radiating heat despite the slight chill carried by nightfall.

You release his arm once you reach the steps of the back porch. He studies you carefully as you climb the first two stairs, a divot digging into the space between his brows.

All of a sudden, you pause, brought to a standstill by an invisible string. You spin back around, looking down and finding a pair of bright jade eyes in the dark.

“Goodnight, Harry,” you say softly, hands dropping to your sides.

Quicker than a bolt of lightning, he seizes your fingers between his. A faint gasp leaves your mouth when he bows forward and presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Harry peers up at you innocuously, pulling his lips away from your skin after a long moment of stillness.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says. The words flow over you like molasses, viscous and warm and inconceivably sweet. “Sleep tight.”

~*~

PART II: The Week

PART III: The Month

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #there's not a single curse word in this fic holy shit.............i think this is a first for me snfsjsdnsfsjfsn #ANYWAY i hope u like it!!!!! i'll be here if yall wanna chat after lol #farmhandrry #harry writing

[fandom-sheep]

Eret 11 MAY 21

Cat and DSMP Part 1/1

Cat! Goose!

Goose my beloved.

Eret’s streaming very late for me again. So I’m not staying the whole time.

Hello Elaina. Enjoy Goose.

Fundy! Kinda...

Fundy hearing the donations. LOL.

Fundy enters a stream and it starts to scuffed. Scuffed just follows Fundy wherever he goes.

A wild my beloved on the cube.

The Drista stairs.

Wait what. Why is the tower gone?

I have missed some lore.

Ah... it’s part of the nightmare thing.

Eret offering Fundy housing like a good almost adoptive parent.

Sneeze? OH WOW SNEEZE.

Sounds like Fundy about lost a lung. Good gracious.

The bargaining between these two.

Cat, Handsome, said cube was massive

You know what that works.

It’s hard to keep the audio right for Eret’s stream for my headphones. It’s either too quiet or the loudest my headphones can go and my family can hear it.

On stream explosions. Noice.

Wow youtooz. Not super cool. Permission is usually a good thing.

Eret keeps on sizzling.

Getting dirt for scaffolding. Going old fashioned Minecraft for this.

“Why is the Cube kinda hot” cue Eret losing faith in her chats sanity.

Cube go poof.

Oh. Red stone. That’s dangerous.

I like this song. Oh klahoma. Gorgeous song.

Love joy is such a fun band. I want to make a plushy of the cat.

It’s kinda sad that Eret can’t see themselves the way chat and their little fandom sees them. Most all of us think they look fabulous.

Not Arson. Just bombing. A bit of anarchy by the king.

Demolition. Now there’s the word.

Controlled ish demolition.

Ah I’ve almost saved enough channel points for water. Nice. I’m not going to redeem it I’m just going to keep hoarding the points.

Flame Arrow. Nice.

Eret cleaning up the SMP eye sours.

Watch me attempt to sleep to Eret here in an hour or so, but keep getting distracted.

Explosion time.

Someone get ready to clip it.

Bye Bye Cube. Let’s go.

Gotta get a song that fits the vibe.

Hayloft. Time to go poof.

Turning up my brightness just to watch this explosion in the best way possible.

Still wearing the red dress I see.

I hope the music isn’t too loud to get this part muted.

Drum roll...

Drum roll continues...

Drum roll still going...

THERE GOES THE CUBE!

That was so smooth and good looking!

Overall a very good explosion.

Just a little bit of a hole in the other building.

Twitch Pr-

Poor being’s so confused with his hair. Someone help them.

Twitch bleep.

Everyone attempting to give hair styling advice. Everyone’s trying to help the being.

That bird is majestic. I remember seeing that tiktok.

Animals just decided Eret was the animal whisperer.

Yes! Disney Princess Eret fanart! Someone make it, I shall reblog all of it.

Likes to hug cute animals and cute animals like being hugged by her. Nice.

It’s alright. Names are difficult. I have to like put name tags on people to learn who they are. That or name tags on their space (like on campers bunks and door decs on dorms)

It does feel very February. But I’m very ready for summer because that means I get to do my favorite job.

Hooray. I hit 15k points.

Eret trying to prove to us a ponytail won’t work. Like we aren’t going to hype them up no matter what.

Gotta heart in the chat. All Eret’s chat does is hearts and encourage. It’s a lovely place.

Oh Eret forgot his cat ear sub goal. It’s alright I know I forgot.

Pride is next month. Nice.

Oh. We’re almost halfway already. Why does the world spin so quickly?

We forgot a dirt tower. Whoops.

I would wear Eret merch. I like it when people release merch around Christmas. Then I can ask for it as a gift.

Oh it wasn’t a dirt tower.

Just looking at Elaina’s stream in the stream selection screen it like very cozy.

All the way up the Drista stairs.

Look it’s the museum!

Eret’s got most of the builds around there. The museum. The fortress. Nice.

Some things are too historical to remove. Somethings are historical because they are being removed.

Oh no. L’sandburg.

It’s taking over the summer home.

Ah the lore is coming. It just seemed to be too early.

Hello unofficial ranboo Raiders.

Foolish making the awesome tall thingy!

Foolish’s builds are so neat. I want to watch Foolish’s streams more. Maybe just in the background but I start wanting to delayed liveblog and that requires attention.

Oh the giant portal turned out well. Sorry that was the lady’s foolish stream I watched.

Shulkers. The forbidden mob.

Eret with just a pit in the desert filled with llamas. Bones. And discus.

The mansion has been finished?

Alright is better than bad. It’s alright to be alright.

Lucky being not getting tired. I got the Johnson and Johnson vaccine and I was so so tired. I also had just no appetite.

Eret doing an smp tour. And looking at foolish’s builds.

Flickering the switch on the rainbow beacons.

Eret just knowing where everything is.

Kinoko is super pretty. Just for the aesthetic value of the kingdom I appreciate it.

Yeet. Just defenestrated himself out the window.

Oh? Spectator fly over the smp?

That would be really neat to like. Watch in VR. I think I’ve only used VR maybe twice.

Pretty Rainbow beacons.

The nurse who gave me my vaccine hid the needle from me because I mentioned to her that I was afraid of needles. It wasn’t a big deal at all.

30 minutes till I attempt sleep. Woo.

Goose my beloved. Someone make the gif because I’m not quite sure how to make it.

Oh yeah. Goose in Marvel. I hear MCU and think Minecraft cinematic universe. Not marvel.

Ghibli is so nice. It really romanticize small moments of life.

Yeah the characters are all really supportive in Ghibli movies.

Someone subbed for nine months “that’s enough to make a child” -Eret

That mansion is like a maze. I’m so lost already.

Everyone encouraging Eret and telling her she looks pretty. Good.

Eret needs all the hype and encouragement.

Antarctic empties flag. Yeah it does have a similar color pallet.

Michelle! Hello!

Fortress work. Nice.

Do it. I’ll listen the Eret play other games.

I don’t usually watch game play for non Minecraft games. But I’ll listen to it all.

Hbomb and Eret living in the same city feels like two worlds that shouldn’t meet. But it’s awesome that they have.

TOS means against twitches terms of service. Nice. Glad to finally have an explanation of what that means.

Look at our handsome and pretty streamer. All the hype.

I keep turning down the stream to hear the show my mama has on because I’m curious about what happens.

Yeah. Backseat gaming can be annoying. That’s part of why I share my thoughts here just in case I do start backseat gaming.

Almost to the sub goal. Hooray!

Ooo food.

No no. I see where they are coming from. Eret does give a bit of cat bus vibes. I can’t explain it but the vibes are there.

Creeper causing issues at the fortress.

Ed Sheepran my beloved.

I should draw more ferrets. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll draw us doing stuffs.

Actually I kinda want to make a little animatic of some heels walking across the screen followed by a hoard of ferrets. I think it’ll look cool. But I need the artistic ability and the ability to not scream making that.

Woop. Ad time. Off to the void of where ever the ads game me.

OH THE NEW VOID LOOKS COOL!

Bread. Flowers. Ted. Crown. And of course Eret.

We V O I D and get our streamer bits.

Hush the chat is V O I D and the occasional emoji or emote.

The void being centered looks good. Maybe that’s just the symmetry speaking but it’s good.

Oh. We hear the being. The being in void mode. And spooky mode.

Chat just starts yelling corpse.

Hydration. I try to stay hydrated. But I fail often if I’m not doing something active.

Tree!

Casually makes and snags tree.

Eret does read chat often. It’s strange. And it is weird how often it ends up being you.

You can tell I’m a tumblr peep. I may say stuff in chat but I’m fully not expecting or wanting to be noticed by the streamer.

Others hitting darkness o’clock and saying goodnight.

It’s sleep to the stream hours y’all. Whoop.

I need to visit the parks out west. I’ve only really seen the eastern US ones. But I have been to the Great Smokey Mountain park which is gorgeous.

Eret thinking of his friends triggers when naming his cat.

Eret’s builds are so casually pretty. Not like Foolish’s which are intricately pretty. Not like Phil’s or Sam’s which are complicated pretty. All pretty. Just different breeds of pretty.

Alrighty. It’s sleepy hours for me. As much as I love Eret I want to read some fanfiction and daydream a bit before I head to sleep.

Have a good rest everyone and may all your coming meals be delicious.

Wait no is it our turn with goose?

OUR TURN WITH GOOSE!

Eret honey that’s the ceiling.

Cat stream. Cat stream.

Sleepy kitty. A cat cam would be good.

Yeah. That happens with cats. Especially strays.

Goose captured the computer mouse.

Goose straight up chose Eret and Elaina.

Goose really just chose not to leave.

Oh my stream connection is acting sad. But I want Goose content.

I want to draw Goose now.

Maybe I’ll do water color for Goose. I know I tried to do that with Boots (Fundy’s cat)

Hopefully there will be some Goose face screenshots I can see. Maybe I can see him well in the Tiktok.

Artists just violently refusing payment. Sounds about right. The MCYT artists just kinda go “yeah give credit and we cool”

Cowboy cat. Nice.

I want to paint Goose in the cowboy hat.

Hype train! That we are zooming.

Bucket sponge?

WATER BUCKET FROM WET SPONGE! Tiktok people giving all the cool info.

Go Goose. Catch the computer mouse and the screen mouse.

Just sitting here at 11:30 at night getting screen shots of Goose for painting purposes.

Goose please. Look at the camera babe.

My phone is dying. And I can’t charge it and type.

Alright the camera is off the cat. The cat is also blocking the screen.

But no cat on camera means I’m getting some sleep. If I do any of the projects I’ve mentioned I’ll let y’all know.

Have a good rest everyone.

#eret #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp eret #why must this being stream so late #goose the cat #erets cat #delayed liveblogging

[bangtan-madi]

All Of Our Lifetimes — Eight: Camera Shutter

Pairing — Taehyung x Reader

Tags — boyfriend!Taehyung, husband!Taehyung reincarnation au, lovers to strangers and to lovers again, established relationship, implied soulmate au

Genre — fluff, angst, crime (ish)

Word Count — 4.2k

Summary — Does love ever truly end, or does it simply take another form in a new life? The cycle is like clockwork: your lives end and you’re reborn again. You’ve lived it over and over. Each cycle, one of you loses your memories and is tragically unaware until the other finds and awakens their lover. After all these eons, all these lifetimes, is it possible to find each other again—even when neither of you awakens with your memories? 

Part — 8 / 15

Warnings — language, stalking

Previous — Next

The first item in the box a plastic bag. From the label of the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency on the surface, the Korean Eagle's wings spread over the mugunghwa flower, you sense that this item is from the very end of the story. The inside is full of clothing articles. Even without opening it, you see a suede trench coat, a dark sweater, and a purple scarf. Another bag has a pair of men's boots, dark slacks, and a button-down dress shirt. All of the items are covered in blood.

Taehyung takes the other bag, the one with the men's clothing, and closely inspects the label on the surface. Your eyes remain intent on the lavender scarf. Something about the item causes your heart to ache, and you replay your nightmare over in your mind in an attempt to identify it.

"Look here," he murmurs, pointing to one of the lines on the plastic. Glancing over, you see that a name is scribbled on the surface.

His name.

You should be shocked, but at this point, the number of odd coincidences that have come up the border on the insane. Instead, your gaze shifts to the bag in your lap. In your heart, you already know what name you'll see. The other Taehyung didn't reveal his wife's name in his portraits; he only referred to her as the sunlight through the rain.

Kim [Y/n].

Taehyung glances at the name, tilting his head slightly in the process. Heaving a sigh, he glances up to you. "I guess that settles it, then?"

You push the crime scene bag further away on the table, motioning for the box instead. "Let's keep going."

Between the two of you, the rest of the contents of the box are divided and browsed through in less than a half-hour. The box has everything from personal items to jewelry to documents and all sorts of things in between. It's surprisingly little for what Ms. Jwa stated it was, the entirety of Taehyung and [Y/n]'s life. 

Like everything in Seoul, there's a familiarity that envelopes you. It's more than just that, though. You feel as if these things belong to you. In some strange way, you feel like you've caught a little piece of home. As bizarre as it is, with Taehyung beside you and these belongings strewn across the table, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. 

Peace and closure.

Closer to the bottom, you find a handful of items that appear much older than the 80s and 90s memorabilia. A silver hairpin with an intricate swan on one end and a key-like appearance at the other, a series of handwritten notes dated around the time of the Korean War, and a pair of tiny shoes that look like they once belonged to a small child. The bottom of the shoes have the inscription of the name Kim Sung-ki, and the dates 1905 — 1909. Surely, these items couldn't have been the Kim's. Maybe they belonged to their parents or grandparents?

As you're occupied with the tiny, children's shoes, Taehyung retrieved the last item from the very bottom of the crate. It's a smaller, metal box sealed with a lock. The brunet looks around for a key, mumbling to himself under his breath.

You shake your head slightly and place the shoes to the side. "Here," you reply, picking up the oddly-shaped hairpin and offering it to Taehyung. "Try this? It looks sorta like a key at the smaller end, doesn't it?"

He tilts his head, eyes glancing over the item in your hand before he takes it. He places the pin into the lock, gives it a slight turn, and watches in awe as the lock pops open.

The silence continues as Taehyung removes the metal lid. Inside, you see two distinct items: a photobook and a film reel. Reaching first for the photobook, you scoot your bench closer to Taehyung's so that you can both peer inside at the same time.

The first page says that the book belongs to Kim Taehyung. It gives his address, an apartment not far from where you are now, and his contact information at work, aka the Museum you're under right now. The second page gives the first date, only the year of 1975. The handful of pages that follow are filled with polaroid photographs. Some blurry and out of focus, but always of the beauties of daily life. There are even one or two of Kim Taehyung himself.

The man in 1975 is young, probably not even twenty. Despite the different era, it's clear to both of you that he's the same man as the one sitting beside you. 

Half of the photobook is more of the same, covering the latter part of the 70s and most of the 80s. Daegu and the Korean countryside seem to have been his home for most of his childhood, teenage years, and early twenties. His art has a veil of innocence and peace about it. 

As the years progress, Kim Taehyung's photography skills become more refined and his camera quality improves. The digital era of the early 90s is when you truly see him start to take off. From 1985 onward, there are images of downtown Seoul; he must have moved sometime in that year. A plethora of urban photographs follow, as well as images of his work for the Museum.

In 1994, the images slowly shift from everyday life and scenic landscapes to a woman. Pieces of her are everywhere this year. Like the Museum, this private gallery has mostly aesthetic snapshots that make it hard to tell who she is. However, every few pages, there's a full portrait of this person, this woman who's caught Kim Taehyung's attention.

And she is you.

The last photograph is once again a polaroid. It's of Kim Taehyung and Kim [Y/n] sharing their first Christmas together. Snow flurries everywhere around Taehyung as he struggles to hang the lights on the small apartment window. His face is hidden by a familiar purple scarf, and it's turned in the direction of the camera. A hand adorned with a wedding band reaches out to him.

"Is this the person you've seen in your dreams?" Taehyung inquires, pointing a slender finger towards the last image.

Biting your lower lip, you nod once. "That's him, exactly like that."

Taehyung glances at you, dark eyes focusing intently on your face. "I don't think there's any denying it anymore. Too many things have added up. The timeline, the appearances, your dream...even finding each other in Seoul, at the Museum of all places, no one can convince me those are all coincidences."

"So...what does that mean?"

Your companion flips the pages back to the clearest portrait of the other Kim Taehyung and Kim [Y/n]. "I think—I know that in another lifetime, you and I were these two people." There's a pause as he takes a deep breath, nervousness filling his baritone voice. "What about you? What do you believe?"

Despite your shaking hands and quiet voice, you clear your throat and muster the courage to turn and return his gaze. "I've known you my entire life—and I think before it, too—so this feels more like a confirmation than a discovery."

Taehyung's hand flinches, and for a second you think he's going to reach for yours, but he pulls away and diverts his attention to the photobook. "Where does that leave us?"

"Maybe...Maybe we can see what's on the film? Maybe the Kims left us answers."

The brunet hops up from his seat, hair hiding his face as he pulls the reel from the metal box. "There's no projector. Do you think the Curator has one somewhere around here?"

Following his lead, you go back to the cabinets in search of the device. Finding nothing in any of them, you venture back into the warehouse. In the back, next to the cases of historical films, you find exactly what you're looking for. A huge grin spreads across your face as you trudge back to Taehyung, the surprisingly heavy device in your arms. 

"Will this—oof—ah shit, don't fall! Will this work?"

Taehyung chuckles as you try to balance the item in your arms, haphazardly trying to keep it from falling. "That's perfect." He quickly takes it from your grasp. "So long as you don't drop it."

Heat rises in your face, and you pat your chilly palms against your cheeks as Taehyung sets up the device. 

"Hit the lights," he asks over his shoulder as he places the reel onto the side of the projector. 

As darkness descends, the gears begin to turn. Images flicker to life, grainy and dim against the empty wall. Taehyung sits cross-legged on the floor, and you join him. The tiny date stamp in the corner marks December 8, 1993, 12:01 A.M.

A woman sits in front of the camera. Though the area around her is hardly lit, there's an obvious ambiance of a hotel room. There are two beds, and she sits on the one nearest to the large window. Travel guides are strewn across the bed, along with a small suitcase and purple scarf.

The lone figure appears to be distressed; her hair is in disarray and her clothes are rumpled. The bags under her eyes show her exhaustion, and the way the room is hardly set up tells that she's only just arrived. She bites her lower lip in anticipation, a small smile crossing her face as she stares ahead into the camera. 

There's no possibility that anyone could miss the resemblance between you two. Her hair is styled in a typical 90s fashion, and her clothes would now be considered retro, but the face is the same. Even if a bit more aged.

"I made it to Seoul," she sighs. "Finally."

Her voice even sounds like yours. It has an American lilt that's unmistakable.

"Shit, what timezone am I in? What time is it?" She glances down at her watch, which is no help due to travel. With an eyeroll, she turns her head towards an unseen clock on a nearby wall. "And it's my birthday. Happy birthday to meee." Though she draws out the last word sillily, her voice is quiet and disparate. 

"I'm thirty-seven today. Thirty-seven." The other [Y/n] stares up at the ceiling for a moment. "I don't know why I'm making this now. I just...turned on the camera and hoped for the best, I guess?" She turns back towards the camera. "I wanted—I was hoping to document my search in Korea. Going to Europe, to France, that did nothing. He wasn't there...he never is...but damn it. I was hoping something would be different this time around. And getting into South Korea was near impossible, and I'm only here for a few weeks at a time due to my job..." She trails off, then pats her cheeks in an attempt to get her to focus.

"I'm not making any sense. Let me start over." As she straightens, [Y/n] takes a deep breath. "I'm making this mostly for the one that comes after me. This means if you're watching this, then I've already died." A sad smile tugs at her lips. "Not a fun thought, but that's reincarnation for you. I wanted to film this lifetime as much as possible so that the next time around, you don't have to wait so damn long to find each other. Next time, it can be faster. Next time, you won't waste all these years looking for each other."

She adjusts her position on the bed as she continues. "Every time Taehyung and I die, we're reborn into new bodies and new lives. It's been this way for centuries, but I'll get into the origins and the why's later. For now, all you need to know is that when you—when we die, that's not the end. Never is for us. I don't know about others.

"The next thing you need to know is that it's never as easy as retaining your memories. When you're reborn, you forget everything. All about your previous life, all the lives you had before, they're all gone. That is, until one of you turns twenty-one. That day is special for reasons I won't go into; just trust me on this one.

"Every other lifetime, one of you will remember at age twenty-one. Taehyung and I have alternated this story for lifetime upon lifetime. Last time, he was the one that woke up and found me. He had to get me to remember who I was, who he was, who we were, and everything after that. Once you find each other, the memories will start to come back. Given time and self-discovery, you will both remember. And no, it's nothing as cliche as true love's kiss or some bullshit like that."

She laughs softly, and shakes her head. "Taehyung found me last time, so this time it's my turn. I got some of my memories back when I turned twenty-one, and they've been showing up in dreams ever since. Slow at first, always the same one—the events that led up to my death—and then they started piling up. I knew I had to find him; he won't reawaken without me. And if one of us dies without remembering?" She shivers at the thought. "I don't know what might happen. Will that break the cycle? What happens if we both die at the same time? I don't have those answers. All I know is that once I had a name a little over two years ago, I've searched the world far and wide. South Korea is the only place left to look. I have plans to get to Daegu one of these days, and Seoul is massive, but things are still tricky here so I can only stay for small spurts."

There's a long pause where she stares out the dark window, shoulders sagging and eyes downcast. "I have a name now. I can feel him so close. Everything about Seoul is terrifyingly familiar. He has to be here. He has to be. Otherwise..."

The camera turns black, and the film reel keeps rolling. New images appear, B-roll from [Y/n]'s travels around Seoul. The city in its late 20th Century splendor is a welcome sight.

The next lengthy shot is of [Y/n]. She's turned the camera towards herself, an awkward angle on such an old device. "I looked for two weeks. Didn't really come up with anything, but I'll be back next month. Maybe the new year will do me good." She forces a smile, and the camera turns towards Incheon International Airport. "Cheers to 1994."

The projector ticks on, and a black screen flashes before the next shot. The timestamp says January 15, 1994, 3:34 p.m. [Y/n] sits on the balcony of the same hotel. She turns the camera around to view the city before settling it on the table to film herself.

"I've decided to move to Seoul," she announces. "Quit my job last week. I'll be moving here permanently once my visa is approved. There's a much better chance of finding him if I stay for longer than a few days." She wags her finger in the direction of the camera. "Kim Taehyung, if you're watching this, you're damn near impossible to find. Maybe try making yourself easier to find next time?"

Both she and you give a small chuckle at the same time. Easier? That he most certainly did. 

The montage that follows is of the Seoul Museum of Art—the exterior, the interior, and the people. From behind the camera, [Y/n] says, "This view might be familiar to you next time. I got a job as a curator. Finally, a way to put my art degree to good use!"

Cut to a week later. [Y/n] records from a new location, one you assume is her new home in Seoul. Her face is drained of color, and her eyes are wide and watery. She stares ahead, not focusing on anything in particular, letting a small laugh slip out. 

"I...I finally found him. T—Taehyung. Holy shit, I can't believe it. After all these years, of all the places he could've been, he's been under my nose this whole time." 

Shaking her head, she tries to get a semblance of focus back. "Sorry, I'm not making sense. Taehyung's a curator and artist at the Museum I started working at yesterday. I didn't meet him my first day because he was out, but when he came in today, I just about collapsed. I couldn't believe it. I still can't."

A tear slips from her eye, and she wipes it away quickly with the back of her hand. A smile spreads across her face, one of relief and joy and peace. "He doesn't remember me, but that's okay. I didn't expect him to. That'll come in time. At least...At least I have him back. The rest can work itself out."

The clips that follow are sporadic and unplanned. Clips of [Y/n] and her companion at the Museum, at cafes, on the streets of Seoul. You never quite see either of their faces, but from the voice, you know it has to be Taehyung. From the laughter and flirty-aura around the various conversations, you realize that these videos—which span the time from winter to spring—are the months that they fell in love.

Towards the end of the last small clip in the montage, [Y/n] is filming the skyline from her apartment. The night is dark, but the buildings twinkle like stars. "Look how stunning Seoul is," she murmurs.

A voice from behind her says, "Not as stunning as you, Jagi."

[Y/n] gives a hearty laugh. "If you keep saying cheesy things like that, I might just film you."

"Against my will?" Taehyung gasps playfully.

His companion turns the camera towards the interior of the apartment. Reclining in the chair across the space, Taehyung holds a book in one hand. His attention is split between it and the camera. 

Once again, you're taken aback by the resemblance between both this person and your dreams, as well as with the man sitting silently beside you. Glancing sideways, you look at Taehyung for the first time since the projector came to life. He hasn't uttered a word, and his dark orbs are glued to the wall.

"You say you hate being filmed, but you're too pretty not to, Tae."

"I'm an artist. I prefer being behind the camera."

"But you're art, too!"

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head as his gaze evades the camera. 

Another cut to black, then [Y/n] appears again. It's a month after the previous scene, and she breathes a heavy sigh from her usual spot in front of the camera.

"I told him everything," she murmurs, running a hand through her hair. "I don't think he believes me. He's remembering some things, I can tell that much, but he's still not quite there. It might take time, but I—I don't want to lose him between now and then." She shakes her head and lowers her face into her hands. "Did I speak too soon?"

Another pair of scenic shots later, and [Y/n] is all smiles again. The date is  June 21, 1994, 11:10 a.m. "Taehyung remembered something big," she states with joy. "He told me he's been having dreams of his past life, and he's seen me in them. The longer we're together, the more he's remembering. He says he's been putting things together since we met but that he didn't want to believe it. I think everything's going to be okay!"

The projector continues to roll. When you glance back at it, you see the film roll is more than halfway done. Nervousness fills your stomach. The summer of 1994 was the last your previous life had. Every filmed moment that passes only brings you closer to that death.

"At first, these films were to create a shortcut for my next self," [Y/n] states with a grim demeanor. The date is July 2, 1994, 11:23 p.m. "But now I think I need to film this because I want to preserve this life, this love. It's been over six months since I met Tae, and we started dating shortly after that. It's been the greatest half-year of this lifetime, but I'm terrified it's all going to come to an end."

She clears her throat and shifts her eyes away from the camera. "There was an incident at the Museum yesterday evening. A guy showed up with a knife. I don't know how he got it through security, but he went to Taehyung's office and threatened him, screaming something about the order of things and how off-balanced the universe was. I wasn't there. I didn't see it, but Tae looked shaken. He's tried to hide it, but I'm too good at reading him. He's sleeping here, at my place, for now. Just to be sure. I had to hold him to get him to sleep."

She glances back at the door behind her, one you assume leads to the bedroom where Taehyung slumbers. "It was such a great day up until that happened. We went out, Taehyung only had to run by the Museum to grab something, and..." She sighs, then holds up her left hand. There's a glittery addition to her ring finger. "It was the best day."

The next several minutes show a montage of scenes. A rehearsal. A wedding. A dance. A view of Paris from the air. A pair of newly-weds exploring the city that they both remember from lifetimes ago. For a moment, there's an aura of pure joy and happiness and hope.

Then the shot changes. The camera shakes in [Y/n]'s hands as she aims it towards the window of the Parisian apartment. From the second story, the silhouette of a man can barely be seen. He stands across the street, clothed in darkness, veiled in an ominous aura. Between the shaking hands and pitch-black darkness, you can't quite make out his face.

You don't need to. You know exactly who that man is.

And from the way Taehyung draws in a sharp breath, you sense he's starting to put things together as well.

"Get away from the window, [Y/n]," the other Taehyung whispers from a place behind the camera.

"He can't see me," she retorts, voice trembling. "I wanna get him on camera."

The man walks away, heading in the direction opposite the apartment, and [Y/n] drops the camera onto the nearest table. It doesn't turn off, continuing to film as the woman stumbles into her husband's arms. Her breathing is erratic as she buries her face into his shoulder. 

"He—He followed us to France," you murmur into his sleep shirt. "Why does he always find us? W—Why does he keep showing up all the damn time, and why us? Why you? Why—Oh, god."

Taehyung holds her tight, pressing constant butterfly kisses against her hair. "Shhh, love. You've gotta calm down. Just breathe. I got you." To put emphasis on his words, he clasps one hand on the small of her back while the other tangles in her hair. "You're safe; we're safe. He's gone. You're safe."

"Are we? Are we really, Tae? He could've killed you in June. He's been shadowing us for months. I never thought he'd follow us on our honeymoon, but he—shit, he was right outside!"

"I won't let anything happen to you," he reassures in a soft timbre. "Neither of us."

"You can't promise that," she whimpers, clutching him tighter. "Time has told me that. What happens if he finds you again? Or worse, what if he finds us both? What happens if we both die at the same time, Tae? Would—Would that be the end?"

A remorseful expression crosses Taehyung's face, but he quickly hides it as to not risk his wife seeing it. "I know I don't have all the answers. There's still a lot I don't remember, but I know this: I will protect you. My memory is getting stronger every day. I love you and it feels like we wasted so much time already, trying to find each other in a world that feels too big. And me putting up such a fight against the whole idea of past lives. We got through all of that. I won't lose you now. Not ever. Not in this life or the next. You hear me?"

[Y/n] offers a small nod as she pulls away slightly. Her eyes evade his, but when he cups her face in his hands, their gazes meet. Taehyung offers her a small smile, and she returns it. 

"I love you, too," she murmurs. 

Taehyung brushes his thumbs across her cheeks as his grin widens into a signature boxy smile. "That's my girl." Another kiss to the forehead, and he nods to the dresser. "Grab your things. We're leaving for the airport."

You hear a clicking as the last frame freezes. Both you and Taehyung look over your shoulders, seeing the film reel spinning to its end. He hops up to stop the machine, and the last picture disappears from the wall.

Taglist — @just-call-me-trash-can​​, @jaienn​​​, @happyhrsme​​, @butaes​​, @peter-pan​, @twoteen-yup​, @dreamcatcherjiah

#bangtan-madi writes #all of our lifetimes #aool #taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung fic #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #boyfriend!taehyung #husband!taehyung #kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung #kim taehyung fluff #kim taehyung fic #kim taehyung angst #bts fic #bts fluff #bts #bts angst #bts x reader #bangtan #bangtan sonyeondan #strangers to lovers #bts v #reincarnated au #reincarnation au #soulmate au #established relationship #bts au

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

The Switching Hour

A/N: it’s been just over a week since halloween but i finally got this piece done and i’m quite happy with it! :D i hope you guys enjoy and feedback is always welcome and cherished!! ilyyyy

masterlist | ask 

word count: 8.4k 

content: dramatic perfectionist demon!h, fluff, and a lil bit of smutty sexual tension

preview:

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

///

Harry was aiming to be an angel. 

Well, not literally. Hell forbid it, in his opinion. Most of them are wound so tight, they wouldn’t be able to fly if they tried. 

Plus, he actually quite enjoys being a demon. Immortality, flexible work hours, free range of the human world, and not to mention a pretty sick gig with the sorcery. It’s a sweet deal, once you get past the decades of excruciating torture and training, of course.

So no, he’s not aiming to be a literal celestial being. Rather, he’s planning to be one for Halloween on behalf of Y/N’s approach to switch identities as a couple’s costume. 

The idea had stemmed from when they had been walking around Party City a few days prior, trying to gain inspiration for the annual costume party a friend of Harry’s is hosting. 

Y/N hadn’t really been keen on going, despite the invitation being extended to her through Harry. She felt like she never really fit right with her boyfriend’s inner circle and it was for an obvious factor: they were all demons. 

She’d only ever gotten along with one demon before (granted, she’d only ever put effort into befriending this single one) and she was perfectly fine with that number. It isn’t that Harry’s friends treat her coldly in any way (they were pretty welcoming, much to her surprise), but she could practically drown in the awkward tension that milled whenever they had to interact. She stuck out of place in a painfully obvious manner and she refuses to force herself into bonding with them; it would just make the situation a whole lot worse. 

The connection remained as a polite acquaintanceship, and from what Y/N could tell, both parties are more than happy for it remain as so. 

Either way, Harry had managed to sway her into accompanying him. She wanted to give out candy to the children from the complex and he wanted her to be his plus-one, so a compromise was settled. They would hand out candy from six in the evening until eight, then get ready and leave for the party at nine.   

After agreeing upon the terms, they’d spent well over forty minutes in pursuit for their costumes at the store. 

The choices they had weren’t very compelling, according to Harry.

He outright refused to be a vampire, warlock, or werewolf— the overuse of the genres made them tacky. He’d rather be caught dead (a second time) than have to wear a cowboy hat, so that was a bust on Y/N’s part. No aliens, no zombies, no Frankenstein (which he filed under zombie and it was an entire five minute bicker session between them before Y/N finally let it go with an exasperated sigh). 

No superheroes. He’d cycled through all of them already, including Black Widow. He looked great in a bodysuit, if he does say so himself.

Historic figures were a bore considering there isn’t anything truly scary about King Tut, other than his crippled foot and untimely demise. Animal costumes are for children, as well as ghosts and ghouls. Mummies were too messy. 

Due to his selectiveness, they ended up circling the store five times, coming up empty-handed. Y/N had stopped giving him suggestions after he’d used a release spell to make her drop the Elvis wig she’d been inspecting.

Her voice chimes up, prickly with annoyance and just the slightest bit of awe. “Are you always this picky when it comes to your Halloween costume?” 

Harry rubs the material of a Jack Skellington pantsuit between his thumbs and forefingers, humming in absentminded disapproval at the flimsiness of the fabric. “Always.”

“Why?” 

He drops the article of clothing, watching it sway back and forth on its hanger for a second before glancing up to meet her irritated expression, answering with a prideful undertone. “Because Halloween is the best holiday of the year and I’ve built quite the reputation for myself amongst my group. I always outshine and I tend to keep it that way, darling.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Right, I forgot how competitive you are.” 

“Actually, I like the praise,” Harry gives her a slow, sultry once-over, lips buckling with a sly smirk, “but you already knew that.”  

Her arms tighten instinctively across her body. 

Harry goes back to filtering through hangers, scrunching his nose in distaste at yet another Dracula ensemble. Drac never even wore a cape, he preferred tapered vests. He was the one who taught Harry how to style flared pants centuries before they came into fashion. With the way humans stained his cherished outfit designs, he’d be rolling around in his grave right now if he had one. He wasn’t even a vampire— just a crossroads demon with a very peculiar taste in beverages.

Y/N toys with the visor of an astronaut helmet, staring at her warbled reflection in the grey plastic and sighing with defeated boredom. “Why don’t we just get the Purge masks and go?”

Harry gives her a look of incredulous disdain. “And cover up one of my most prized assets? I’d rather let a hellhound disembowel me again.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He pulls a pirate costume out from the metal rack, eyeing it judgingly. “You don’t get crowned best costume every year without being dramatic.” 

The outfit holds a decent aesthetic with the passable material and colorful gems. The embroidery on the cosmetically tattered vest holds up and there’s no stingy parrot accessory in sight, though the cheap plastic sword is a bust. He’ll have to rummage through his storage and find a real one (probably the one he used during the American Revolution). If he’s lucky, maybe it’ll still have some dried blood on it.

With a bit of smudged black eyeliner and a pair of silver hoop earrings, he just might strike gold at the party. 

Best of all, the costume gives him an excuse to show off his broad chest (not that he needs one, but the fact that it adds to the genuinity of the look is a win). 

“Harry, look.” 

The giddy hilarity in Y/N’s voice draws his attention upwards from examining the purple buttons on the potential candidate. 

She’d clad herself in a bright red glittering cape that goes down to her knees, the button of the collar a large pentagram and perched atop her head is a pair of bedazzled devil horns about five inches in height each. In her hand she holds the rest of the costume— an attachable pointed tail and a three foot tall blood red pitchfork. 

“What do you think? Kinda reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.” She looks up in faux thoughtfulness, tapping her chin for effect. 

Harry’s cheeks twitch with a grin of endeared amusement, dimples blinking. “I think you look absolutely adorable. Although...”

He trails off as he drift towards her, tugging lightly at hem of the cape, looking past his girlfriend towards the array of other devil costumes. He reaches for another, pulling it out and holding it up for consideration, shrugging his brows suggestively. “I think I’d rather see you in this skimpy little red dress and fishnet stockings.”

Y/N’s eyelids droop into a stern scowl. “And I’d rather not have my ass hanging out in front of all your friends.” 

“That’s the whole point, minx.” Harry holds the hanger up in front of her, humming admirably as an image swipes over the front of his eyes of her prancing around in a pair of glossy red-bottom heels, a pentagram choker, and some bold cherry-colored lipstick. “Just wanna show off my girl.” 

Y/N shoves the garment back towards him, tone cocky and pointed. “If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it, then?”

He lowers his arm, slinking his head slightly to the side and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, the edges of his mouth twitching cheekily. “I don’t think all my bits and pieces would fit inside these stockings properly.” 

She unclasps the pin that holds the cape closed, pushing it off her shoulders as she sing-songs her words teasingly. “Won’t know until you try it.” 

Harry puts the articles of clothing back into their designated spot. “You’re no fun.” 

His focus dances to a few hangers down, a random twinkling nabbing his curiosity. He moves the surrounding pieces away with the back of his hands to get a better look, a smile creeping across his face at the fit. 

“Hey, babe. What d’you think of this one?” 

Y/N glimpses up from fiddling with the bendy devil tail, scoffing in entertained delight at the sight before her. 

Harry stands with his elbow propped on the top of the metal clothing rack, his legs crossed at the ankles with the tip of his worn tan boot tapping at the sleek black floor beneath it. He’s decked himself out in full angel attire, a light-up, wire-supported halo flashing brightly above his head, alternating patterns between quick bursts of yellow light and longer, drawn-out fading. The wings across his back span about four feet in total, strewn with white and gold holographic feathers, some covered in glitter. 

“I think you look dashing.” 

Harry pushes off the metal rail, the whole set-up quaking a bit under his strength. He ambles over until he’s right in front of his girlfriend, holding his arms out to his sides grandly. “I think I look dashing, too.”

He then turns his torso to the side, propping his chin on his shoulder and batting his lashes, going for a faux effect of adorable pureness. “Personally, I feel like I’d blend right in.”

His eyes suddenly ink black, dark veins protruding under his waterline and snaking their way down his cheekbones. “I’m as innocent as they come.” 

Y/N glances up at the ceiling with pretend mild annoyance, irises focusing back on Harry with the left corner of her lips curved, her sentence deadpan. “I beg to differ.” 

Harry drops the act, a look of insulted shock painting over his features as he carefully removes the halo headband from his quiffed curls. “You don’t think I’d play off being a good angel?!”

Y/N reaches over his shoulder and gives the tip of one of the fluffy wings a signifying tug. “Frankly, I don’t think you’d get past the gates. You’d get smited on sight.”

He gently grabs the hand that was playing with a gold polyester feathers, sifting his fingers between her’s and thumbing over the back of her knuckles temptingly. He cocks his head sideways a tad, stepping forward until his chest is ghosting over Y/N’s, the air of his sultry words just barely caressing her lips. “Maybe you could sneak me in, then?”

Y/N squeezes his digits playfully, snorting softly. “And why would I do that? So you can wreak havoc in the dining hall?” 

Harry releases a boyish giggle, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his nose scrunches. The childish grin slowly melts into a brazen smirk, teeth gnawing at the inside of his lower lip as some very explicit scenes bounce around the inside of his skull. He shakes his head lightly, making a low mm-mm sound to hint that he has other plans in mind. 

“Want you to sneak me in so you can take me up to your room. Show me around a bit— beginning of the universe memorabilia sounds interesting.” 

“Yet something tells me prehistoric rocks aren’t why you’d want me to sneak you up to my room.” She gives him a knowing stare, the pad of her thumb toying with the glossy black surface of his painted index nail. 

“Well aren’t you a clever little thing?” Harry leans in closer, his lip piercing grazing the skin along her jaw, settling nice and snug right against her earlobe. Her blood feels like it’s boiling. 

His whisper send tendrils of electricity revving across her temples and down her neck. 

“You’re right, though. Honestly, I just wanna fuck you on your bed instead of mine, for once. Make you whine and whimper for me to let you cum, all right under your dad’s nose. Make you stain your sheets and leave a few nail notches on your headboard.” 

“Harry, we’re in public...” Y/N’s urgent murmur is warm against his neck, causing him to whine deeply in the back of his throat as the heat washes down his jugular, leaving his ears tingling. 

His voice is thick and full of gravel as he answers. “I know, makes it so much hotter.”

He pauses his breathing for a heartbeat and Y/N gets the sensation that he’s analyzing her. She then feels him press a conceited grin across the back of her jaw, his two front teeth nipping at her earlobe tauntingly. His tone is heavy with arrogant certainty. “You’re wet.”

She digs her nails into his knuckles, looking down at her feet out of embarrassed instinct. “Shut up.” 

He ignores her request. “I’d have to muffle those pretty sounds you make— we both know how loud you are. Would cover your mouth with the palm of my hand while I spread your thighs with my hips and fill you up with my cock until you feel it at the pit of your tummy. I’d run my lips across your stinging nose and hot cheeks, hushing you and mumbling dirty things against your skin. Telling you what a good girl you are for me and how tight and warm you feel. How good you’re taking me and how cute you look all sweaty and needy, trying to keep quiet so no one finds out you snuck a demon back home, all because you wanted to get your brains fucked out with everyone right outside the door.”

A sudden prickling slithers up the back of Y/N’s neck, her muscles tightening in heightened anticipation. “Someone’s watching us.” 

Harry’s arm wraps around her waist, the hand holding the halo sliding over Y/N’s hip and maneuvering her out of sight of the prying eyes he can feel burning into his broad back, piercing right through the material of his leather jacket. He glimpses over his shoulder, catching a snapshot of the culprit peeping into their exchange: an elderly woman, partially hidden behind the black and orange tensile decorations, staring at them with disgust. 

Harry mumbles a quick basic spell under his breath. “Dis.”

Push.

The aged woman spontaneously jars forward, stumbling out of sight down the aisle she’d been loitering. 

Harry cranes his neck back towards his girlfriend, a happily satisfied smile staining his lips. “Took care of it.”

Y/N’s wide, astonished gaze leaves the empty space where the target had been, zoning in on her boyfriend with alarmed outrage. “You just shoved an old lady!”

His giddy grin immediately drops into a confused frown. “And?”

Harry didn’t think it was possible for her eyes to go wider, but she puts rest to his doubt. 

“And?! She could be hurt!” She immediately slaps his hand off her hip, releasing their conjoined fingers and smacking her palm across his chest as a repercussion for his actions (though he barely feels it). 

He rolls his eyes at her theatrics. “She’s fine! It was a light graze.”

“It was a satanic spell!” 

“She was intruding!”

“Oh, and that warrants you pushing her down the aisle?”

There’s a halt in the argument, followed by Harry’s eyes darting across different points of Y/N’s face— her tinted lips, her creased brows, her slightly flaring nose, and her faintly glowing eyes. The look in them is intense and begrudging. 

He hadn’t even realized his lips were parted in aroused surprise at her vehement outburst— she always looks so hot when she’s mad. He licks over them lightly, willing them closed and exhaling loudly through his nose. His eyebrows jolt upwards with salacious intent, the corners of his pursed mouth following suit. “Are y’gonna spank me for it, then?”  

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Don’t act like you don’t love it.” Harry pecks the tip of Y/N’s nose and steps sideways, purposefully leaving just enough space for Y/N to squeeze between his chest and the clothing rack. 

A swift peek at the designated aisle confirms that the woman is indeed fine (just a little bewildered) and Y/N is finally able to move past it, though still grumbling condemnation. 

She pulls at the thick clear straps of Harry’s fake wings thoughtfully. “We still haven’t found any costumes.” 

“Speak for yourself. I think I’m gonna go as Captain Jack Sparrow over there.” He hooks his thumb towards where he’d hung the pirate costume while he tried on the angel props. 

Y/N squeezes the cushioned bedazzled devil horns, an idea dawning. “What if we go as each other?” 

Harry raises a single brow, intrigued. “Well, that’s an idea.”

“It’d be a cute couple’s costume!” 

He removes the wings from his back. “I dunno. I quite like my pirate costume. I look great in black liner.”

Y/N pouts, though he doesn’t think she notices, which makes it all the cuter. “Pleaseee?”

He lightly tugs at the collar of Y/N’s striped t-shirt. “I could be persuaded...”  

She huffs. “Why are you such a handful?” 

He taps the pad of his index finger against the faint hollow at the center of her throat. “I’m more than a handful and you’re well aware of that.”

She forces herself to keep a tab on the electricity threatening to brim into her irises. “Please?” 

“Say it again. Love the way your voice sounds when you’re begging.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, irked (and slightly aroused, though she’d never admit it) at the way he’s being so crude. “Pretty please?”

The sensual touches at her neck halt, the atmosphere suspended for an elongated second. “Pretty please...?”

His tone suggests he’s waiting for her to utter something more, eyes waltzing with pompous appeal at the way she’s stroking his ego.  

Y/N grinds her teeth, jaw muscle visibly ticking. When she speaks, her voice is low and timid. “Pretty please, Daddy?”

The amusement swimming in the amber specks around his pupils translate across the ends of his mouth. “Sounds like a plan. Cliché, but I’ll bite.”

She clears her throat to break the puncturing sexual tension. “We just have to figure out the outfits to wear with the accessories. It can’t be that hard, right?” 

Harry smiles confidently, dozens of combinations of clothing already buzzing around his mind. “You leave that to me, sweetheart.” 

He doesn’t disappoint. He brings the rest of their costumes home the next day after three grueling hours at the shopping mall, carrying two frosted plastic covers over his shoulders (as well as an exhausted yet triumphant expression) when he saunters into the living room. 

Y/N falls in love with her fit before it’s even fully out of the bag. 

It’s a two-part velvet design and it’s absolutely dazzling. The main statement piece of the garment is the actual pantsuit: flared cuffs that cut perfectly just below her ankles, the soft fabric a pigment mix between a bright red and deep maroon. As the eyes draw upward, the suit ombrés into a murky black; by the time one’s sight gets to the bando-style top, the color is solid. The accompanying second half of the outfit is a blazer, tinted the same shade of maroon and covered with carefully embroidered crystal clear gems, resulting in material that both absorbs and reflects any light that hits the jacket, giving it bewitching juxtaposition. The cuffs and grand folded collar are lined with elegant glittered lace— a small detail that makes a world of a difference. 

The beauty of it draws attention, clutching it effortlessly and Harry knew it would match her ideally the moment he laid eyes on it at the store. 

He even managed to work an aspect of his little skimpy dress fantasy into the mix: the red-bottom heels. They compliment the look down to the detail with the chic, dark glossy surface on top and the flashy red lining along the underside. The model of the pumps is sleek and tapered, made to give an air of sensual confidence to anyone who dons them. 

He doesn’t regret a single cent of the thousands he’d spent— the way his girlfriend’s eyes are twinkling with enamored awe makes it more than worth it.

Y/N had been rendered speechless as she passes the pads of her fingers gingerly over the plush velvet, almost as if she’s scared it will disintegrate if it wrinkles. Her voice is a stunned murmur. “Jesus, Harry...”

“You like it?” He sets his own protective carrier down along the arm of the couch, the blurred plastic keeping its contents hidden. 

She holds the top portion of the pantsuit up to her chest, trying to imagine how it’ll look with her hair and makeup done. “Like’ doesn’t even come close.”

Harry smiles shyly as he takes the spot beside her, chest fluttering at the notion of making her so happy, fingers rising up to mess with the hoop piercing hooked along his eyebrow— a bashful mannerism. “Good. Always love making your eyes glow like that. Metaphorically speaking.”

Y/N laughs lightly at his joke, face shimmering with a certain loving warmth that makes his insides stir. 

Harry drops his hands into his lap, leaning a bit to bump her shoulder jestingly with his. “Where’s my thank you?”

Y/N returns his gesture, hugging his gift to her stomach gratefully. “Thank you. You spoil me rotten, honestly.” 

He ducks his head down to press a lingering kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent of lavender and cherry blossoms and baby powder and another odor he can’t quite place but it reminds him of a time in his life long ago when he was happy and fulfilled and loved. “I’d do anything for you.”

“You better stop before my eyes start glowing non-metaphorically.”  

Harry’s full-hearted chuckle chimes the air like a thousand bells. It dies down slowly, his forehead pressing against her cheekbone, the tip of his nose brushing across her skin in a caring manner. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and raw. “Can I have a kiss?” 

Y/N bobs her head, craning her face towards him, their noses bumping. She flushes her forehead to his, gazing deeply into his irises as they twinkle with delicate admiration. 

Contrary to the usual, there’s no lascivious teasing or suggestiveness in Harry’s behavior; just simple, subtle affection. And the fact that he’d asked permission makes it sweeter. It’s intimate moments like these that make her cherish giving love a chance.

She buttons her lips to Harry’s tenderly, feeling him sigh dreamily through his nose. It’s not a messy kiss, there’s no desperate sexual drive behind it. It’s homey and mellow, like a hug from someone long lost.     

It lasts a solid ten seconds before Y/N draws back, dwindling the singular kiss into a dozen tiny pecks across Harry’s cheeks, nose, and eyelids until his face is puckering up at the feathery sensation, lashes fluttering open sleepily. 

Y/N sponges her lips between her boyfriend’s brows with finality. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She attentively eases the cover back over her expensive present, zipping it closed and making sure the metal bit doesn’t catch on the cloth. She lays is out across her lap, already glancing over Harry’s shoulder investigatively, trying to make out what he had bought for himself.

“So what’s yours look like?” Her hand stretches out towards the costume with the intent of undoing the zipper. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Harry’s fingers come town over the top of her own, smacking them away humorously. 

Y/N’s head reels back quizzically, insulted. 

He shrugs his brows ominously, one of his large, ring-clad hands streaming across the bag protectively. “It’s a surprise.” 

“That’s not fair!” She exclaims adamantly, though the giggles escaping her are doing a horrible job at backing her claim. “You got to pick mine and I can’t even take a peek at yours?”

Harry defends his secret with another playful slap at her insistent hand as it attempts to reach below his arm. “You know how much I love edging.”

Y/N slumps her shoulders dramatically, the weight of the mystery already itching the back of her brain. She doesn’t know how she’ll be able to put up with it for the next couple of days. “Can I at least see the shoes?”

Harry shakes his head, an evilly delighted simper coiling onto his face. “Nope.”

“Unbelievable.” She snips, crossing her arms over her stomach. 

“‘Good things come to those who wait’ and all that.” 

He’s having way too much fun with this.

Y/N narrows her eyes at him challengingly. “I’ll have my way when you’re asleep.”

He belts out a laugh. “Over my undead body.”

With that, Harry springs up from the couch, jetting towards the stairs that head up to the top floor of the condo, the forbidden costume in tow. 

“Hey!” Y/N vaults up to chase him, well aware of all the possible hiding places scattered upstairs. It’ll take her ages to find it; by the time she does, it would already be past the date.

Harry has a decent amount of time ahead of her, his lanky legs taking the steps two and even three at a time, easily leaving her in the dust. How he keeps from slipping on his jack o’lantern socks is beyond him.

Y/N scurries up the spiral staircase after him, both of their airy giggling bouncing off the intricate metal railings and dark hardwood panels.  

Harry stumbles into their room and slams the door shut behind him with a simple spell, the lock magically flicking shut. He’s laughing so hard his stomach aches, whipping around on his heels to keep alert as he backs into the room, picking his brain for a proper enchantment. He mumbles the invisibility incantation out of breath and half-snickering, but gets it out nonetheless. 

“Fallax flamma, ignis de potentia, et in abscondito, ego ignire te evanescit.”

Cloaking flame, fire of power and concealment, I ignite you to vanish.

A blinding red and blue flame engulfs the entirety of the plastic cover, extinguishing almost immediately, leaving behind no trace evidence of the object he had under his arm moments ago.

And without a second to spare, the door flies open, Y/N rushing in with a victory elating her features. “Gotcha—!”  

Her head swivels from side to side, confusion furrowing her brows as she takes in the image of her boyfriend’s empty arms, alongside his smug, self-satisfied expression. “Where’d it go?!”

Harry creases his brows to mimic her own baffled appearance, mocking. “Where’d what go?”

She ignores the dig. “You can’t possibly have hid it that fast! Not unless you used…”

Realization floods her face. “Cheater!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s called using my resources.”

“Cheater!” Y/N reiterates, lunging forward and koalaing her arms and legs around Harry, sending him stilting back and crashing into the mattress, the duvet rising up in a puff of fluffy black cloth.

His back bounces three times against the bed yet she manages to stay latched on, her knees digging into his hips as her hands fumble to pin down his wrists. 

He fights back, wriggling from side to side to try and shake her loose, kicking up his legs wildly in hopes of teetering her off. “This is wrongful punishment, I didn’t even get a fair trial!”

Y/N ducks down, running her soft lips over the spot where his neck meets his jaw, knowing full well it’s one of his most ticklish places. She whispers her words warningly. “Let me see it.”

Harry can’t help the high-pitched, half-suppressed laugh that escape him, jitters coursing through his bones, stemming from the area where her mouth rubs along his heated skin. He wills the bubbly shrieks to die down, teething at the ring that adorns his bottom lip, eyes alight with pure ecstatic energy. “No.”

Y/N shrugs off his refusal, her supernatural strength proving valuable as she manages to keep her boyfriend stretched to the sheets. “Fine, then. Guess I’ll just have to torture it out of you.” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at her mockingly, the ruby gem piercing glinting in the faint, grey evening light streaming in freely through the large glass wall that overlooks the city skyline. “Guess you will.” 

Her method backfires almost immediately. 

Harry’s sneaky ways and matching inhuman strength accomplish to outmaneuver her. After a fair share of complaining grunts, palms slamming against cheeks, carefully coordinated pinches to side, and a somewhat harsh tug to her hair, she ends up splayed over the mattress beneath him, heaving shallowly as he traps her forearms against his chest, nimble fingers wrapped around her wrists. 

Harry kinks his brows up boastingly. “How’s that, then? Taste of your own medicine.”

Y/N squirms excessively, but slipping free seems unlikely. “I could totally kick you in a really sensitive place right now, but I won’t.” 

He calls her bluff, words sticky and warm against her chin. “It’s in your best interest not to considering you’ve taken a liking to bouncing on it.”  

She yanks at her arms almost savagely, snapping her head sideways to avoid him taking a piss at her as her irises flare up a pale neon blue. 

Harry ends up getting his way. The costume remains unseen until the night of the Halloween party, hidden in some tear in the universe where he knows she won’t be able to find it.  

It remains in its magical alcove until Harry summons it out after his shower, hanging it on an unused towel hook on the marble wall.

He gives it a calculating once-over, chin propped on his loose fist, elbow supported by the wrist of the arm he has swung across his torso. He sways ever so slightly, the towel clinging to his hips dangling dangerously low on his structured pelvis. His wet curls caress the back of his neck, mopping over his small ears and itching his brows, resulting in Harry combing them out of his face with his fingers and sighing lightly.

He taps absentmindedly at the center of his plump lips, running the pad of his index digit along the ridges of his bottom one, feeling the smallest bit off since his piercing is lacking in its rightful spot. The things he does for the authenticity of the look. 

The hand across his stomach clenches and unclenches thoughtfully as he chalks up the details of the full costume in his head, cracking each of his knuckles one at a time with his thumb as he dwells on his ideas. He can never seem to stay still when he’s plotting. 

He glances down at his nails, smiling fondly at the white lacquer Y/N had painted on them to go with his theme. He knows the suspense has been killing her and it amuses him to no end.

Harry rummages through the bathroom cabinets, retrieving his hair drier along with his favorite mousse. Y/N’s makeup bag also makes it onto the counter, as well as his Dove Fresh Cucumber deodorant, cologne, and a pair of dangley pearl earrings he’d acquired as a gift centuries ago from a French noblewoman more than willing to give him what he wanted (in more than one sense).

He knows exactly what his costume is going to look like now and he doesn’t waste a second in beginning preparations. 

On the opposite side of the door, Y/N thinks quite the contrary— he’s taking forever to get ready, the minutes wasting away just like her patience. 

The plan had gone as intended, to an extent. They’d handed out candy to all the children that had come and she’d even weaned Harry into buying a cute jack o’ lantern bowl to set the mood. She enjoyed seeing all of the creative costumes the kids had conjured up; she thinks her favorite was probably the ten year old girl dressed like Thanos from the Avengers movies. Y/N’s favorite part had been the gauntlet, which had carried different colored Jolly Ranchers in place of the Infinity Stones. Quite clever, if you asked her. 

There was an incident with a twelve year old who gave them attitude for their choice in the candy they gave out, but Harry handled it before Y/N could even react. He’d crouched down to her level, mumbled something unintelligible, and then from what Y/N could see in the split second that it occurred, flashed her his demon face. The preteen fled without a single word. 

He had pushed himself back up with his palms to his knees, brushing past Y/N into the apartment, grumbling under his breath. “Entitled miscreants.” 

No more kids ventured towards their door after that. 

She had been the first to get ready, well aware of how long Harry tended to take when preparing himself to go out. 

He casually suggested that it would go by faster if they showered together, not to mention it’d “help the environment and what not,” though she knew his intentions would likely set them on a detour. He was playfully insistent, however, and she ended up having to shove him out of the bathroom with his underwear already half off. 

After she had cleaned up and blow dried her hair accordingly, she left the bathroom to him, deciding to finish getting ready in the bedroom to avoid being late (and also because she knew he wasn’t going to let her see him putting on the costume). 

“I know we have an eternity to live but try not to fill it all up with your showertime.” She’d quipped as she drifted past him on her way out of the foggy, humid washroom.

A sudden tug at her towel had sent her hands fumbling, just barely managing to keep her chest covered. Harry’s snickering had bounced off the shell of her ears. “I make no promises.”

Now Y/N sat on the large bed, distractedly rocking her heels back and forth against the thick-carpeted ground, running her fingers over the silky velvet fabric of her flared pantsuit as it bunches around her thighs. 

She isn’t one to brag or boast because she had been wired to be humble, but she doesn’t think she’s ever looked better. The suit fit her perfectly, all of the seams and cinches falling exactly where they should. The jacket was loose enough to be comfortable but snug enough that it hugged her shoulders properly, not to mention the inside was made of velvet, as well. The wide-legged portion of the fit stopped just below her ankles, giving away to the shiny, midnight-tinted glassy shoes. She’d practiced her walk for about ten minutes. 

Her hair is parted to the side, the front section pinned back from her face to showcase the makeup she’d applied. She’d tightlined her eyes with black kohl eyeliner and a red lip pencil she’d had to make due with (which she’d ducked into the bathroom to get, disappointed when she didn’t see the familiar plastic covering hanging anywhere along the walls) and applied the bright red lipstain Harry had gotten for her. 

Around her neck lays a delicate gold chain, Harry’s large ruby ring glittering at its center. He always loved seeing something of his on her and he always joked about how this specific act was a vintage antic that dated back to the nineteen twenties; girlfriends would wear their boyfriend’s rings around their necks as a symbol of love. The first time he’d mentioned it, she had fallen head over wings for the idea— fallen for its simple yet deep meaning. And it just confirmed to her that under the layers of the hard exterior he donned, Harry was a hopeless romantic at heart (despite the fact that his no longer beat).

Y/N thumbs over the big stone encapsulated in the aged gold band, sighing restlessly through her nose as the pattering of the water echoes through the walls of the bedroom. He’s probably taking this long on purpose and she has half a mind to stalk in there and drag him out by his wet curls, but she refrains. His surprise better be worth it.

The water spout creaks to a stop, the only sound resonating in the bathroom being Harry’s faint humming to Thriller as the door to the shower cracks open loudly. Fucking finally. 

Y/N scampers onto her feet, nearly breaking an ankle as she forgets her choice in shoes. She heads towards the washroom door with an attentive stride, rapping her knuckles on the wooden door lightly, voice tinged with irritation. “Are you done?”

Harry chimes back, tone full of airy, cocky humor. “Not quite. Still balls-naked, but I suppose I could go like that, if you want me to. Don’t mind it.” 

“Just get dressed already, would you? You’re taking forever.” 

“Haven’t you ever heard of being ‘fashionably late?’”

Y/N growls in exasperation, crossing her arms and pacing back and forth in front of their bed, trying to reign in her nerves. Going to a party where she barely knows anyone is bad enough, but Harry isn’t easing her woes any by being a little shit. 

On the other side of the wooden door, Harry is finger-combing mousse through his hair as he harmonizes to Monster Mash, twirling strands here and there around his index finger to accentuate the ringlets just the way he likes. He flips his head over, mussing up the roots to ensure the soft volume and fullness he’s so known for. He always takes his hair seriously— a residual mannerism from when he had it shoulder-length for almost a decade. 

Blow drying doesn’t take long and he’s buttoning up his top before he knows it, leaving the last three buttons undone to expose his swallow tattoos and upside down cross necklace, the antennas of his butterfly inking peeking out from the edge of the open shirt, along with the curved tips of its wings. 

He fishes out a couple of products from Y/N’s cosmetics pouch as he wiggles his toes into his new shoes, zipping them up with finality and leaning in closer to the mirror for the makeup application. 

Once he’s finished and everything has been returned to its rightful spot, he spritzes a few pumps of his Tom Ford cologne across his flexing necking and down his jaw, capping it and giving himself a thoughtful once-over in the mirror. He’s proud of what he’d achieved. 

He murmurs a spell, retrieving the halo and wings from the magical storage facility he’d placed them in, fitting them onto his costume and humming in approval. 

The door to the bathroom swings open, startling Y/N enough to trip up her angry loitering.

Harry steps through the frame of the door, completely decked out in his attire for her to witness in its fully glory. “Let the switching hour begin.”

Y/N can’t stop her jaw from dropping in astonishment. 

Harry looks incredible— breath-takingly ethereal, to say the least. She scans the look from bottom to top, taking in every detail slowly, feeling almost as if time had slowed down around her. 

It starts with the footwear. They’re a pair of glossy, bright white heeled boots, silver metal tips adorning the front of the shoes. She’s never seen anything like it and knowing how dramatic Harry can be, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’re custom. 

The boots disappear under the flared cuffs of the off-white, wide-legged pants he is sporting, the fabric ironed and crisp, complimenting his height. They’re high-waisted, ending just above Harry’s navel, the front embellished with two parallel rows of gold buttons, each engraved with a capital, Roman-font letter G that glints under the soft, buttery low light of a single lamp. 

His top is probably the statement piece of the layout. It’s a baby blue long-sleeved button-up blouse with a frilled collar and cuffs, the buttons decently-sized opal crystals that shimmer holographically with every movement. The fabric of the cloth presents a similar effect, the material frosty and see-through with reflective, multi-colored sparkling fibers sewn in. The shirt is tucked into the high waist of Harry’s pants, fitting loose and flouncy around his torso, the twinkling faintness of the thread juxtaposing the darkness of his tattoos in an unexpected yet flattering manner. It hugs his shoulders and back tightly, muscles rippling the cloth in a way similar to how a stone wrinkles the surface of a still lake. 

The layers of the collar ornament Harry’s sharp jaw and grace the intricate pearl earring dangling from his right ear. She takes notice of the inversed cross necklace resting at the center of the valley that is his chest, glinting with a type of poetic irony. His fingers are garnished with his usual plethora of rings, his two blocky initials hugging his second middle finger and pinky amidst an array of gems and carvings. 

Though the dazzling clothes and expensive jewelry are eye-catching, Y/N can confidently say Harry’s makeup is the real caviar of the entire look. 

White liner runs across his waterline and over the crevices of his top lashes, opening up his eyes and making the olive tone of his irises pop more than usual. Glitter has been strewn across the curve of his cheekbones and faded up onto his temples, the holographic flecks of pastel blue, baby pink, and snow white glued down securely and glimmering under the flickering light-up halo. The lustery specks have also been combed into his fluffy, soft curls with a dash of gel, twinkling like a billion little stars. Evenly-spaced rhinestones decorate along the curve of Harry’s thick eyebrows— a final touch of grandeur that pairs adequately with the rest of the accessories.

Harry lifts the palms of his hands upward expectantly, giving a slow twirl and showing off the glitzy wings (which mold into the look effortlessly). “So, what d’you think?”

Y/N puts all of the pieces of the costume together in her brain, attempting to process it all at once and being rendered utterly speechless. The broadness of his body— the thickness of his chest, how his biceps and back muscles strain the dainty material of the top, his towering height with the heels, his sharp, defined features— contrast the delicateness of the fit, but it somehow it works. It somehow makes heat pool at the pit of her stomach and makes her ears crackle with spurts of electricity. 

All she manages to croak out is a quiet, tender, “You look pretty.” 

This sends Harry into a round of light-hearted giggling, his smile more blinding than any of the flashy props he carries. He glances down, zoning in on the metal tips of his boots to avoid her noticing the blush invading his cheeks. He pushes it down, scolding himself for being so mushy. 

He clears his throat lightly, giving a quick glimpse over her own costume. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Y/N instinctively looks down at her outfit, grabbing the excess fabric around her thighs and curtsying jokingly. “Thanks, my boyfriend picked it out.”

Harry tilts his head to the side, his two front teeth digging into his bottom lip, eyebrows jolting knowingly. “He has great taste.” 

Y/N steps closer to her boyfriend, draping her arms over his strong shoulders, the corners of her lips twitching. “Yeah, but he takes centuries to get ready. That’s kindof a trade-off.”

Harry’s hands coast onto his girlfriend’s hips, squeezing jestingly as he draws her body flushed against his, the golden buttons of his pants cold against the ombréd cloth of her pantsuit. “He sounds like an ass.”

She wobbles her head from side to side as if mulling over his comment, eventually nodding in agreement. “He is.” 

His jaw falls open into a shocked smirk, raising his eyebrows in silent objection. “Is that so? Why do you stay with him, then?”

Y/N’s palms glide down the taut muscles of Harry’s arms, the pads of her fingers pressing into his skin suggestively. “He’s got a few redeeming qualities.” 

Harry’s heavy lashes dust over the tops of his cheeks, catching a few stray particles of glitter that shimmer alluringly in the dim lighting. His forearms suddenly tighten harder around her waist, pulling her so close she can feel his groin pressing into her thigh. His tone is slathered with arrogant self-assurance, the ghosts of the words dancing across her stinging lips and her eyes nearly roll back as whiffs of his intoxicatingly delicious scent numbs her sinuses. 

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Y/N has a hard time swallowing, feeling her voice lodge in her throat as he begins brushing his lips up and down her jaw. “I’ll keep that to myself.” 

Harry chuckles deeply and she can feel the vibrations down to her bones. “S’okay, I’ve got an idea of what you meant.” 

“You sound awfully confident.”

“I speak from experience.” 

Y/N moves her face back a tad, noticing that her fingers had somehow ended up tangled in the chain of his necklace, tugging at it so hard it's bruising Harry’s throat. He doesn’t mind it— he liked the burn. 

He ducks down further, wisping his mouth over her’s, groaning lowly in the back of his throat when he sees her lips are stained with the tempting red color he’d picked out. “Your mouth looks so pretty like that. Bet it’d look even better skimming down my chest and over my thighs.” 

His hold has her leaning back so far she’s now balancing on the tips of her toes, her chest heaving slightly against his. “Bet it would.” 

Harry reaches one hand up, cupping her jaw with his fingers, his thumb rubbing slowly over her bottom lip, watching the color transfer faintly. “Wouldn’t mind some of the glitter on my face ending up across your inner thighs, either.”

A small whine strains the back of Y/N’s throat at the image of Harry’s head ducking between her legs over and over, the white liner smudging under his eyes due to sweat while her damp skin rubs the glitter off his cheekbones, his ringed fingers clamping over her plush thighs as the light from the moon bounces off the glossy surface of the white nail polish. 

Harry presses a warm, sloppy kiss to the center of her jugular, her knees quaking as heat surges through her veins. “Some of it on your fingers, too, from pulling at my hair.”

He slowly dips his thumb past her lips, it’s weight heavy on her tongue. She acts on impulse, closing her mouth around it and sucking drunkenly. 

Harry’s teeth skim along the side of her neck, a breathy purr of, “That’s my good girl” simmering her nerves. 

Her words are muffled and weak, but she manages to get them out into the open. “We’re gonna be late.” 

It’s not that Y/N doesn’t want to because, fuck, she wants to, but she knows that Harry would leave her a disoriented mess for the rest of the night, and it’d be pretty obvious. The last thing she wants is his friends teasing her about it— the mortification would be eternal. 

He sighs grandly against her throat— which nearly sends her crumpling to the floor—  and reluctantly pulls away. 

Harry knocks his forehead against her’s, his sparkly lashes dusting her eyelids as they barely conceal the puncturing sexual hunger glinting in the amber flecks around his pupils. “You’re lucky the pantsuit is a one-piece or I’d have you riding my face right about now.” 

With that, he refixes her crooked demon horns atop her head, retrieving the cape, clip-on tail, and pitchfork from where she’d placed them on the bed. He tangles their fingers together and yanks a very hazy, unbalanced Y/N towards the door. 

She stumbles after him in her heels, gaining enough footing to avoid rolling as they descended down the stairs, the sounds from both of their shoes pounding hard inside her temples. Harry hands her the rest of her costume, grabbing his favorite navy blue trench coat from it’s hook next to the entryway and shrugging it on, carefully working his hands through the sleeves to keep the frill detailing from bunching up. He pats down his pockets to make sure he has his keys, fishing them out with his index finger as he unlocks the front door. 

He steps off to the side for Y/N to go through first, kissing her cheek chastely as she brushes past him with a tiny, soft, “Thank you.” 

“Of course, darling.” Harry follows her lead, turning back to lock the door to their apartment, checking the knob the same way he’s done his entire life. 

Y/N loops her arm around his as they walk towards his car, the chilly air rustling her velvet jacket and drying the light sheen of sweat that had accumulated across her hairline. The moon hangs calmly amongst the stars, illuminating the high points of Harry’s face in a very fitting heavenly manner, the soft sounds of chirping insects and hooting owls setting a comfortably spooky tone for the rest of the night. A few straggling trick-or-treaters are turning in for the night, exchanging happy halloween’s and heading towards their complexes. 

The beeping of the car rings across the still air along with the quick flash of the headlights. Harry opens the door for Y/N, just as he’s always done, helping her get settled into the passenger’s seat. He then leans down a tad through the frame of the door, fingers tapping at the hood of the car, eyes half-lidded in a sly simper.

“Just thought I’d tell you in advance, you might wanna get the situation between your thighs settled before we get to the party. I’d be able to smell how wet you are from a mile away.” 

#demon!harry #harry styles au #demon au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagines #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shots #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles dirty fanfic #harry styles dirty fic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles drabble #harry styles dirty #hs1 #hs2 #harry styles blurb #harry x reader #one direction #one direction fanfiction #one direction one shot

[nettlestonenell]

Armie Hammer wants a sequel to The Man From U.N.C.L.E.—shouldn’t you?

This post is a long time in coming, Gentle Readers and @jammeke​, but now, though it might be here, before your very eyes, to think it will be well-laid out would be a mistake. It’s set to be just about as messy as Ilya’s misplaced loyalties and murky motivations.

How dare!

I probably first watched this film well over a year ago (courtesy @jammeke​ posting things about it). I used Sling OnDemand (I think on TNT). In the ensuing viewings I also watched it in that way, but as I was sitting down for a fourth(?) viewing, it kept coming to me that I was tired of watching it with commercials I couldn’t skip, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it had been edited for time and I was missing out on scenes. [pointless aside: I was also watching the film in chunks, and never as a whole]

Where is she now? What’s the time stamp? How far along did she get? Are you shagging the hotel hostess yet?

So, I, uh, set out to buy it on DVD—without any luck! In the sense that copies I could find cost more (w/ shipping) than buying it to stream. So, I bought it to stream on Amazon. Do I regret my choice, Gentle Readers? No, no I don’t. I do regret burden of knowledge in learning that TNT was already playing the entirety of the film. That was a hard pill to swallow.

Nope, I’ve looked. That’s absolutely everything. Nothing additional lurking around here...

So here it is, as it is, @jammeke, “My Notes on The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Look, I don’t know what this film is. I probably can’t fully articulate its appeal. Or maybe I can--certainly after transcribing four page I’ve tried. Number One thing to know about me and fiction/films is that a top draw for me is seeing something out of the ordinary, such as beautiful locations, a historical era, delicious costumes. There are times, frankly, this can trump weak story and undefined character for me. (The best films, of course, combine all three) Certainly, The Man... delivers in the delight of the eyes. Additionally, I must confess that growing up as a person older than @reblogginhood​ but younger than Miss Fisher, so much of what was on TV was essentially reruns of this film’s iconic Look(tm). So, when I see women dressed like Gaby I am just another three-to-seven-year-old overcome with the drop dead glamour of it all.

Darling, tell me how you really feel...

Some questions I have:

·         IS Armie Hammer a hulk of a man? Everyone in this film seems to think so, yet he always tracks to me as trim (rather than hulking)

·         Why translate via captions some Russian speaking, but not all?

·         IS Napoleon’s backstory directly cribbed from USA’s White Collar?

·         DOES Gaby have a German accent?

·         Does Ilya get preternaturally attached to all the people he’s ordered to look after? Also, what is his bonding rate with kittens?

Sorry, wrong iteration. 

 ·         If Lady Villain knows the lens is wrong—if her technical understanding is that in-depth--does she really need Gaby’s dad to make the bomb?

·         How old was Gaby during the war?

·         What happens when Ilya gets a NEW puppy assigned to him? (please let this be addressed in film #2)

Hooray for:

·         That bathroom fight! *all the Burn Notice feels!

·         Gaby is her own lady, and chooses sides as necessary—not always unilateral in her support for either male character. Case in point: she sides with Ilya over the clothes, and Napoleon over the incident of the wallet.

·         That delicious (speaking as Rusty, here) Ocean’s 11-stylized action. It’s pretty, so I’m not bored with it. Sometimes a sandwiched montage gets shown, so I’m REALLY not bored. I’ve got 18 tiny moving boxes of things to look at!

·         Pinkie rings. There, you’ve told me everything I need to know about that character.

·         Solo in a beret. English has not yet found a word for the feeling it evoked in this viewer. Somewhere between ‘precious’ and ‘oh, no’.

See, there? Now you’ve felt it too.

·         Goggles! All the accessories! Dune Buggies! (I mean, that’s what I’m calling Napoleon’s chase-scene ride)

Things I adore:

·         It seems (after some research) that more than a few folks view Gaby as a third wheel, and though she’s not exactly a Princess Leia commandeering her own rescue and exuding competence and a deserved take-charge-attitude at every corner, she IS a foci for both male characters (though romantically it would seem only for one), just as Ilya is a foci for both her and Napoleon [no one seems to worry about Napoleon, though they should--film #2, anyone?]

·         Mechanic Gaby not needing a beauty makeover, or being dragged into one. She gets some nice clothes, but it’s never suggested that she’s not attractive or acceptable before putting them on, and I respect, nay, embrace it.

Oh, my heart. She’s still not as tall as them!

·         Ilya, drab pigeon Ilya, knowing fashion

·         Oh man, don’t even get me started on the power of the statement, “it doesn’t have to match”

·         You knew it was coming on this sublist: the wrestle-fight. I mean, c’mon. Poor little Gaby, locked behind the Iron Curtain, living a life of always being watched. She’s in the swankest hotel (I mean, Napoleon chose it, so we can be sure it’s swank with an E). She’s trying to celebrate her freedom, her liberation. She’s playing verboten music, she’s drinking to excess. Girl wants—and deserves—a party. And Ilya is…not built for that (that he knows of). For some fun, just imagine if she had been given Napoleon to room with instead.

                            o   I will say that this scene, and some of their other interactions have what I would call early (non-sibling) Luke and Leia energy. Ilya seems to have moments of being struck by Gaby in a way Luke is struck by Leia in the early part of the trilogy. When Leia takes charge, and Luke accepts it. When Leia does something incredible, and Luke is left open-mouthed. *no, I don’t see OT Star Wars in everything. Shut up.

·         “He fixed the glitch.”

·         Again, shout-out to the non-action action.

·         “I left my jacket in there.”

·         The whole race to rescue Gaby I am in love with beyond words. [I have noted it as “Crazy Jeep Drive with Warhead!”] Probably b/c it comes across as totally egalitarian. Both men want her rescued. They’re no longer in competition. It’s just as important to Napoleon as it is to Ilya to catch up to her. Also, it is bonkers, like some sort of X-games version of a commercial for the vehicles they’re driving. And screaming Willie Scott does not make an appearance.

         Someone says “winkle” out.

·         Look! Another note about the screen divisions and how I love it, shout-outs to the original Steve McQueen The Thomas Crown Affair (a contemporary of when this movie is meant to be set), and TV’s 24.

Things that get a great, big NOPE:

·         Jerrod Harris: you’ve been in so much streamable content in the last decade I can’t hate you, but frankly, you’re terrible here—unless you’re supposed to be giving a mannered, not-campy-enough-to-be-enjoyable performance here. Your American English puts me in the mind of Alex Hawaii 5-0′Loughlin where it feels you’re concentrating so hard on your accent that you fail to convince anyone that you’re a harried, over-worked and exasperated spy handler. Your performance is at odds with every bit of dialogue you’re given to say.

·         That awful, mishandled title that doesn’t even connect to the film until the final moments (a sequel set-up, for sure)

·         Look, you don’t introduce Hugh Grant casually mid-way through your film in a throwaway appearance. I mean, he’s HUGH GRANT we all know something’s up now.

·         This is not exactly a great big NOPE, b/c I love a flat cap, Tommy Shelby—but I feel like a less tall man with a far rounder face in a flat cap would track more as Russian to me that AH does. To me, he just looks like he’s about to go golfing.

Over par? Unacceptable!

·         Is Victoria a British-accented Italian? A British woman who married—what? Gaby’s uncle isn’t Italian!? An Italian who went to school in Britain? My head hurts. Also, is her hair meant to be unconvincingly bleached?

Other commentary:

·         Napoleon’s adult ne’er-do-well backstory is so far from being emotionally equivalent to Ilya’s childhood trauma [and his enslavement to the USSR] it seems bestial when he calls it out on multiple occasions. Badly done, Solo.

·         Gaby is the film’s key (sorry, Buffy fans). Everyone is connected to her. Yes, she could have been given a bit more on the character front, but I don’t see her as as much of a flaw in the film as some others/reviewers seem to.

·         Look, essentially (and not very nuanced-ly), Ilya is a stalker. I think the film goes a certain distance in establishing that his early behavior toward Gaby is not normal, but concurrently it does not truly call him out on it. He’s essentially viewed as an odd-duck, sure, but not a true threat to her (should she not reciprocate or tolerate his intensity toward her). I think I might be able to cite his behavior when Gaby comes on to him (that he doesn’t jump at a chance with her) that maybe he’s given a little more nuance than a straight-on stalker, and it helps that he and Napoleon never get into a pissing match over Gaby’s person, only over her new clothes. But overall the film has to walk a fine line (and the jury is still out on how successful it is, I’d say) between playing Ilya’s laser-like attention to Gaby for its humor, and calling it out for the unsettling, threatening behavior it is.

·         Honestly, it wasn’t until I engaged the Closed Captioning that I understood Napoleon was calling Ilya the ‘Red Peril’. So, that was nearly three viewings in.

·         I give the screen credits A+, on both ends. Not to mention the end credits are actually INTERESTING with lots to see and learn! (Certainly we learn more about HG in them than we do at any time during the film)

Things I would have liked:

·         More of fish-out-of-the-Iron-Curtain Gaby moments

·         A better dichotomy shown of East vs. West Berlin/Germany. There’s nothing easy either visually or otherwise to distinguish the two.

·         HC being given a more specific American accent (from an actual locality). This, for an American viewer, works better than the flat, unlocated American accent many a British actor will bust out. *Mind you, HC does a generally good job, but he fails utterly on both “Immediate” which he pronounces at least twice as “immeedeejt” [rather than imm-E-deeot] and “Nazi” as “NAHT-zee” [rather than “NOT-zee”]. And let’s not get started on that late in the film use of ‘earnt’, a word that—well, it’s just not in the American English twentieth century lexicon.

·         C’mon. You gotta tease the Hugh Grant more.

·         Solo is a blank before the war. I’ve read thoughts on the film calling out Gaby as the blank character, but they’re wrong. Solo is the blank. He’s the ‘made’ man, his identity seemingly assembled during the war and after. For example, he doesn’t go into the war a thief, nor (it would seem) a particularly educated or urbane individual. Now THAT’s a juicy backstory I’d love to learn about, perhaps in film #2--or #3? What creates a Napoleon Solo? What would he be doing if he weren’t on the government’s leash/incarcerated? Is anyone left caring about him back wherever he calls home? I mean, who doesn’t love a gender-flipped 60s-era Holly Golightly backstory? [And yes, I would love there to be an ex-wife or even a current wife mixed up in his origins as well—Guy Ritchie, call me!]

Notes I have that I’m not sure if they still make sense to me:

·         Only mom calls me Napoleon (do he say it ‘mum’?) Is he a secret Canadian?

·         Solo’s torture, 1st view recall Napoleon’s childhood? *I think this means that after watching the first time I somehow erroneously believed that during the torture Napoleon’s childhood was a topic gone over. This was wrong. HOWEVER, this would have made far more story-sense than the backstory we’re given on an easily disposeable villain.

·         “Even the average Russian agent. You’re special.” ?

·         Uncle is Baddie (*so glad I made this note to myself)

·         Ilya’s dad IS an embarrassment. I’m not sure what genius commentary I had in my mind, here. Perhaps that Ilya himself is embarrassed of him? Not just Ilya’s handler’s? [Also, aside: Napoleon totally slut-shames Ilya’s mom, which is the doublest of double standards from ‘I got myself the biggest and most ornate suite b/c I-wanted-plenty-of-space-for-my-random-seductions’ and I really wish Ilya had thrown that back in his face] *yes, of course I know that Ilya and Napoleon would not likely equate a wife/mother’s sexual exploits with that of Solo’s, but let’s be honest, this film tweaks the nose of (I won’t say reverses, it doesn’t go that far) plenty of tropes and gender expectations, and this certainly seems like a missed opportunity to call Solo on the carpet (which I hope film #2 does far more)

Things I wrote down so long ago I don’t recall what they mean:

·         CC-save

In conclusion:

What does film #2 look like? What title does it get? Will the Peter/Neil White Collar dynamic continue to grow? *note that I have no confidence a second film will ever come to pass...

In the end, all I know is, “It didn't help when American Tom Cruise, who was slated to play U.S. spy Napoleon Solo, dropped out, prompting the casting of Cavill (who had previously read for the Russian role).“ I would not have watched that film.

#tmfu #tmfu 2015 #ilya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #henry cavill #armie hammer #alicia vikander #the man from uncle 2015 #the man from u.n.c.l.e. #the man from uncle #i don't know what this film's tags are meant to be to keep it from popping up in the TV series searches Sorry

[fyexo]

EXO's Kai Talks Independence, Motivation And His Incredible Career

There’s the saying that you’ve made it into the upper echelons of fame when you achieve single-name status. Monikers like Beyoncé, Ariana Grande, and Billie Eilish ring a bell for they’ve relentlessly dominated not just the music charts, but pop culture, fashion and news in general. Then there’s also Kai. The 26-year-old main dancer of popular K-pop boy group EXO and a member of global K-pop boyband SuperM, beloved for his powerful moves, and experimental style — read: crop tops — that challenges the traditional markers of masculinity.

Today, it’s clear that the space Kai inhabits has only gotten bigger since his debut eight years ago, most recently wearing the hat of Gucci’s first-ever Korean male global ambassador — dismantling cultural boundaries and parlaying the mononym, Kai, beyond the K-Pop realm. In this cover interview, the superstar chats candidly about going global, being independent, and why he felt like he needed an Instagram account.

Some time ago you revealed the results of your personality test on Instagram live. With regard to the question “Have you wondered about your existence?”, you answered that you have.

I think I have always thought about the question, “Why was I born?”. Also, I often wonder about questions like, “Why am I not born as someone else but as me; is the world I see through my eyes different from another person’s point of view?”

You revealed that you have an INFJ personality type based on the MBTI — it seems quite accurate.

I don’t really remember my result, so I plan to take it again. My family has taken it too, and after seeing my mum’s result I thought it seemed like a very credible test [laughs]. My mum is a dreamer. Even before I debuted, she said, “You like to dress up, and because I brought you up in that way you are definitely going to have something to do with fashion brands in the future.” Naturally, when I became a Gucci ambassador, she was ecstatic.

Your Instagram feed’s theme is filled with “EXO”, “family” and “Gucci”.

I created my account in 2018 when I was having a shoot with ELLE for Gucci’s Cruise show. I’ve always known that social media was important, but I really felt that even more when a lot of celebrities asked for my account during the show.

You participated in the filming of a global eyewear campaign that was revealed not too long ago in the Amoeba Music store in Los Angeles. Was it a special experience for you as a musician?

Of course, it was supposed to be closed down and so the fact that I managed to take pictures and create memories of that historical place made me feel happy and blessed. The production crew were all non-Koreans, and the atmosphere at the location was different as well so it was all very nerve-racking. I felt like I had gone back in time to when I first debuted.

Even Kai gets nervous. Have you had any other similar experiences when a location you liked disappeared or closed down?

The old SM building I grew up in when I was a trainee and formed so many memories [at] just recently underwent some remodeling works. The rooftop and a few other spaces where I spent so much of my time have all disappeared. Those were places that meant so much to me, so with the new changes made, I was able to actually realise how much time has passed.

There are many people with a good [sense of] style. [Your] outstanding point is that when you try out different styles, it doesn’t seem foreign [to you].

I think that cool and pretty things can be captured easily but capturing a specific concept — in terms of fashion — can be a difficult feat. I use that mentality as an excuse to try out different styles of fashion that I would not have dared to in my daily life, such as the reggae hairstyle that I did in Growl, or the short crop jacket that I wore during my promotions for Obsession. I think two weeks is more than enough to prepare and try out new things [laughs].

You have made appearances in variety programmes such as Knowing Brothers and Radio Star last year. Were these experiences enjoyable?

Thanks to the humorous moments that came about, I actually received many offers from other shows. However, I was worried that the Kai that I portray on stage could be hindered by my different sides shown on TV, and that it might be difficult for anyone to focus on my performances due to the drastic differences.

I can’t not mention SuperM’s group promotions. Three different groups under SM came together to form this sub-unit, as part of a project!

When EXO went on our American tours, we experienced that culturally, races and traditions had been blurred. I could feel that there was less of a “line” separating us. I was able to approach fans more easily; I don’t think there’s a limit to K-Pop. I don’t need to deliberately mention the [global] success of Parasite. The fact that I became the global ambassador of Gucci eyewear proves that race does not matter at all, but it’s more about one’s talents and charisma.

Personally, I felt the progress of K-Pop after watching the safety briefing videos that SuperM and BoA shot together for Korean Airlines.

I am too shy to watch it, but I did receive a lot of video stills of myself from my friends and they didn’t look good at all. They keep sending me parts where I look bad [laughs].

Due to your performances and dancing, I think the pressure on the stage is incredible.

Usually I don’t have much worries, stress, or even anger, but it’s different right before going up on stage. I get so stressed to the point it can be tiring. Honestly, waking up at six in the morning with hardly any sleep just to pre-record our performances for music shows — it sounds impossible. I’m only able to show 20 per cent of my all and that is really sad. Last year was such a busy year, I hardly had any time to recharge myself nor did I feel I was ready to stand on stage, but the show still had to go on. I was not fully satisfied with the performances as a dancer, but it just has to be endured.

What are the reasons that you are able to carry on despite all the difficulties?

The contentment after I get things done, and the comfort that I was able to pull through. On the other hand, I think the sincerity I feel towards everything I do and the constant ambition to do things better is a huge motivation and a relief when I accomplish it. If I don’t feel this way, it will mean that this work no longer means as much as it did to me in the past. Showing my fans the best version of myself, and the comfort and happiness I feel when I’m contented with my performance or work, is really important to me. In the past I couldn’t even sleep after making one mistake, but I sleep really well now [laughs].

And dancing is still something you enjoy?

I’ve been dancing for almost 20 years now. I can’t not dance. Even when I was young, I’d dance everywhere and anywhere, to the extent my mum said, “Stop dancing, it’s embarrassing.”

It’s well known that you have some really special and tight relationships with a few people around you. Do you get any inspiration from their advice, or from their influence?

I’m not the type to ask for advice from anyone first. Even when I ask what’s the better of two choices, I already have an answer [that I’ve] decided on in my mind. I’ve always felt that I needed to be independent; to [think for myself] when I decide, in order to be able to say that it is “mine”.

So, you’re a man of few words around people.

If they want me to be. If necessary, I will say good things, but more [so] the realistic point of view. I always think of the worst possible situation before saying anything [when giving advice], so those who know me well will not ask me trivial questions. When things go south or important decisions to be made, they will look for me. As for myself, I humbly listen to criticism or harsh words.

“Sexy” and “beautiful” are words that you probably hear a lot, but your fans call you “cute”. Which sides of yourself do you think are cute?

None! Even if I have thought of myself as cute, I won’t say it or admit it [laughs].

There are many people who idolise you as they see you as an iconic person. Does [the phrase] “a symbolic beauty of youth” or any other nicknames that you carry, feel a little too exaggerated?

Everyone views me differently, so I can’t say that it’s burdensome or exaggerated. Instead, I’m thankful. I don’t want to think of these nicknames or titles consciously as I live my life. Like, “Oh since they call me this, I should try to behave a little more as such”. I only want to show my true self without having other considerations — always.

What do you consider to be beautiful?

Definitely cool clothes, sculptures, drawings and paintings. When I look at some really good-looking people, I feel that that is beauty too. But personally, I think that true beauty lies in moments. Past memories and ordinary moments that when you look back, [you] realise that what you felt back then was more beautiful and precious than any other happiness that you’ve experienced.

A line from the drama The Miracle We Met pops into my mind — “Memory isnot [just] a record of time, but [is always]accompanied by emotions. That’s something surprising we never expect.”

Good memories always bring back rushing emotions, regardless of when you look back at it. That is really beautiful, and that is why I really love watching movies with film static noise, as it seems like I’m looking into someone’s memories.

Your name Jong (鍾) comes from“iron drum bell” and In (仁) comes from “benevolent”. Your grandfather named you that, which means to be as benevolent as the person who rings the morning bell. Throughout your life, have you ever thought about the meaning behind your name?

Hmmm, firstly, I’m not a morning person [laughs], but hitting the bell at dawn means to be of use to someone and to [have] more initiative, so I do want to live up to that and inspire others. Perhaps I could already be doing just that, I’m not sure.

I’m sure you’ve garnered plenty of praise for your dance techniques, but the shoot today focused quite a bit on your looks too. Which feature of yours do you like?

I do like to think that I have my own attractive features, like my small ears or a round bear like nose which most would say is so-so — but I still like them. If I really had to choose, it would be my chin and eyebrows for now. I think these two features make up 80 per cent of my defining look.

What does family mean to you?

Family is family. There may be no one in the world who will be completely on my side, but my family will still accept me as I am. I grew up happily with two siblings, and so if I were to have a family of my own, I always thought three kids would be just nice. But now when I look at my sister struggling with childcare, I realised it’s definitely not something to think lightly of. My family members are also my seniors (sunbae) in life.

Your eight-year anniversary is coming up soon, and you’ve probably been through many hardships. Do you think it is necessary for a person to go through pain to mature?

Looking back now, not all hardships have changed my nature; I personally don’t see the need for a person to go through change and pain in order to mature. But you know there is going to be a tough time for everyone at least once in their lifetime, and it’s not so bad a thing to be positive and think of precious things to get through it. Most importantly, just because you’re going through something difficult doesn’t mean you should hate yourself or be hard on yourself, because the most precious thing in the world is yourself.

Some may look at you and think that you’ve got it all. In spite of this, is there still anything that you wish to have, and is there a further goal you have in mind?

Before my debut, I had a lot of ambitions but the Kai I am today doesn’t have anything else I could wish for. I don’t think the place I am today is my final station but even if it is, I would be okay with that. Even if my debut was the end, I am proud of the life I’ve led, and I would be super proud of whatever I do. I am able to say this confidently because I learnt that the more fixated I am on something, the less happy I am. I learnt that it is better to focus on and enjoy the present; to enjoy doing what you do.

What type of person do you hope to be to your loved ones?

There is only one thing I wish for and that is for them to always be by my side no matter what decisions I make. Likewise, I will do the same.

SOURCE: Elle Singapore June 2020

#exo #kai #t: interview #elle singapore june 2020

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Song For Autumn: Away || Morgan & Deirdre (pt.2)

TIMING: The weekend

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: A day trip with antiquing, horseback riding, and apple picking takes a surprising turn.

CONTAINS: violence, gore, death

The Old Town Living History Museum was two hours’ drive and several towns past White Crest. In addition to touting people in full historical reproduction dress, hand pressed apple cider, and demonstrations on everything from blacksmithing and farming to dance and cooking, it had a number of genuine antiques on display that were a little easier to get their hands on than anything they would find in more of a ‘don’t touch the glass’ museum. Morgan reached over the console and squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “I know we’re here for a very important mission but we don’t get out of town much, and I trust you to tell me if, for any reason, you don’t feel okay while we’re walking around, so I think that we can also enjoy ourselves a little. Or a lot, even. You can tell me all kinds of good, nerdy things about farming, and I read on the website that they have hayrides, and a restaurant that recreates genuine eighteenth century recipes, and there’s even wildflower picking, apple picking, it’s a whole thing, they really care about getting other people engaged with these older and different ways of being. Which is good, since somebody’s wool comb is about to get a new way of being with me.” She kissed Deirdre’s knuckles. “What do you think?”

As it turned out, the type of comb Morgan needed could be found at...Deirdre squinted at the sign; some living history museum thing. To her, it looked exceptionally bizarre. Like a place pulled from time, except for the cars, and the people walking around in modern dress and the, well, everything else. “Humans are so strange…” she mumbled, unbuckling herself and leaning across the console to kiss Morgan, though her eyes remained stuck on the scenery around them. She wasn’t sure why humans saw value in a place like this, gawking at the things that were done in the past. Deirdre couldn’t wait to escape her days of churning butter, and these people seemed enthused to watch some woman in historically accurate attire getting fatigued doing a job that would take a machine minutes to do. Or were they the ones churning the butter? Deirdre stepped out of the car, looking around with mounting confusion. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Bewildered, she moved to her girlfriend’s side in shock. “Restaurant..?” Deirdre shook her head, finally processing her words in the car. “Fates, no. I’m done with oatmeal. I don’t need any more of it.” Although, she considered, if this was an establishment trying to make money, they probably wouldn’t serve gruel. And so, maybe she was safe from the terrors of it. Deirdre sighed, peeling her gaze away from the museum and on to her girlfriend; who was both a much less confusing sight and a much prettier one. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. This place is just---” Laughter cut Deirdre off, and she snapped around to look at the source: a tour group being enthusiastically led into a barn. “--odd. Very odd.” She wasn’t sure how great wildflower picking--an activity she loved as a child--would be with a group of humans watching her. If she wanted hand-pressed cider, old fashioned farm life and hayrides, she’d just go back to Ireland. Then again--Deirdre turned back to Morgan. Ireland didn’t have Morgan, and her girlfriend was more than enough to enjoy any amount of strange, dated activities. “It’s no grave robbing…” She smiled and leaned in, “...but I will accept any reason to steal you away. It’s nice being out here together, it’s nice being anywhere together.” She kissed her; long and deep and as much as she could before some upbeat actor told them about bonnets.

Deirdre reached for her hand, “Let’s go in then, yeah?” She pushed the doors to the museum open, which summoned a far worse feeling of anachronism inside of Deirdre than the exterior could ever hope to--but unlike how Dolan manor had simply been a hodgepodge of time periods, the museum seemed strangely insistent on looking as dated as it could be, while also---”I see they’ve installed lighting fixtures.” They also had brochures. Deirdre picked one up and occupied herself with flipping through it.  

“Do they not have living history or reenactments or Ren Fairs in Ireland?” Morgan asked. Deirdre was bristling with confusion, as if they’d stepped into a nonsense world instead of an obsessively maintained historical settlement. “It’s a little niche, but I’ve always wanted to go to one. It’s so easy to forget that people back then were also...people. They were dumb and they had lame problems, and theses glorified novelty acts like baking your own bread were commonplace and nuanced. It can be nice, to a point, to see how different things were, and how much the same. At Deirdre’s kiss, Morgan rose onto her tiptoes, all but falling into her girlfriend’s body as they kissed. “I like being with you too,” she whispered, her smile lopsided and drunk with affection.

She didn’t quite have her feet when Deirdre led them inside, but stumbled behind, still dazed and delighted. Beyond the gate, the open-air settlement looked like the set for some BBC Drama. There were houses in white-painted wood and well maintained brick, women in straw hats with heavy baskets, and horses and buggies trotting through the street. There were animals smelling and squawking in pens, clangs of hammers at wood and anvils, the murmur of a happy autumn wind and cut through it all were screaming babies and ringing cell phones and plastic stroller wheels. Steam rose from every other chimney and Morgan was almost glad to not be able to smell it, so she could imagine steam, hickory, or spices coming from those hearths as much as she liked. She peered over the brochure with Deirdre, looking for the map, when a shadow stopped in front of them.

Morgan looked up. “Oh! Good morrow, or I guess, good day? Hi?” The shadow belonged to a woman around their age, who sported a large straw hat that was probably great for working in the sun, but not so much for letting Morgan strategize her movements with Deirdre in peace.

“Good day, and welcome,” the woman said, goodnaturedly. “Prithee, may I help you find your way, travelers?”

Morgan exchanged a look with Deirdre. Wandering around was supposed to be half the fun, but it wouldn’t hurt to know where they needed to end up. “Uh...sure! I was looking, uh, for the sheep? There’s um, demonstrations on preparing wool in the afternoon, right?”

“Aye, indeed! Right this way.”

Morgan lingered, waiting for directions to be given, but it was soon clear that the woman meant for them to follow her. She shrugged at Deirdre, silently asking for her input. It would be rude not to follow, right?

“Well, all you had to say was that you’ve always wanted to come,” Deirdre smiled, laughing her qualms about the place away. If Morgan wanted to be here, that was all she needed to know. If she thought churning butter was interesting, then Deirdre did too---or she didn’t, but she did fully support Morgan’s interest in it. Nothing about the way humans once lived their lives was interesting to her, but everything about Morgan was. Even if her old home had been just this, with an Irish paint over it, she was excited at the prospect of exploring it with Morgan.

The brochure only served to fill her head with more ideas. The wildflower picking did seem nice, now that she was reading about it. And the map showed off labels of various activities that sounded more interesting the longer she started at the text. The blacksmithing demonstration was set for an hour from now, and there was a real sewing circle they could join in to hear the town’s (scripted) gossip and make poorly stitched abominations. There was a carriage ride and-- “Aha, they do have a butter churning demonstration.” Deirdre pointed it out on the brochure, delighted by the correctness of her instincts, though blinded by it just the same. By the time she looked up, Morgan had already finished her conversation with the reenactor and was looking at her. “Oh, uh…” She nodded, and moved back to Morgan’s side, anchoring them close together as they followed behind the woman. The pictures of the orchard on the property was, admittedly, quite gorgeous and the promise of keeping the apples they picked (provided they pay) was tempting. It was where Deirdre wanted to suggest they go first, or after, maybe--or something. It was strange to be off to the wool so soon, it felt more like the last thing they should do. Despite the minor upset to her burgeoning plans, she nudged Morgan excitedly as they moved through the grounds. The order didn’t really matter, even if she would have preferred not to be carrying around an object of ill-gotten origin with them while they looked around. Although, she figured, it probably would make exploring more exciting. “People have died here,” she whispered in Gaelic as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s temple. She tried to point out a few of the places where she was pulled the strongest, but felt strange under the woman’s backwards glances--as if she was afraid they’d wandered off somewhere. She withdrew her hand and was content enough to press herself into Morgan, and pepper affection where she could as they walked.

“We should get some cider after this,” she suggested, shifting around to try and pull out the brochure she haphazardly stuffed into her pocket when they started moving. “I hear autumn is the season for it, after all.” But before she could pull the glossy paper free and figure out where the cider was, and where they were being led, a thick wooden door slammed open and the woman was gesturing them into an old stone house. Deirdre glanced back at the way they’d come, and realized she had no idea how they were supposed to get back. It seemed to her then, that they’d be stuck with this strangely nosey woman for a while, especially if she insisted on leading them everywhere. “Thank you,” she smiled tightly, stepping inside.

Morgan stayed latched to Deirdre as they walked, reveling in the firm safety of her grasp and the delight of their surroundings bristling around her senses. She eyed Deirdre at her words in Gaelic. “Show me?” she said back. And then in English, “Anything good?” She wasn’t sure how the death pull worked with places, or how differently they felt next to her, but even if Deirdre’s senses sometimes yielded horrible visions, they also lead them to good hiding places and sometimes beautiful discoveries in a buried bone or some abandoned minutiae of a life like an engraved pen or a receipt from a fancy chocolate store. There weren’t any ghosts, at least not that Morgan could see yet, which boded well for the place, overall, though it might have been nice to talk to one that didn’t want to murder her. But there didn't seem to be time to stop, at least not yet. Apparently all the wool-working stuff was way in the back, and Morgan didn’t even have time to admire the (probably?) faux graveyard in front of the church and the social cliques that seemed at least half-genuine. Several of them stopped to wave at them as they passed, and Morgan, confused as she was, waved back awkwardly.

“Ooh, we should!” Morgan replied. “Maybe a quick detour? Or we could go to the orchards for a little bit before then? Pick some apples, find some nice ripe ones to take home for turnovers, cobbler, pie…” She batted her eyes coyly. She could see the heavy tops of the orchard trees from where they stood, and several couples milling out proudly with old-fashioned buckets brimming with spoils. She couldn’t eat any, but it would be fun to gather a stash, and Deirdre almost certainly had a story or a practical secret to go along with it. But before she could say, ‘thanks, we got it from here!’ the barn door was being rolled open, seemingly just for them.

“Oh my stars!” Morgan didn’t have Deirdre’s banshee control, even when she was bracing herself for impact. And despite Deirdre’s observations about the performance town, she hadn’t been prepared to see the headless ghost standing under the lights. She laughed, searching the room for a sign this was just a Halloween decoration, some obscure historic custom she knew nothing about and would be eager to learn, but--nope. She was, without a doubt, the only one who could see the man without turning the color of her eyes. “It’s just so beautiful in here!” She said. “And that lamb is so adorable! I mean, just look at it!” She turned to the woman at the spinning wheel. “What’s the cutie’s name, uh, prithee?”

The lamb was named Jeremy. The spinning woman was Dolly, and the woman who had appointed herself as their guide, still lingering in the doorway with her tight, starched smile, was named Prue. There was a man who strolled in from some unseen door in the back who said he was Ben, and suddenly Morgan had more names than she could keep track of and more of a crowd than she wanted for what was supposed to be some very casual theft. Circling back later was looking like a better idea, but more people were coming in, peeking at what was inside and joining in the fun. Morgan tucked herself into Deirdre and rose on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek, lingering to whisper more Gaelic in her ear, “Ghost. Bad or good sign?”

Despite charisma that rolled naturally off her tongue, and confidence that pulled her motions instinctively, Deirdre was not one for crowds. Or people, most days. And certainly not one to be forced into some demonstration of something she already knew about. But the woman, and the other woman, and also the man, were looking at them expectantly. And now people whispered and came around to watch whatever display was going on. And though it was funny to Deirdre that humans could be so curious they would just turn their attention to whatever strange thing was happening around them, she didn’t want to be stuck in some gawking circle of people. She was not, and never would be, an easily-amused human. Her pride didn’t enjoy standing there, just as much as Jeremy didn’t—being a creature that disliked isolation from his herd. Not that anyone else seemed to notice Jeremy’s stress; his bleating probably sounded cute. “Well…maybe I’ll show you after,” she frowned, “and we can just go to the orchard next…” But she didn’t feel right.

“Ghost?” Deirdre squinted, glancing around the room. She’d been so distracted by the lamb and her own discomfort that she missed the gentle tugging right in front of them. “Good, right?” She turned to Morgan and bore confusion, and then a shrug. “Is it a good ghost?” Their Gaelic conversation drew stares from Prue, who, in fact, hadn’t seemed like she stopped staring at them. Not until Deirdre met her gaze, and she turned away as if suddenly shy. “What’s her problem?” She tried in English, shaking it away. It wasn’t the first time someone had a vested interest in them; scorn or jealousy or confusion or admiration. The situation simply drew Deirdre’s sensitivities, and as much as she hated crowds, she hated being stared at when she wasn’t trying to be—and especially in a crowd. She was equally as perturbed by the child jumping up and down to her right, and the older couple to their left that couldn't decide if they wanted to stay or go someplace else.

“It would depend,” she continued, sighing as she leaned down to press a kiss to Morgan’s cheek. “On what it looks like, right?” If it was a ghost that was going to chat them up the moment it realized Morgan could see and hear it, then it was bad. If it was one dressed as old as the actors were, then it was relic, and probably good. Deirdre paused. “Them.” She blinked. “They. What they look like. Not it.” She shook her head, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to Morgan, but it felt like one of those steps she needed to take to be better. “But we are already here, we might as well stay.” Despite her discomfort, there was far more she would bear for Morgan’s sake. And, truly, this couldn’t have been any worse for her than any new situation was. If she could learn not to throw anyone out a window at a children’s birthday party, she could handle some demonstration on wool preparation. “Do you see the comb anywhere?” She asked Morgan, looking around for herself. It seemed, however, that the more curious she got, the more Prue’s gaze burned into her. Deirdre turned to her, smiled and winked, but whatever amusement she felt, wasn’t shared. She couldn’t help but feel like she was the one breaching some social ruleset, and being unaccustomed to the atmosphere they were in, Deirdre withered and kept her attention forward.

Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s hand, appreciative and encouraging as she corrected herself about the ghost. “No. Head.” She explained in Gaelic, nodding slowly in the direction of the figure. He had a cloak on, but the cheap Party City kind, not something one of the actors or even the original inhabitants would wear. Definitely a patron of the enthusiastic variety. There were plenty of them milling around, one was even in the crowd with them. The headless ghost raised a finger to where his lips should have been, ssshh. And pointed at Morgan, or somewhere behind her? As he gestured, Morgan could spot the modern finishings on his belt, that included a novelty buckle from a TV show that was only a couple of years old. Morgan didn’t know enough words to explain this, so she settled with, “New.”

The headless ghost, from wherever his head rested, seemed to hear her and pointed more emphatically again at Morgan. Did he not want to be talked about? Did he think literally anyone else here could understand them? Morgan couldn’t tell, so she wrapped Deirdre’s arms around her, playing the affectionate girlfriend (which wasn’t much of a play at all) and snuck a peek at what was behind her while she brushed Deirdre’s hair back in tender strokes. There was nothing, only Prue and the elderly couple, who had decided to go to the smithy after all.

Dolly, the spinning woman, welcomed everyone in and went on with the history of woolwork and how it was done. Everyone was encouraged to come close and Morgan, seeing an opportunity, edged her and Deirdre to the side of the room where most of the tools seemed to be, and a little away from the families and well-dressed nerdy teens. As she shifted, she noticed how tense Deirdre felt, coiled like a spring. “Do you wanna to step out, babe?” She asked gently, her eyes flickering up, reading whatever cues Deirdre’s face was leaving her. But something else caught her attention. Prue, still...staring at them with a lot of...focus, was the only word for it. She didn’t seem disgusted or hateful, not yet anyway. Just...intense, like she was trying to study them. “I’m gonna need a distraction anyway,” Morgan whispered, turning back to watching the wool. Dolly had just taken a rather intimidating looking carder from a sheath at her hip and was showing off how the work was done. It was definitely iron and definitely a lot heavier than Morgan would’ve expected a woman almost her build to be able to work with so much ease. “You, go. We meet in apples?” She whispered, letting her sidelong glance emphasize that she was open to other suggestions for their plan. Dolly held out the carder for the audience to admire. “Mind ye, ‘tis sharp!” She said cheerfully. When she came by them, Morgan only gave a polite nod and a smile, and watched with relief as it went down in front of a table, almost within reach. Maye it would be a good thing that they were getting this over with.

Burning with curiosity, Deirdre let her imagination fill in the visual gaps. A headless ghost wouldn’t talk, which suited her just fine, but a recent headless ghost meant something was wrong--excitingly wrong. She could say she respected the pageantry of murder in a themed museum, even if decapitation was tired. But either way, a murder meant there was something fun for her to find around here. More fun than wool, anyway. The thought pulled her lips into a lopsided smile. “Did he die here?” Deirdre asked, “in this room?” She knew Morgan wouldn’t really be able to tell, not unless the ghost was gesturing secrets to her, but she’d asked for the sake of her own thoughts. With renewed interest, she surveyed the room. Which corner would their ghost have died in? What tool did the killer use? Though under Prue’s gaze, her delight withered quickly. She couldn’t help but feel she must have been doing something wrong, and maybe it was getting excited about murder. She didn’t belong here. Deirdre sighed, watching the carder settle on the table. “Do you want that distraction now?” Distractions she could do, chaos was always hers to incite; she couldn’t do much just standing there, pretending to be as awed and entertained as the people around her. She spared one more glance back at Prue, shooting her another ill-met wink before she turned her attention back to Morgan. “Don’t keep me waiting ‘in apples’ for too long,” she pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

Jeremy was a nervous creature, like most sheep were. A shrill, chilling, inhuman shriek was enough to set his fear ablaze. And it was exactly the sound Deirdre let slip from her lips as she jumped back, spooked by an invisible threat. “Bee!” She offered her reason, not that it mattered much under Jeremy’s panicked bleating. He kicked, desperate for escape from the room as Deirdre stumbled back, bumping the table as she tried to find her own. She knocked a number of tools to the ground as she scrambled to leave, trying to yell something about a bee allergy over Jeremy’s cries. But the moment she was sure everyone’s attention was on the lamb, her acting fell apart and she strode out of the room with a grin. She would’ve liked to stick a knife between Prue’s eyes before she left, but such desires she could quell in the name of helping Morgan and getting a few apples out of it. Pulling the brochure out of her pocket, she folded the flimsy paper back until the part of the map that outlined the path from where they were to the orchard was the only visible face. She left the map under her feet, in one way to help guide Morgan in case she’d get lost, in another to make her feel better about leaving her girlfriend behind--even if this was her plan. With a skip, and delight in each long stride, she left for ‘apples’.

Morgan gave Deirdre one more squeeze, affirming yes, do it now, and soaking up a little more affection before they parted. It would only be a few minutes, with any luck, but chaos was a funny thing. Deirdre’s shriek rattled more than just the lamb. Two people near them ducked, covering their ears, a toddler started to wail, and that was before Deirdre knocked into as much furniture as possible. “Oh, honey! Be careful!” Morgan stumbled away from her and towards the table. Everyone was rushing to wrangle Jeremy, who was already kicking a few shins and scaring the rest of the children.

“Mommy, make him stop crying!”

“Maybe we should go…”

“Did she say a BEE?”

Morgan picked up the carding comb from the table and dropped it into her bag with ease. This far in the shadows, no one could possibly be paying attention. When she was done, she went back to clutching her chest and panting, as if the whole thing had taken the wind out of her with fright. “Oh, honey, don’t go,” she called lamely. Then, laughing awkwardly to everyone else, “...I think I’m just gonna--” and gestured that she would show herself out. The other visitors in the room seemed to agree and started milling out, ready to move on to something less stressful. Morgan tried to push herself into the middle of the pack, no longer anyone special, just another face to be forgotten before the next group found their way in.

“You, there!”

Definitely not a thief.

“Prithee, did you get the carder, Ben?”

Definitely not the kind of woman who would take an antique iron wool comb and just dump it in her conveniently sized bag. Morgan would never. Except Morgan had, and despite her best efforts, Morgan found herself cut off at the door by the spinning woman, Dolly. “Not so fast,” she said. “I would like a word, Miss.”

Morgan tried to edge around her. “I’m really sorry about my girlfriend. We came prepared, obviously, but she had a really horrible allergic reaction as a kid and they just make her really afraid still. I hope Jeremy feels better--” But Dolly was clutching her wrist, too tight for Morgan to slip free.

“T’isn’t about the bee that I should like to speak on,” Dolly said, her tone still matter of fact.

“Let go of me. Now.” Morgan replied, twisting her arm away. But Dolly’s grip was strong, and Morgan struggled to put even a few inches of distance between them.

“I would very much like to, Miss,” Dolly said, throwing her back into the barn with a strength a woman her size should in no way have. “But I’d been holding your hand a lot longer than you realized.” She descended on her, elbowing her in the stomach and pinning her against the wall. A knife came out of her belt and slashed through her sleeve. No blood. She had to twist Morgan’s flesh to make dark blood ooze out of the wound. “I’m afraid we don’t welcome zombies in these parts.”

It was with great impatience that Deirdre remembered how dull everything was without Morgan. Even the sweet apples she plucked—stole—after sneaking into the orchard had suddenly turned sour. The bright, green and carefully maintained grass had become a murky swamp in her eyes. And while she knew she was being entirely too melodramatic, she also didn’t care. Her life was simply better for Morgan’s being in it, and activities she loathed always became enjoyable with her presence. Even as she tried to wait around like a sensible person should, sat against one of the trees, eating her terrible apple, she missed her girlfriend. As the time between their departure grew, Deirdre missed her more and more until the feeling was unbearable. She stood and threw her apple aside, marching back the same way she snuck in; around some old house and over a bit of flimsy fencing. But where she should have come round the corner to face the rest of the museum, she found Prue smiling at her. Deirdre stepped to the side, and Prue followed, blocking her path. She stepped to the other side, and Prue followed again. The game grew tiresome quickly. “Fates, bother someone else, prune.” She sighed and shoved the woman out of her way, stepping on to the bright pathway leading into the Orchard. From there, she remembered it was a series of rights, and then a straight walk back to the wool demonstration, where Morgan must have gotten held up. Where she— Prue stepped out in front of Deirdre again, thin knives pulled for her dress, clutched tightly between her fingers. She stepped forward, forcing Deirdre back into the darkness between houses. It occurred to her then, after her impatience settled, that something was wrong. It wasn’t the knives that bothered her, she didn’t care that Prue had begun pressing one of the blades to her abdomen; it was the fact that Prue was meant to be at the wool demonstration. Yet, she was here. Which either meant she’d snuck out, or the demonstration was over with. And if the demonstration was over with…. “Where’s my girlfriend?” Deirdre hissed, earning her a sharper press of Prue’s knife.

“Prithee,” Prue chirped, a facsimile of the polite woman who’d lead them around in the first place. She dug her knife in further, not wanting to puncture skin just yet, but adamant that Deirdre fall back into the shadows. Deirdre guessed that she didn’t much enjoy public scenes, and there was something funny about a woman who had just enough sense left not to murder in front of children. It was that way that Prue and Deirdre were very different. “Prithee,” she tried again, “wouldst th—“

“Oh, shut up.” Deirdre growled, gripping the woman by the shoulders and shoving her aside and out of the way. The action jerked Prue’s knife forward, and as it stuck out of Deirdre’s abdomen, the banshee knew exactly what the searing pain she was feeling meant. She gasped, steeling herself as she stumbled forward onto the path. Blood spilled between her fingers, where she held the wound, her plum dress quickly claimed by the color. She pulled the blade out in her quivering hand. The small knife was entirely metal, where a handle would’ve been, the metal was braided and pulled back to the blade to make a loop, just the right size for Prue’s delicate fingers. Every inch of it burned Deirdre. She dropped the knife and staggered into the crowd, clutching her stomach as if she’d eaten something rotten. Her one safety was the knowledge Prue wouldn’t dare chase her here, but she couldn’t do much for the trail of blood she was dropping. At first, she tried to kick dirt over it, but quickly realized the action was both time consuming, and terrible for her already challenged balance. “Morgan!” She yelled, the crowd wincing away from her. “Morgan!” There was no way, with how her voice travelled, that Morgan wouldn’t be able to hear her. But just hearing her might not have been enough. Deirdre’s body lurched, and she fell against the side of some building. She raised her hand and pushed herself steady, leaving her blood stained against the grey stone. It didn’t matter to her how much her body protested, how badly she was bleeding or what manner of hunter was chasing her, she would find Morgan, and she would make sure her love was safe. “Morgan!” She called again, resuming her trek back, teetering from one side to the other.

The first rule of fighting was don’t die. The second rule was don’t get knocked on your ass. Morgan had already failed the first nearly six months ago, and as Dolly struck her again, knocking over her bag, she nearly failed the second. Morgan’s head cracked against the barn wall. This was bad. If Dolly was a slayer, then what was everyone else? What about that woman who’d been staring at them? Had Deirdre even made it to the orchard? A blade bit through Morgan’s joints. She sank to her knees, mind scrambling for something to fight back with. She’d already broken the spinning wheel and the posts on the enclosure. They hadn’t done anything to stop the woman, who had dodged every attempt she didn’t simply shrug off. Morgan was running out of options.

Then she heard her name, carried on the wind in its frightening, inhuman timbre. “Deirdre!” Morgan cried back, loud as she could. “In here!” But Deirdre only called her name again, louder.

Behind her, Dolly cringed at the harshness of the sound, dropping her blade. This was Morgan’s chance. She picked up the iron comb from the ground and brandished it like a bat. Dolly saw it all coming, picking up her blade and dodging, feinting her way until she had the chance to nearly sever Morgan’s right arm. Morgan let her. The pain bit almost sweetly through her body and it brought Morgan close enough to do what she wanted.

“I am not your fucking voodoo doll!” Morgan screamed. She swung the comb into the woman, eyes squeezed shut as the iron spikes made contact with her face. Blood flooded Dolly’s white cap and collar. Morgan struck her again, steeling herself against the soft, wet sound of her skull caving in. Dolly kicked Morgan away, screaming, and Morgan took her chance. She scooped up her bag and ran, still holding the bloody comb as she entered the street. “Deirdre!” She called. They had to get out of here. They couldn’t even risk holding still, or hiding, not with hunters around. “Deirdre—!”

She saw her slumped against one of the buildings, clutching her stomach, a dark stain spreading down the front of her dress. For a moment, Morgan considered working her way through every actor in period dress, swinging the comb in her hand until all of them were puddles on the ground. She could do it. If it meant paying back whoever had wounded her, it would be worth it. And if they didn’t make it out of this alive, she just might. But humans were backing away, getting wise to the lack of performance in this theater, and Ben was coming around the side of the barn with a sharp looking scythe in his hands. No time, lucky for them. Morgan ran to her, her right arm still dangling at her side and her jacket growing splotched and heavy with dead blood.

“S-some date, huh?” She said. There was no keeping the fear out of her voice, or the frustration at not having enough arms to hold her safely. Morgan wheezed through her teeth, looking furtively around them. “We need to get out of here,” The only question was how.

To hold Morgan in her arms again was the greatest relief. Deirdre brought her in close, holding her as tight as she could despite her body’s protest. “Hey there,” she cooed, “you know, stabbing aside, I’ve had a wonderful time.” She smiled, reaching for Morgan’s hand, trying to ease her out of the tight grip she’d taken around the bloody carder. Gently, she took the now-weapon from her hand and slipped it inside Morgan’s bag. “It’s okay,” she murmured, pressing her lips against her cheek. The world had begun to blur and spin seconds ago, and she knew that she probably looked as terrible as she felt. Of course, where appearances were concerned, Morgan looked like she was nearly missing an arm. Deirdre peeled the fabric of her jacket back and inspected the wound. “Hold your arm up, my love. It’ll heal faster that way,” she pressed another kiss to Morgan, leading her hand to do as she was asking. Her own wound didn’t look nearly as bad as a severed arm, but iron had a funny way of ruining a fae’s health. She felt feverish, and like her soul was slipping out with each gush of blood. She watched Ben approach them with his scythe, clearly intending to do more than mow grass with it, and spared her energy to look at their surroundings. Buildings had swirled into incomprehensible blobs, the sun was both too bright and impossibly dim, and Deirdre had no hope of telling the retreating humans apart from the spots in her vision. But off to the side, she knew without a doubt there was a horse—a large, black horse with a comically tiny cart attached to its harness. The creature was calm, if not a little bored pawing at the dirt; she didn’t know by which miracle the horse hadn’t startled from her yelling, but she imagined some combination of hearing impairment and its blinders had saved it. She glanced over Morgan and back at Ben, who appeared torn between helping Dolly and pursuing them, taking slow steps as he must have been thinking it over. She’d make the choice easier for him.

“My love,” Deirdre kissed Morgan again, using her as a crutch when they parted to help her hobble towards Ben. “I need you to go cut the harness off that horse, okay? Keep the reins and the blinder, just cut everything that’s leaving it attached to that cart.” Shakily, she pulled a knife from her jacket and offered it. “Approach it slowly. I’m going to get a saddle from the barn and then I’ll join you, okay? Okay.” She left Morgan reluctantly, though her body was relieved to have both of its hands to press against her wound again. She looked at Ben, and figured he must have had something valiant to say, he certainly looked like he did, but she couldn’t much hear him over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Instead, she steeled herself and shrieked, watching his body crumple and his grip on the scythe slacked. Under any other circumstance, she would have delighted in taking her time, but eager to get back to her girlfriend, she kept screaming and stumbling forward until his life spurted out of him and he fell. She did the same to any unfortunate actor that crossed her. She did the same for Dolly, who had been trying to squirm away. She stopped only when her body lurched again, and the wound claimed the last of her energy. She heaved, taking the saddle she’d been eyeing off its rack and then...dropping it. Her body stiffened. Fire and agony grew around her neck, her back pressing against the soft body of Prue. She reached up to grab the iron wire she was being choked with, burning her fingers as she tried to find relief. But there was none, and the wire tightened. It was only by the memory of torture she had endured, and the thought of Morgan, that she was able to fall forward and swing her elbow into Prue’s nose. She stumbled free and snapped around, hand clasped over her throat as she willed her vision to steady. By the time the barn was no longer a pit of fuzzy dark brown shapes, Prue was gone. Deirdre groaned and plucked the saddle off the floor, limping her way to Morgan and the horse.

Prue hadn’t done anything that would last, but she had done just enough to make talking a chore, and between her stomach and her neck, screaming was a task Deirdre knew she wouldn’t wake from. She set about fastening the saddle, climbing on first and offering her hand to Morgan. “Sit in front, I need you to hold steady on the horse.” The saddle was for Morgan, after all, keeping balance on a galloping horse was hard enough for the experienced. “It’ll be okay,” she croaked. She felt like she was dying, which wasn’t true yet, but she felt like it anyway. “We’re not dying here. We’ll just ride out. It’ll be fine.” Through blurred vision, she could see actors grabbing pitchforks and shovels, calculating their plans. She swallowed, hissing in pain. “W-when you’re ready to go, j-just squeeze your legs on the horse and it’ll move. And then just lift up off the horse and squeeze again and it’ll go into a…” Her sentence trailed away, her body slumped, and the rest of it would just have to be Morgan.    

Morgan was starting to suspect that nothing good ever happened when she and Deirdre split up. All of their two-second breakups had been agony, and when Constance had attacked the house, Deirdre had been hurt, and in the minutes it had taken Morgan to get the old  deaf horse going, Deirdre was stumbling out with burns on her neck and hands. “What--what happened, what are you doing? Stop, you’re hurt! Your fingers!” She tugged on Deirdre to stop messing with the saddle, to let her at least try to climb on first, but she was afraid to hurt her even more. The front of her dress was soaked through, and the more she scanned her for iron burns, the more she found. Morgan whimpered, swallowing down tears. They didn’t have time for comfort, they needed to make it out of this alive. “I fucking hate this,” she whispered. She picked up Ben’s scythe from the ground and took Deirdre’s hand, placing herself behind her girlfriend on the saddle. “Like I would ever let you be a meat shield for hunters,” she hissed. She pressed a kiss to Deirdre’s cheek and took up the reins, wriggling in the saddle to get comfortable as best as she could. Karen’s ninth birthday party had been horseback riding, and then Michelle had copied her with the same idea when she turned ten. Morgan’s legs had been even shorter, her anxiety even more out of control, so this should be a breeze, right? Her girlfriend was bleeding out, she had a scythe in one hand, a barely reattached arm, and they were riding for their lives, but not so different from little kid’s birthday parties!

The hunters seemed to be making up their minds and taking a slow approach, fanning out and readying weapons tucked into their belts and slung on their backs. No time to get to picky about this or wait for certainty to smack her on the head. People did this in the movies all the time, and so could she.

“Just hang on, babe, okay? I’m gonna take care of us, but I need you to hang on.” She squeezed Horsey just as Deirdre told her to, and off they galloped.

Going back the way they came would put them into contact with too many opportunities to be struck or blocked off, so Morgan made for the orchards. The other patrons made way for them. Cell reception was so bad here, there wasn’t anyone to call, which should have been a big fucking clue, in retrospect. “Are you still with me, babe?” She whispered. “You said I get a head’s up when you’re gonna die, so I’m thinking, this is just gonna be a weird and wacky story for us to tell our friends in a couple of days. What about you, huh?” She tried to put pressure on Deirdre’s wound, but her hands were too full. But they were close. Maybe if she could get Horsey to ride faster, she could lose them in the trees or-- “Fuck!” Or they could shoot her in the back with arrows. They could do that too. Morgan grimaced and squeezed Horsey with all her strength, flicked the reins for all the good it would do them, and continued--right into the path of Prue.

Morgan would have been happy to trample her down, but Horsey only screamed, rearing up and almost knocking them over. Another arrow into her back. So this was the plan. Morgan shoulted wordlessly and held tight to the reins, steering Horsey around, but he would only pace and circle and pant, growing more and more anxious.

“Thou must not leave this place, I fear,” Prue said smugly.

“Shut up.” Morgan swung her scythe, just barely missing the mark.

Prue stepped closer, daring her to try. “Thou art a devil against nature and divinity, and thou must--”

Morgan swung again. And this time, she did not miss. Or she would have if Prue hadn’t given up and thrown herself to the ground. Fine.

An arrow landed by Horsey’s feet, frightening him to life again. They were flying into the trees, trampling over the neat rows of apples and berries. Arrows whistled like rain around them and horse hooves followed like thunder. It was all Morgan could do to hang on to Deirdre and Horsey at once. She did her best to steer them towards the parking lot without being and easy target, but Horsey was running on his own fear, darting and panting with nothing but burning intuition to guide him. Morgan put her hand out to the trees and caught the first apple that sank into her palm, hurling in backwards blindly. Then another.

The trees thinned and Morgan had begun to hope, when Prue stepped into view once more, cutting into one of Morgan’s thrown apples with her bloody iron knife.

“You evil bitch,” Morgan whispered.

She didn’t put out the scythe until she was right on her. The blade came down, cleaving a deep gash that went from her face to her neck. Prue staggered behind them, moaning a deep, rattling cry as she flailed for a way to staunch the wound. But her blood was spraying over the honey yellow and green tints to the apples and rivering down her dress.spilled down her dress and rained onto the grass. At this point, Horsey gave up and bucked hard enough that Morgan went flying, taking Deirdre down with her. She landed on her back, knocking into an apple tree hard enough to crack the trunk. She didn’t remember dropping her scythe, but it had to be, well...somewhere. “Hey,” she whispered, wincing as her spine worked slowly to right itself. “You still with me? Babe…?”

Deirdre didn’t have an awareness of much anymore. From beyond the great expanse of fuzz and fatigue, she could hear Morgan’s voice, and something that sounded like a storm. But she was on the world’s bumpiest bed, and sleep was hard to find between each jump and turn. Vaguely, she remembered something about a horse, but memories bleed into each other, and the only horses she knew were the pale kind that marked generations on her family’s farm. All of them were deaf. Her bed jerked again, and she jumped against her upright pillow that reeked of blood and Morgan. Her eyes fluttered open to find Morgan’s arm dangling as if tethered by only a singular thread. “Your...arm…” she croaked. That seemed serious. That seemed like something they needed to fix now. And Deirdre ached to; she wanted to rub away all the black blood and pain and fix it all. She tried to reach up, but her arm refused. When she tried again, the world returned to its darkness. There, the bed continued to jostle, visions of her farm continued to plague her, drawing fever to her. Her sense of the world dimmed until all she knew was Morgan, and the strage, terrible, jumpy bed she was in. “I’m so tired…” she tried to explain, then tried the next thought that occurred to her. “I love you,” she said, “I love you so much. Everything is better with you, I’m better with you. And I’m tired, Morgan. I’m so, so tired.” And this bed was terrible. Thankfully, she found her new bed to be better. After, of course, the strange bit where she felt like she was flying, and then the other bit where it was like her body was cracking. But once both sensations settled, she welcomed the new, soft, steady bed.

Face in the dirt, Deirdre didn’t respond to Morgan because she didn’t hear her. She was still, finally, and that was all she’d wanted. In her head, there were horses and meadows and Morgan, her love, and apples and-- Prue. Deirdre stirred. She pressed her palms to the mud, trying to lift herself only to slip and welcome the ground again. “Where--” She tried to speak, but her throat was tight, and her voice sounded wrong even to her own confused ears. She just needed a moment, and then she’d be fine. Just one moment without the jostling bed, or Prue trying to kill them. Just a moment with her head down in the dirt, trying to regain herself. That was it. She was so tired it felt like she was dying. She wasn’t. But it felt like she was. Unfortunately, communicating that was a harder task between not knowing where the bottom half of her body was and the ghost of iron wire burning around her neck. “Alive.” She groaned, lifting a hand to point at Prue, who was swaying like wheat in the wind. Like there was music. Deirdre could have sworn she heard it too. “Sleep.” She pointed at herself. “Dead.” Her hand fell. “Love you.” Just a moment.  

Morgan crawled up to her knees. The fall had knocked the arrows further into her back, and she was finding it difficult to breathe. She coughed, wiping away the dark stain from her lips. She felt for the knife Deirdre had given her, lodged at least part of the way through her thigh. Morgan pulled it out and approached Deirdre, feeling along her body for broken bones. “This isn’t how we die, babe,” she whispered. “That would be such a shitty story, okay? But maybe--” She reached behind her and pulled an arrow from her shoulder, then another from the small of her back. The worst ones would wait, but maybe her healing could get more of a move on already. “Maybe we can think about it when we get back to the car.”

But Prue was in fact, inexplicably, alive. One bright eye stared out from the red ruin of her face, and she still had that iron little knife. Step by staggering step she walked towards them, blade raised. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” She hurled the overripe apples on the ground her way, which burst and splattered her body with rot. Prue may as well have not felt them at all for how much she flinched. Morgan tucked her half severed arm closer to her shoulder. It didn’t feel as loose anymore, but if she could swing with more than one hand…

“Thou. Art. A Devil,” Prue hissed, gritting her blood stained teeth with every word.

“Careful,” she called. “I bite.” The next apple burst on her head, which did give Prue a second of pause. She had to wipe the browning meat of the apple from her eyes in order to keep going, which bought Morgan a little more time to stay close to the ground while her body connected her joints.

The trees were quiet. It was only them here, now. The others were reassuring the humans, or tending to their dead, or trusted this monster of a woman to finish them off. Considering how close she was getting to them, with how much blood was coming down her body, it was no wonder. Morgan crawled forwards, still coughing as her body struggled to fix itself. When Prue was right on her, arm poised to stab, Morgan reached out with both hands and pulled her leg out from under her. Prue didn’t hit her head, but her kicks fell on numb, zombie limbs. Morgan pinned them down with all her strength and let her flail and slash at her until she felt the right kind of relief in her arm that meant it was whole again. The next time her blade came, Morgan snapped her wrist. She caught the next arm and brought it to her lips, going so far as to pinch the soft flesh of her arm between her teeth. For the first time, Prue screamed with fear.

“You’re right,” she rasped,  “That is way too good for you.” In went the knife, straight into her heart until Morgan press it no further.

Morgan didn’t stop to see the light come out of her eyes. She picked herself up and stumbled back toward Deirdre and their fallen things. Picking everything up upset all the arrow-tips still in her body, but there was no stopping now. People would hear Prue’s screams, maybe even recognize them. If they hadn’t, they would know something was wrong when she didn’t come back, eventually. Morgan had to get them away from this place before all that came crashing down. She clutched Deirdre tight to her chest and started walking.

#wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #song for autumn #gore tw #death tw #wickedswriting

[elisabeth515]

“The General’s Mistress”review (part 1)

(Part 2)

(Part 3)

(Part 4)

About: Basically this thing is based on Ida St. Elme’s memoirs (and plus some spiritual stuff—like angels and divination🧐)

Foreword

I am going to attempt to review a historical fiction properly after the horrors I’ve seen from Alison Pataki’s Sisi series (Elisabeth hates it so much). Although a very strong opposition from my dead best friend Michel, I decided to read Jo Graham’s “The General’s Mistress” because I feel really, really called to read it, after reading some reviews on GoodReads, also the encouragement from mutals on tumblr.

I hope you all will enjoy this entertaining reaction/review on this book which, hopefully I am going to finish it despite the fact that I have to finish two philosophy essays, my French writing assignment and prepare for the upcoming maths exam in January (#UniLife). Now, to the main thing!

//

First Impression

To be honest, although I was triggered by the fact that it was based on Ida St. Elme’s “Memoirs of a Contemporary” (which, as you know from some older posts, I don’t really like it no matter how intriguing the author is), this book is probably my cup of tea, given to my great interest in the Napoleonic era, also some supernatural, witchy things that reminded me of my weird witchcraft journey which has ended just some months ago. Given to the reviews thats I’ve seen on GoodReads, I think it is quite a nice and entertaining novel—especially because Michel Ney is in it. After reading the sample, my feelings are positive as I was pretty much hooked into the story.

The Reaction

This post is going to be a collection of my reactions, and impressions to chapter 1 to 13 of this book, which I managed to finish it in a lightning speed of 3 hours (with note-taking on my phone). So far, I am on chapter 24 (and now taking a break by charging my kindle) and it’s quite good I would say, at least better than what I expected, somehow, considering I am a bit reserved when it comes to historical fiction—like the accuracy is super, super, super important to me.

From the reviews, I have already been warned for 18+ content so reader’s discretion is advised. Before starting the book I have already been trained by watching porn with a straight face and I’ve passed them easily. Well, let’s just have a rough go through on my reaction to chapters 1-14 because I have too much things to talk about in this.

At first the writing is quite fine—here we have the very first glimpse of Ney and the MC basically swooned—as someone who loves Ney too much sometimes I approved

Yes we shall S W O O N in front of this babe

Well, apparently she no like her husband Jan (whom she married when she was 12, by the way) so she decided to go to be a sugar baby amd goes with the name Ida, and Victor Moreau is her sugar daddy

Everything is rather fine, until I found some errors in the clothing that the MC is wearing—dresses from the late 18th century to early 19th century are not closed with hooks (*at the back I mean); it was a late 19th century (La Belle Époque/Late Victorian) thing.

Edit: just looked up some more info again, apparently dress hooks also exists in some regency gowns for back closure, nevertheless, it would not have existed in a 1795 round gown.

By the way she is supposed to be wearing a pair of stays, not corset as it’s a future invention derived from stays. (This is somehow just nitpicking but this is very important)

Since she was supposed to be wearing a 1790s regency dress, I somehow just kinda want to say that she’s probably wearing a round gown since it was fashionable at that time; the square neckline started to come out in that decade, but I personally doubted that she would have been wearing one, since the wrap neckline or round neckline is more fashionable I would say.

Here is a fashion plate from the year when Ida started to have an affair with general Moreau (source)

Also, she would have been wearing a big handkerchief around her neckline (a fashionable thing in the 1790s).

Nevertheless the author got it right when it comes to the first steamy part when Moreau started to do her—before the drawers, dress historian guessed that women wear nothing underneath at the lower part of the body (except the mensuration belt which acted as the pads/tampons that we wear nowadays)

I kinda need to substitute the steamy parts with Moreau doing something to a sentiment rock to make myself get over it because idk—I just kinda reading them with horror because I can’t really stand smut for historical guys to an extent-

Oh no the description of babeythighs I’m ded- *proceeds dying of laughter while a confused Michel Ney watching me in the background*

Of course our MC just goes like “OMG OMG OMG I LOVE HIM😍😍😍😍😍” whenever Ney is mentioned and I feel somehow personally attached 🌚👌🏻

So there are some tarot scenes that somehow reminded me the days of me opening a tarot reading shop for earning funds for amino events, haha. It seemed like a pretty nice foretelling of the things coming ahead—like the main girl is going to be the master of her fate under the war ahead, yada yada

Another thing to note is that the MC has another persona called Charles and well, there are steamy parts for Charles as well besides Ida. The MC was seemingly super confident in “her crossdressing alter” (which you would first meet him the very first chapters of this story).

In the very first acquaintance between Ida and Michel, he kinda seemed awkward and cute which is pretty cute I guess- (well Michel in this said the MC is the most beautiful woman in the world and she has “the face of an angel”—I can faintly hear the one irl in the background saying he begged to differ lol—but spoilers say that there’s something going between him and the MC thus the “unusual behaviour”? Michel seemed a bit smitten to me in that scene ngl)

Of course the MC is super smitten by our babey who has unlimited charms despite not being considered good-looking; so she wrote a letter to Moreau and Ney respectively and Moreau found out and yeeted her out of the house.

In overall the pacing is fine, we are in the lens of our MC Ida/Charles and those foretelling through tarot is pretty cool in my opinion. There were some parts that I guess are connected to the previous books in the series which I have not read, but at least I can get the thing. One additional note is that it is written in American, so some terms might required a dictionary to understand if you have been learning British English.

Last but not the least, happy holidays and I shall yeet back to my philosophy readings now UwU

#historical fanfiction #I hope you all will like my new content ;-; #i am so sorry marshal ney please don’t fuck my life up #the sentiment rock thing was an inside joke reference to one of my philosophy teachers who looks like an older version of general Moreau lol #idk ever since I started to learn French I used the word ‘super’ more and more often lol #I really would love to rule out the existence of ghosts and spirits with my rationality but sadly I got to admit my dead friend’s existence #procrastinating from homework by writing reviews #historical fiction #book review #Napoleonic historical fiction #Napoleonic #napoleonic shitposting

[captain-emmajones]

I dreamt last night of a sign that read "the end of love"

This came to my mind this morning while listening to Florence + The Machine "The End of Love", and I had to write it. Hope you guys will like this, and I promise I'll get back to my prompts <3

AU Canon Divergence from 3x11: There is an anomaly in Regina’s curse. Somehow, both Emma and Killian find themselves strangers in New York City. She is still a bail bond person, and he teaches Literature in middle school. As things go, they meet one summer evening, at a bar. The warm, summer air is full of promises as their story unfolds. But Killian cannot shake the bad feeling that lingers in his chest.

2,500 words - Angst/Fluff - ao3

“When one is alone and lonely, the body gladly lingers in the wind or the rain, or splashes into the cold river, or pushes through the ice-crusted snow.

Anything that touches.” – Mary Oliver.

He remembered drifting away, on a boat. He remembered how heavy his eyelids had felt, how much sleep was threatening to swallow him once and for all.

And how peaceful, it had felt, to drift away in between Lethe’s gentle waves, watching the moon and the stars shine in this dark, summer night.

The water almost completely drowned him, but he wasn’t afraid. He was surrendering completely to the sea.

He hadn’t been held in such gentle and loving arms in centuries.

.

He woke up in his bed, with a weird pang that lingered with him the entire day. He brushed it aside, in the back of his head, and comfortably stretched.

For the first time in ages, he woke up eager to start his day. He had no idea why, but it was a very nice tingling sensation spreading in his chest. He smiled. It was a good life.

.

He spent his day in one of New York’s middle school. He taught Literature there.

(Liam would have made fun of him, he thought. For the first time in years, thinking of his brother did not steal his breath away. It remained a gentle, quiet pain in his heart, and there was relief in that.)

“Now, who would like to give me their thoughts on Sterne’s Sentimental Journey?”

A general groan answered him, and he had a very soft eye over his exhausted student. The most exhausted ones had buried their young heads between their arms, while others held on to their very last straw of awareness, their chin resting in their hand.

“Come on, mates. I know I am your last hour of the day, but give me a little something…”

One hand finally answered his plea, and he thanked his student with a smile.

“Yes, Henry?”

.

That Friday night, Killian offered himself a glass on rum at the bar down the street to celebrate the end of the week.

“The usual, thank you,” he smiled at the dark-haired waitress. He was a regular.

She stared at him a little longer than she would have on any other customer, but he did not act as if he noticed her attention.

He had no desire to date anyone. Hadn’t had in years, after his wife’s death – Milah, a gentle soul taken away by cancer.

After all these years, he had succeeded in sheltering peace in his heart and was very unwilling to bring someone new into his life.

At least, that’s what he thought. But that night, Fate was quite determined to prove him otherwise.

As he was drinking alone, scanning his surroundings – the Compass wasn’t a very fashionable place to be but it was welcoming – he noticed her.

The blonde haired woman standing next to him at the bar.

For some unknown, irrational reason, he felt drawn to her and did not manage to look away.

She was wearing a pair of black pants and a lovely, red off-the-shoulder top. He could tell she was dressed up to meet someone. But if he could make any assumption based on the way she lowered her face towards a glass of rum, that someone was late.

A sparkle lit in his heart. He had to try and see.

He cleared his throat, touched his ear in an embarrassed gesture. He hadn’t done this in years.

Oh come on, Killian. You’ve got one bloody chance.

He stood up, but she made no movement to show she had noticed his unrest.

Gathering his courage, he stepped closer to her, but not too close as to not invade her personal space, and greeted her: “Hello love, are you expecting someone?”

Her green eyes flashed in the dim light of the bar. She considered him for a few seconds before answering. He noticed how truly beautiful she was. He could tell she was analyzing him, was trying to decide whether he was a threat or not.

And finally, a smile birthed on her red lips. “I was, actually,” she began, and he was scratching his hair again, heart pounding. “His loss,” she finally muttered, and he completely failed to hide the smile that tickled his lips.

“Bad form,” he whispered, and pointed at the empty seat next to her, “would you mind if I sat there?”

She removed her purse from the seat. “Not one bit. Couldn’t let a man drink alone, could I?”

.

Grabbing their drinks, they both decided to fully enjoy this summer night and go sit outside – beneath the lit up trees of the terrace.

“Ah, I do wish New York did not snuff out the stars,” he mumbled, head lifted towards the sky.

For as long as he could remember, there had been a peculiar longing in him, in his chest, a longing for wilder landscapes and the salt of the sea on his lips, and,…Emma apparently.

“Dreamer much, are you?” she grinned at him behind her glass, and he found her especially endearing with this blush over her cheeks.

“Aye. Always fancied more books than real life, I’m afraid.”

And then she was nodding at him as if she understood, and it profoundly moved him. An old devotion, it seemed, was taking him over.

“What about you, Emma?” Saying her name had a special taste in his mouth, but he loved it. “What do you dream about?”

It was a fairly personal conversation for a first date beneath New York’s starless sky, but she didn’t seem to mind it, just yet.

“Not much, to be fair,” she answered, her long fingers wrapping around her glass, as if to protect herself, “I’m pretty content with my life, right now,” she confessed, diving into his eyes again.

She stole his breath away. He instinctively bent towards her. “But surely you have dreams, don't you Emma?”

She did not come closer to him and remained sitting up straight. She whispered: “Why do you care?”

Perhaps it would have hurt, in another life, had he been sober. But already a bit tipsy, he did not take it personally.

He simply smiled. “Everyone dreams.”

I dreamt of you.

She chuckled, brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not a dreamer.”

He could tell, because of the broken sparkle that shone in her gaze, this very same sparkle that lead him to think he knew her from before.

.

There were many drinks. Perhaps one too many.

She gave away subtle details about her life: her profession, her son, the fact that she had just moved to New York, just like him.

In spite of how little she told him, he swore he could read her like an open book.

Summer seemed to fill his heart with a new kind of spontaneity, freedom, and he felt like a very young man, once again. The air was filled with smells of smoke, alcohol, perfumes, and this very special summer breeze.

They had gotten closer in the booth, outside. Their thighs and shoulders were brushing, and she was looking at him behind her heavy eyelashes and he wanted to kiss her.

He was waiting for her to kiss him. He knew she wanted him just as badly in the way she licked her lips and glanced at his own mouth when he was talking.

Only later would he learn that she couldn’t have cared less about literature and the modernist movement he was rambling about that night, but she had let him speak because he was very charming.

“Now, imagine our historical background, Emma. Think World War I, it’s a shock to so many people, and of course people write about it. They write about this sense of loss, and cruelty, and what makes us human if not love, but we are so fragmented…”

And he went on, and on. And she was smiling, one hand beneath her chin.

“Killian?” One word finally cut him, and he inhaled – a little out of breath from all of his talking.

“Emma?” he answered back, heart jumping in his chest.

A very soft hand found his jaw and drew him nearer to her. Her open mouth met his lips in a tiny whisper of contentment, and it was a very soft kiss. Her lips were barely brushing his, both her hands lost in his hair. He exhaled into her mouth, found her blonde curls, and kissed her just a little bit harder, pressing her into the booth.

Once again, a feeling lingered in him. They had done this before. But he couldn’t remember when.

.

They casually saw each other for two months, and they were both pretty happy with that. (She was very happy about it. Him, a lot less.)

Until one evening, as they were watching a movie at his place, he finally asked her. She wasn’t looking at him, completely captivated by Amy Addams analyzing Alien’s language on their screen.

In spite of the quality of the movie Arrival, he couldn’t stop staring at her. (She still felt very precious between his arms, and an explicable fear reigned in his heart. He was scared to lose her, as if he had already lost her before.)

“Emma?”

She had a grunt, still not staring at him. “Yes, Killian?”

“A word?”

She must have heard the concern in his voice because she pressed pause and turned towards him immediately. She gave him a smile.

“Do talk.”

He held his breath. He knew this was the moment of truth. He couldn’t keep up this casualness, but what if it was all she wanted?

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking…” She was already raising her eyebrow, but he could tell she was trying to remain open. “And if you’d be willing, I would like us to become exclusive…”

He hoped he had phrased it correctly. He really hoped he did.

She tilted her head to the side. Took a few seconds to answer. “Actually, I would like that, too.”

It took him some time to fully understand her sentence, sirens ringing in his ears, but then she was smiling at him and it couldn’t be so bad?

Before he knew it, they were kissing, and he never wanted it to end.

Had it always been this simple?

.

Figuring out that when she was mentioning her son, Henry, she really meant his Henry, did make him stop a bit and think about what they were doing.  

“Don’t you think it’ll be awkward for the boy?” he asked her.

They were sitting on her couch – Henry was sleeping over at a friend’s. Her knees were pressed to her chest, and she was barefoot against the soft tissue. She chuckled.

“Don’t worry about that, Henry is a big boy. He’ll be able to understand.”

He couldn’t explain this sudden lump in his throat, this feeling that things were a bit too easy and it didn’t feel real, and – then she was on top of him, and she looked so beautiful, and fragile, with her golden hair, and he wanted to touch her but he was terrified she was going to vanish.

Even her kisses started to feel distant. It froze his heart.

He still let her.

.

Later, much later, when they were both sitting on the patio of her building, feet tangling in the void, and September was swallowing the last summer nights, he knew it to be the end.

He gazed at her, drank her in. She wasn’t looking at him, but there was a smile on her lips as she stared at the busy streets of New York. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t real, was she?

“How long have you known?” Her voice finally broke the silence surrounding them in this hubbub of cars.

He swallowed a pain he felt he had known his entire life, but wasn’t fully aware of.

“I don’t know. From the beginning, maybe.”

She turned to face him, smiling but it wasn’t a smile – it was goodbye. She outstretched her hand then, and it was very reluctantly that he let her touch him. It was too painful.

“You’re going to forget me, aren’t you?”

She nodded. He felt a tear roll down his cheeks. He wanted the comfort of the sea. This ache in his chest wouldn’t be soothed by anything but the sea.

“I didn’t want to, Hook,” and there it was, that terrible, sympathetic smile on her lips.

The street lights around them became overwhelming, burnt his eyes. “But you did it anyway.”

There was a bit of anger, in the corners of his heart, a bit of bitterness inside his mouth.

“I know I did,” she finally whispered. Her fingers were brushing his hand, an open wound. She seemed to hold back herself then, and that’s when he noticed that the contours of her face were becoming blurry.

Panic shook his heart. He let go of her hand to rub his eyes with haste. He felt open palm on his shoulders, but he couldn’t see her properly anymore.

“You’re disappearing,” he exhaled, panicked.

His hand found her shoulder in a desperate attempt to hold her. But his fingers only found void.

He could still feel her fingers on his jaw, and he leaned into her touch. “I am, Hook.” She paused, pressed a kiss on his cheek, and it felt like a summer breeze. “That’s why you should move on.”

A sob seemed to jolt his shoulders. “I tried, Swan. I really tried.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

He was thankful the sea had reached his eyes, but it prevented him to see the final smile she offered him. “But you should, Hook. I won’t come back.”

He already felt like he was dying, suffocating, but then she exhaled a final warning: “Don’t come looking for me.”

And she was gone, gone in sparkles of dust and he was alone in a summer night that tasted like the end of love.

.

He opened his eyes, breathed in deeply. The wood of the Jolly was singing that night, for the sea was quite agitated.

His hand came to meet his forehead. Another nightmare. He had received the note telling him to found Emma a week ago, and since then his dreams had been haunted by the lass he had so desperately tried to forget this past year.

He glanced at the window of his quarters. It was still complete darkness outside. Stars were shinning bright, and the sea was caressing his window with a lot of care.

There was a sob curled up in his throat. He clenched his jaw.

He would find her. Even if it meant losing her again. (Even if, just yet, she didn't want him to find her.)

#captain swan #cs fanfics #cs ff #s3 #my stuff #eeeh look at me #back at it again with the angst #i'm going to get back to my prompts now #i started my summer job yesterday tho so it might take more time!!! #but i will get to them #hope you guys will enjoy this <3 #i loved writing it #the words kind of flowed

[aahsoka]

So having been on tiktok for a bit I wanna talk a little about it.

What I like

It’s actually rather entertaining to scroll through up to 30 second videos one after the other. Sometimes the humor falls flat or it’s not your taste, but the algorithim is quite good at recommending the kind of content you will like.

I joined right when there was a big trend going around about sharing your culture, and soon after a Blackout trend where non-Black creators stopped posting for a day & spread/supported videos by Black creators. So I ended up with a fairly diverse fyp or “for you page”. It also quickly gathered that I am bisexual, so I get plenty of lgbt+ content. There’s some art mixed in there, some cosplay, some historical costuming/seamstresses, lots of avatar jokes lately, musical theatre content, fashion, girls in bikinis on rollerskates (in outer space), commentary on political issues, body positivity, all the kinds of stuff I like. To get a feed that caters to your interests you just have to watch & like videos you’re interested in & eventually it gets a feel for what you’ll watch and what you won’t.

Theres a trend where people say which ‘side’ of tiktok they’re on and I get ‘science side of tumblr’ flashbacks but I’ve mostly avoided the “straight” and conservative sides of tiktok. I would be considered a part of “woke”, “alt” (as in alternative) and lgbt+ tiktok (there are separate ones for each letter of the acronym). Possibly also “theatre” and “cosplay” tiktok. These categories are nebulous and you’re usually part of multiple communities; its just as arbitray as ‘science side of tumblr’ was.

The format reminds me of snapchat a little, and I love to talk to myself on video & post dumb thirst traps for my friends (none of which I’m attracted to so idk what my goal is there) and make stupid jokes. So this app is kinda perfect for my attention seeking side & hyperactive tendencies. Its very easy to consume on a short attention span, though not as easy as vine was.

Being in quarantine, its a way for a lot of people to engage in hobbies that involve community. Cosplay is pretty popular, as its a fun way to show off a costume & dress up & have fun without having to attend a convention. I enjoy the way lip synced audios can be used to emulate the character someone is dressed as; that’s something you couldn’t really do unless you were really good at impressions. Its a nice succinct way to show the process of creating a cosplay as well.

Those who enjoy theatre, but cannot perform in shows at this time, are able to create mini-monologues & sketches as well as sing parts of their favorite songs. Its an avenue through which to perform without putting anyone at risk of the virus. It’s also an easy way to show off your talents without having to go through the audition process & actually get cast in a show as a prominent enough role that someone will notice it.

It’s a convenient format for discourse and educational videos. Nice, short, easily digestible tidbits that stay in your mind. This extremely catchy song, for example: “Black neighborhoods are overpoliced, so of course they have higher rates of crime, and white perpetrators are undercharged, so of course they have lower rates of crime. And all of those stupid stats you keep using are operating off a small sample size. So, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up”.

As well as other videos where people take the time to explain historical events, satirize racist arguments to demonstrate why they are wrong, talk about prevalent tropes in movies, teach a few signs in ASL, share facts about their culture, etc, etc. I have found there are quite a lot of people there from unique and fairly unknown cultures and backgrounds- and this is a place where they’re able to share their culture & existence with people all over the world. There are a thousand different viewpoints. Their videos are doing far more for diverse representation than any other platform, I’d argue, as everyone is extremely visible on the app. (‘Their’ as in the creators, not the app itself).

I also have enjoyed coming across new artists on the app. It’s really fun to watch the process they go through, as most art videos deal with the whole creation of a piece. It’s inspiring. I have also come across a painter who’s work I’m in love with, and a woman who makes and sells the CUTEST ceramic mugs, and I need to purchase some stuff from them both.

Now onto the bad:

Unfortunately, the app doesn’t have much in the way of a filtering or warning system. I talked about that tiktok of the kids coming across human remains? That was just on people’s fyp. Just popped up. No warning. No reason for it to still be up. Traumatizing.

You can click on a video and say ‘not interested’ (I do this to literally every video I get where some girl is thirsting after kylo ren 🤮..... like I want the star wars videos just not THOSE videos). However, it doesn’t seem to know exactly why you weren’t interested, because I still get those videos from time to time. There’s no content filter where I can blacklist the kylo ren or any other hashtag.

There’s some very shitty content. There are racist conservatives. Misogynistic teen white boys. Really weird thirst traps. Videos where people lip sync to something with a straight face and tag it with #acting. Harmful body image trends. I thankfully stay very clear of this, but this kind of content makes me worry for the minors on the app. The one’s who don’t have enough of a concept of self yet to realize they don’t need to be able to do the newest pointless beauty trend to be beautiful, to realize it’s ok for them to be gay, to realize how predatory some adults can be, etc etc.

It is extremely easy to come across minors on the app who don’t look like teens. One time I went to a girl’s page and it said she was FIFTEEN. I’m usually good at guessing ages but something about this app messes that up. I wish there was a way to separate people under 18 and adults. Where I don’t have minor’s thirst traps popping up on my fyp. Where pedophiles don’t get a chance to curate that fyp intentionally. If anyone reading this has kids, I highly recommend they make their tiktok private or only viewable to friends.

Just like any site, there are plenty of bigots. Lots of racist comments. Plenty of transphobia. Any hatred you’ve seen elsewhere, of course it exists on tiktok. I have actually zero clue if you can report people & if it works. Most people seem to send a video commentary to their haters or duet a video of a racist pointing out their racism. I’ve heard of creators blocking people, however. I remember a tiktok of a Black woman who’s video somehow went fairly viral in Poland and now she gets a lot of racist comments from this large group of random racisf Polish followers she has and its extremely time consuming to block them all, as there’s no mass block feature.

The rumors about what works with the algorithm and doesn’t abound. I’ve heard well lit videos get more views. Many people suspect they have been shadowbanned for speaking out about current events. TikTok will remove the audio from videos sometimes if they deem it controversial enough. Most of us know they were criticized recently for intentionally keeping Black creator’s videos from being seen (a catalyst for the Blackout, actually). Or you may also recall when it was criticized for widely removing lgbt+ content. Those creators are fighting to be seen the same amount as straight cis white creators are allowed to be seen with no effort.

The effects some trends could have on teen girls. So many of them are already so uncomfortable in their own skin simply because of societal standards, but the absolutely meaningless challenges people come up with on tiktok make it so much worse. One trend was based around whether your finger touched your lips when you put it in your nose. Or if you could get your clasped hands around the back of your legs and over your butt (if they get passed, you have a flat ass, if they get stuck, its big). These completely arbitrary signifiers of the things you need to have in order to be pretty, are far more ridiculous that anything I have seen yet in my life. I worry about little girls taking these ideas to heart. There is a very kind body positive community on the app & I hope more people can find that.

There’s also that thing where they steal your data. Like most apps. But apparently they got a lot more invasive than usual, so I would look into it before making an account; if you want to do that.

I think the apps users can be great & its a pretty intuitive set up. It certainly deserves its popularity solely as a creative form of social media. That being said, its owners are so so insidious & do the worst things. Just like all other social media, its controlled by the worst kind of people. Who can never figure out how to effectively get rid of nazis or keep kids safe from adult content.

These are my less serious gripes with the app:

1) Lip syncing

When people lip sync and don’t do any kind of skit, joke, etc, just look as if they’re saying what someone else said; I hate that. I have to go back and find the original tiktok so I can like it instead. You literally did nothing interesting by ripping off someones audio and moving your lips along to it. So many people on this app are creative and so many others lack any semblance of creativity.

Also people are too easily impressed by lip syncing to kinda-fast songs. I lip synced to like....10 seconds of the devil went down to georgia and two people praised my lip syncing abilities. Like, I can also sing and talk fast, out loud, isn’t that more impressive? more skillful? The fiddle playing in that song is impressive, not the fact I can lip sync ‘the devil went down to georgia, he was lookin for a soul to steal, he was in a bind, cause he was way behind.’ Have you ever seen someone play Johnny’s fiddle solo????? It’s insane!!!

Rather than see someone lip sync to the verse in Stressed Out 2x faster than normal (which is, extremely simple and the song was overplayed and ingrained into our collective consciousness) and go WOW what about someone.....doing the verse out loud. You can litterally just mouth random words and look like you’re saying the right ones. It’s driving me crazy lmao. I’m set to become a God of tiktok because I have a repertoire of fast songs and rap verses memorized. It’s not even an uncommon skill to speak or sing quickly, people literally make rap music for a living! Listen to it maybe.

2) “Acting”

I am begging you to stop making me sit through those horrible POVs. I cannot take another girl not quite fake crying towards the camera as she lip syncs the words from a song that apply to the random situation she decided she was in. I cannot take another boy who thinks its sexy to stare into a camera and smirk in every single situation he creates.

Back to lip syncing, making facial expressions along to words isn’t really acting. Try saying the words out loud perhaps? The inflection you use with your lines is a pretty big part of acting. Like you can lip sync all you want, just stop tagging it with #acting.

3) Comedic timing, or lack thereof

You don’t need the entire intro to sit there looking at the camera waiting until the first line starts and you can lip sync to the part that’s the joke. You could cut off at least 15 seconds. Brevity is the soul of wit.

When your joke involves both reading text on screen and listening to the song for the punchline, if it isn’t done prefectly, its so difficult to follow. I can’t read a paragraph in 5 seconds. Paraphrase.

4) self deprecating artist audio

the audio thats like ‘this wont get views’ ‘I suck’ ‘you probably won’t see this anyway’ LOVE YOURSELF

It sucks when people dont enagage with your art but it sucks worse when your value in yourself and you art is based solely on receiving that validation. Please find a healthy medium.

Also you’re asking for pity, and you don’t want that. You want people who genuinely love your art for what it is.

5) editing videos is really hard how do you make such cool & smooth transitions????

please help me I don’t understand

Finally

here’s my account if you’re interested

#this long ass opinion article no one asked for #tiktok #social media #jordan talks #long post /

[emma-nation]

Without You - Bloodbound AU (Chapter 7) *For You Sequel*

Summary: Gaius is back. While coming up with a plan to take him down, the gang must deal with some new life-changing events.

Genre: Angst/Adventure/Romance

Rating: T - Warning for violence and language

Tag List: @begging-for-kamilah, @lulu-the-cat, @ilovekamilahsayeed, @zoe6111, @kennaxval

Notes:

- English is my second language, please forgive me for any mistakes.

- Hope you enjoy it, your reviews and likes are always appreciated.

- My apologies again for the late update. My life is chaotic right now but I don't intend to give up on this fic. Please be patient, as soon as I can it'll be updated weekly again. I hope a longer chapter can compensate my absense ;)

- Trigger warning for Priya’s past. It may contain some sensitive content. Part of it was inspired by this headcanon.

- Smut Alert!

Amy

“I’m going to kill him.”

If there was one thing Amy wasn’t good at, it was acting. She still tried to act surprised when Kamilah drove them to the Hamptons’ house and started to ask if she’d like to have it for their wedding party, or even permanently, but her ‘whoa’ wasn’t convincing enough.

“You didn’t like it,” Kamilah sighed in disappointment.

“No,” she fixed. “It’s just… I’ve been here before. With Lysimachus.”

After telling her fiancée about how she found out about the house and how her twin brother invaded it, Kamilah was extremely angry.

“Hey,” Amy went behind her, massaging her tense shoulders, “I loved it and this is what matters. Really, Kamilah. I could spend the rest of my life here with you.”

The female vampire’s expression finally softened. She was still disturbed, Amy knew. The whole drive was silent and while she was focused on the road, her eyes seemed distant. It shouldn’t be easy to face Gaius again after almost a century. After betraying him. Kamilah hadn’t told her details of the encounter, but she had a feeling, a intuition, that he had tortured her badly.

“So…” she tried to lighten her mood, “now we have this house all for us, which part should we try first? We have a nice bar, a giant swimming pool, four bedrooms…”

“A walk on the beach is fine for me,” Kamilah replied.

Amy agreed.

After minutes walking together on the shoreline, holding hands and feeling the waves crashing against their bare feet, they picked somewhere to sit. They contemplated the ocean in silence for a moment, before Amy pulled Kamilah for a kiss. A soft and gentle kiss. She still hadn’t felt her fiancée’s lips after coming home. After thinking she would never be able to cherish them again, because she almost died in Wright’s crazy ritual.

“I have something to tell you,” she spoke. “It’s about the historical fair.”

Kamilah stared at her for a second before rolling her eyes.

“If you say you’re going back to London, I…”

Amy couldn’t help laughing.

“I mean it, that teacher has a master’s degree in manipulation.”

“She had, indeed. She’s dead, Kamilah.”

“Oh.”

“She was lying the entire time about the fair. It was a trap to force me to join her cult.”

“I knew there was something wrong about her! She didn’t force you to do anything, did she? Because some of these cults can evoke some real dark forces.”

“Actually, I was the sacrifice to her goddess.”

“God, Amy… H-How did you…”

“I believe destiny really want us to get married. Lysimachus happened to be at the right place, in the right time. He saved my life.”

“I…” Kamilah didn’t know what to say. It shocked more than she already was. While she processed the information, Amy hugged her tightly, resting her head on her shoulder.

“I’m just so thankful I have another chance of being here with you.”

She didn’t told it yet. She just couldn’t find words to tell Kamilah she was the First Vampire’s descendant. The one that was supposed to bring her back to life. Did her feelings or their connection had anything to do with that? She wasn’t sure. Conflicted, she decided to keep the information for the right moment.

----------

Lysimachus

He was working on a project for Raines Corporation but his eyes wouldn’t leave the page lying on the table. That mysterious symbol, he could almost remember seeing it before, engraved somewhere. But he had been alive for 2064 years, it wouldn’t be an easy task to remember. He rested his back on the chair and let out a weary sigh.

Priya passed through his office door, grunting with her cell phone in hands.

“Bastards!”

“Do you ever do anything else other than complaining?”

“I’ve got trouble, Hunter. Trouble you wouldn’t understand.”

“Is it the gossip website again? I’m not hacking it another time to remove your… compromising pictures.”

“Those were fake! My features are way better than that and you know it. Anyways, that doesn’t come to the case…”

“What’s the matter?” He sighed and crossed his arms to hear, expecting it to not having any murder situation involved.

“You know, since I’ve been off the media lately, it has been raising a lot of questions. Now, my agent is forcing me to attend this party tonight.”

“Since when this is a problem to you?”

“I need a date and literally no one is available.”

She watched him in silence, expecting an answer. Lysimachus didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he could recommend her any celebrities or high society personalities to attend the party as her date. Then he realized…

“No. The answer is no.”

“I’ll pay you for it.”

“I don’t need money.”

“Then, what do you want?”

“Hmmm,” he was pensive for a moment, trying to figure out something Priya would never accept. “I accept under one condition.”

“Tell me your price.”

“You’ll be doing something nice for once.”

“Like…” she seemed puzzled, “donating money for charity? Adopting a stray puppy? That’s easy.”

“No,” Lysimachus protested. “I want you to do something spontaneous. You know, not because you’re being forced, but because you want to. Something that shows you actually have a heart.”

“Go to hell,” she whined, walking back to the living room. “I’ll find some random mortal on Bleeder.”

He followed. She was deeply focused between finishing the last adjustments for wedding dresses and the release her Spring collection. Priya was passionate about her career, that he couldn’t deny. It was possibly the only thing she truly loved.

“You’ve outdone yourself with these dresses, congratulations.”

“I know,” she grinned, proud of her creations. “Also, Kamilah is paying me handsomely for them.”

That was a good opportunity to try to explore her mind. Speaking of her work, she could reveal a little of who she truly was.

“You’re talented,” Lysimachus complimented. “It’s uhhh… been only fifteen years since you officially started your label?”

“That’s correct, but you know… being vampires, we always need to confuse the media, so I answer ten in most of my interviews.”

“And for how long have you been a fashion designer?”

She was silent for a brief moment, as she was reliving a memory. A small smile appeared in the corners of her mouth.

“Since I was born, I think.”

That was the answer Lysimachus wanted. Finally something honest, with feelings.

“Oh, how was it like back in India? Did women wear some sophisticated sari with your name written all over it?”

The smile faded away from her face.

“It’s none of your business, Hunter. Now listen, will you help me or not?”

As he advised her himself, “always find out your target’s weaknesses”. He had just found the right spot. He only needed to know how to access it.

“Okay, you win. I’m going with you to the party.”

----------

Kamilah

It had been almost ten minutes Kamilah had locked herself inside the restaurant’s toilet. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, her fangs were still exposed, as well as her red eyes.

To feed from that group of mortals, she had to let her instincts take control. She wouldn’t be able to do that consciously. Now, after ingesting such a large amount of blood, her thirst was out of control. While they were eating, she couldn’t focus on anything else but the beating hearts around her, their jugulars, the sound of the blood running inside their veins… including Amy’s. She looked at her fiancée and she desired her in a different mode. She wanted to please her, to make her scream her name and beg, beg for more… beg for her life, as her fangs sank into her neck and sucked until the last drop of blood.

Gaius was turning her into a monster again and she didn’t even notice. The hypnosis wasn’t needed, he was already inside her head.

“Kamilah?” She heard Amy’s voice coming from outside. “Is everything alright?”

Amy. Her Amy. Was she still capable of loving her the same way? What if she lost control? She could seriously injury her or worse.

“Open the door, please.”

She inhaled deeply, focusing her thoughts on something else. Ahmanet Financial. Nothing could make her forget about the world as her company. If she managed to control her hunger through the centuries, she could do it again.

When she opened the door, she was her recomposed self again.

“Sorry, I was fixing my make up,” she walked away before Amy could question.

Back to their house, she grabbed her laptop and pretended to be focused. She needed to avoid Amy as much as possible. At some point the girl would want to get intimate and it’d lead to a tragic outcome.

“What are you doing?” Amy placed herself next to her on the couch, with a bucket of popcorn. “You’ve been acting weird since lunch.”

“My apologies, Amy. I… I forgot these information I was supposed to have sent to my lawyers and I was afraid it was too late, but I’m working on it right now.”

“Anything I can help? I’m still your assistant.”

“Not really, it’s just very complicated.”

“Okay.”

The girl started to text Lily and as she was distracted, Kamilah could examine the pictures she took of Lysimachus’ book. She had absolutely no idea how to translate that.

“Lawyers, huh?” Unnoticed, Amy came back from the kitchen and stopped behind her. “This is the ritual Lysimachus and Lily have been studying. The one to kill Gaius.”

“Amy,” it was becoming harder to keep things from her fiancée. She always managed to find a way to figure out when she wasn’t well.

“Kamilah, it’s okay to share your concerns and feelings with me. I mean, we’re getting married. It shouldn’t be a problem anymore. Unless…”

The girl studied her face for a few seconds before raising her eyebrow.

“Unless you’re planning something stupid. You’re not planning to do this on your own, are you?”

She rolled her eyes, wondering if Amy was having those visions about her life again.

“Amy, speaking of a fight against Gaius, it’s clear not all of us are going to survive. People will die and I don’t want it to be Lysimachus… or you.”

“How many of you did he kill, back in the twenties, when you put him in the sarcophagus?” Amy sighed.

“None, but only because I intervened.”

“But you couldn’t have done it yourself! You only stabbed him because he was distracted fighting the others.”

Kamilah rolled her eyes again. It was hard to admit Amy was right.

“Why don’t we join them and help with their plan? Trust me, it’s the best we can do.”

Amy placed her hand on hers and she admitted defeat. Even though Priya was part of the plan, it was more reasonable and safe than fighting Gaius alone.

----------

Amy

Despite Amy’s best attempts, Kamilah was avoiding physical contact or any interaction that could lead to intimacy.

“Is there something wrong with me or…” she showed Lily her body and face through a video call.

Maybe Kamilah was too stressed to think about it, but then, for what purpose she brought her to stay in that house for a couple of days, if they weren’t supposed to spend time together?

“Uhh... maybe she’s attached to old traditions? I mean, save it for after the wedding?” Lily suggested.

Amy muffled a laugh.

“I don’t think that’s the case. Anyways I should go, I have a sexy vampire CEO to seduce. Bye.”

She walked to the living room, wearing a sexy nightdress she bought in London. One she knew Kamilah would be able to resist. She bit her lower lip playfully as she spotted the female vampire in the living room, where she was waiting for her to watch a movie.

"What is my gorgeous fiancée doing?" She asked to make her presence to be noticed.

"Amy," Kamilah said, before turning around to face her, "I swear this was the longest shower you've ever..."

She turned around and stopped, astonished by her special outfit.

"I was preparing you a little surprise. Did you like it?"

"I-It looks... nice."

"Really?" Amy rolled her eyes. "Nice is the best word you can use to describe it?"

"No, actually I can find multiple other adjectives to express how much I liked it."

"So," Amy wrapped her arms around her neck and whispered in her ear, "tell me."

“Amy,” Kamilah carefully pushed her away, “this may not be a good idea at the moment.”

Amy threw herself at the couch and sighed frustrated, wondering if after being distant for so long Kamilah had stopped desiring her.

“It has nothing to do with you,” the female vampire spoke. “It’s about me.”

“Gaius?” Amy asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Kamilah shook her head in denial.

“After ingesting such a large amount of blood my thirst is out of control.”

“Oh, so that’s the problem. I mean, you’ve controlled it before, you can control it again.”

“Does that make you relieved?” Kamilah frowned. “Amy, it turns me into a monster! At the same time I want you, I want to drink until the last drop of blood in your body.”

After thinking for a while, Amy found an easy solution. She brushed off her hair from her shoulder, exposing her neck.

“Do it,” she ordered. “Feed from me. You'll never know if you don't try it.”

“Did you hear what I just told you? I’m going to kill you.”

“You won’t. I know it.”

“Amy...”

“It’s in your head, Kamilah. You’re letting Gaius manipulate you again, can’t you see it? You’re not a monster. Please, let me prove this to you.”

She stood up again, approaching Kamilah and pressing her lips on the vampire’s. As she slipped her tongue inside Kamilah’s mouth, she stopped her.

“Then let’s get you a stake first. In case I don’t stop, you can...”

“Kamilah,” Amy silenced her with her index finger, “stop.”

She turned around, exposing her jugular again. Kamilah held her close, Amy could feel her heart racing inside her chest. She nervously traced her neck, finding the right spot to feed.

“Are you sure?” Kamilah asked.

“More than sure,” Amy placed her hand where hers was lying, on her belly.

Kamilah slowly sank her fangs into her jugular, drawing small sips of her blood. Amy could sense how insecure she was, as if she was holding back her thirst, her desire, everything... and the girl was determined to get more. She grabbed Kamilah’s hand, guiding it to her inner tights.

She moaned in pleasure as Kamilah started to give her exactly what she wanted, what made the vampire deepen the bite.

Amy never felt a similar pleasure in her life before. Kamilah’s fingers moving inside her, along with the pleasure from the bite. She felt like her entire body was on fire. Kamilah suddenly stopped.

“That’s enough, I’ve drank enough of your blood.”

“No,” Amy protested. “You usually take more than that.”

“I feel I’m slipping out of my control.”

“You’re not. I promise you.”

“In this case,” Kamilah looked at her and a devilish grin appeared on her face.

Using her vampire special skills, she ripped off Amy’s nightdress.

“I thought you had liked it,” Amy complained.

“I thought you were used to my ways of showing it.”

Kamilah’s mouth was suddenly on hers, kissing her hungrily, fiercely... then she moved down to Amy’s neck, tracing her jugular with her tongue.

“Hmmm, I’ve had enough of this,” she sank down to her knees, leaving Amy with a confused look on her face.

She softly pressed her fangs against Amy’s inner tights, leaving a small, shallow cut. The swipe of her tongue, cleaning the blood over the mark, made Amy’s entire blood tremble. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of ecstasy as Kamilah bit her a little harder, drawing some more blood.

Amy was about to reach climax when the female vampire stopped, healing the bite with her fingertips.

“Why did you... oh!” Amy had no time to finish her question, Kamilah moved her mouth to her most sensitive spot of her body, sending her into bliss.

After she finished, Amy’s legs were weak and her mind a little lightheaded and foggy.

“Now you know how much I liked it.”

Between pants, the girl let out a smile.

-----------

Kamilah

It was late night and Kamilah couldn’t force herself to sleep. Though she was relieved to know her thirst was remained under control, she was lying still, staring at the ceiling. She wondered if she and the others would even survive the next few weeks. Or days. Gaius was planning something big and, unless she was able to earn his trust again, she wouldn’t be part of it this time. The sound of her cell phone vibrating on the nightstand made her body stiffen even more. It was Harvey.

After going to the balcony, she finally answered.

“What do you want?” She asked. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Recruiting new members, I hope,” the voice on the other side replied. "The King isn't pleased after what your stupid brother did."

"I haven't spoke to my brother in days. I have no idea of what he's doing."

"After you gave him ownership over your clan, he sent all of the members to different parts of the country, looking for our King."

Kamilah smirked. Her twin brother hadn't lost his skills over the century. Behind this act, he should be trying to make it difficult for Gaius to get new servants.

"I mean it, Kamilah. You better find some new members to our army, he's furious at you."

The last words made Kamilah's heart pound, but she couldn't show it.

"I'll see what I can do," she lied. "Just give me some time."

"We have no time. He wants to see you, in three days."

Three days. Gaius demanded to see her urgently. If he was furious, he'd probably punish her. If only she was able to finish him before that... As anger took control of her body, she was ready to throw her cell phone away, when a loud, frightened scream came from inside the bedroom.

"Amy," she shouted.

In less than a second she was back to her fiancée's side. The girl was sitting on the bed, her skin was pale and her eyes were wide in fear.

"You scared me, what's wrong?"

"I-I..." she took a moment before being able to say anything. "The visions, Kamilah. I saw her... Keaseth."

"Who?!"

"The First Vampire. Her name is Keaseth."

Kamilah sat by her side in bed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a assuring manner.

"Amy, she's only a myth. We're not even sure she really existed."

"She exists, Kamilah!" Amy raised her voice. "Asleep, inside a coffin in some underground temple in London. To wake her up, I must offer my life in sacrifice because I'm her descendant. The one she assigned the mission."

The girl buried her face in Kamilah's chest and started to sob.

"S-She's calling for me... but I can't... I can't..."

"This is insanity. Whatever that teacher has tormented your mind with isn't true, Amy! She was a psycho that created a baseless theory. This isn't true!"

"Lysimachus has the manuscripts. It's real, Kamilah. Everything is there, Keaseth instructions, a genealogy map that leads to me... It's true. I can ask him to show you."

Kamilah got up from the bed and started pacing around the room. It couldn’t be true. That teacher should’ve invented it all to lure Amy into her own interests. But somehow it explained Amy’s visions. How she could, somehow, have access to hers, Lysimachus and Adrian's past.

“This isn’t why I love you,” Amy tried to explain between tears. “In the beginning I was confused. I thought I only felt attracted to you because I’m related to The Frist Vampire, but it’s not...”

“Amy...” Kamilah gave her a comforting hug. “This thought never crossed my mind. I... The only thing I fear is for your life. If you’re really her descendant it makes your blood powerful, special. A lot of vampires could try to use it in their advantage. But... I’ll protect you.”

Amy finally opened a smile and hugged her back.

“Amy, as you know, under the current circumstances it’s impossible for us to have a moment of pure joy and peace, so... we have to go. Gaius is requesting to see me and we need to discuss our plan.”

“Kamilah, oh my god. Y-You don’t have to go. We'll find another way.”

“Yes, I do. While we can’t figure out a way to kill him, I can’t blow up my cover.”

“Actually...” Amy jumped out of the bed, looking for her phone.

“What are you doing?” Kamilah was confused.

“I’m calling Lysimachus, I just remembered where I saw the last symbol.”

-----------

Lysimachus

“Boring,” Priya lamented. “Everything suddenly started to feel boring and I don’t know why! Maybe I’m getting old, like Kamilah.”

“No,” Lysimachus added. “You’re absolutely right. That party was one of the most boring events I ever attended. I'm glad we left."

He still couldn’t believe how far he had went on his plan to find out about Priya’s past. He could have gone to the Shadow Den to help Lily or hang out with Jax. For what purpose he was trying to know her better? She would never change. She only agreed to be part of the plan because of her own interests: protection, power and strength. If Gaius offered her an opportunity to obtain more power, she’d surely accept.

“We aren’t even friends…” Lysimachus though, “or are we?”

As Priya would always say, they were friends with benefits, without the friends part. Only the benefits.

“Than, let's have fun!” She complained, splashing him some water. "We didn't come here to chat."

“Okay..."

They were both in the swimming pool at Priya's house, with a few bottles of vodka he stole at the event's bar. All he had to do was to find a way to make her talk.

"We could play a game," he suggested. "Truth or Dare?"

"Come on, Hunter. This is so last century! Though it could be fun if only picked 'dare'."

Her hand softly stroke his naked chest, when she suddenly stopped.

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood for this either."

Lysimachus observed confused as she left the swimming pool and wrapped a towel around her body.

"Priya, what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

"Why do you assume it's about you?" Her face turned into a frown.

"I'm not assuming anything! You've been acting weird since this morning."

"You assume a lot of things."

He detected a hint of sadness in her voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“Stop playing dumb, Hunter. I saw you creeping on my bedroom. You don’t think I’m worthy your trust.”

“Priya, this is not...”

“I’m done with you.”

For the first time since they met, he could tell she was somehow hurt.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to know more about you, about your past.”

His words made her turn around and face him again.

“Why?” She clenched her fists in anger. “Why was that supposed to matter? Why would you like to know about... that!”

Carefully, he took her hands in his and noticed she was shaking.

“Sometimes it’s easier if you just let it go. I mean, look at me. Everything I did, everything I built my entire life... it was a lie. My sister was so alive as I was.”

She walked away from him, sitting by the pool’s edge, where she started to play with the water using her hands. After a few minutes in silence she finally spoke.

“Life wasn’t always a piece of cake for me, Hunter. Back in India, I belonged to the people they call ‘the untouchable’, ‘the impure’. We lived like rats! In a secluded and small rural property, where my parents did the most degrading work to feed me and my four siblings.”

During his travels to India, Lysimachus heard about that group of people. Excluded from the caste system, they lived under inhumane rules.

“I was the youngest child and the only one to not accept that life,” Priya continued. “As a little girl, I started to collect pieces of fabric that were discarded and sew them together to make myself beautiful clothes. Clothes I’d never be allowed to have.”

She approached him again, taking a sip from her bottle to prepare for what she was going to tell next.

“When my father died, my mother fell seriously ill. We needed to bring home some money, but I’d never submit myself to dirty work, such as working with garbage and dejects. So, I went even dirtier.”

"Priya, oh my god...” Lysimachus ran his hand through his hair, not knowing exactly what to say upon that information.

“What do you think upper caste women did when they found out their husbands were sleeping with an ‘untouchable’? One night, they set my family’s house on fire. I wasn’t home, so I was the only one to survive.”

“It’s enough,” he told, squeezing her hand, but she was fixated in the memories. Memories she probably suppressed for over a century. Some tears started to run across her cheeks.

“With the money I had I fled to France, seeking for a better life. I was naive, Hunter. Too naive. Soon, I was back to my old habits. Until the day this rich guy I was dating got fed up of my expensive taste. He called a little friend of his and the two of them attempted to get rid of me, not before having fun one last time, of course.”

“Priya…"

"I was weak, almost dead, when somebody came to my rescue,” she didn’t let him speak. “A thirsty, disgusting vampire. I attempted to scream while he fed from what was left of me. After drinking my whole blood, he thought I was too young and pretty to die, so he Turned me.”

“You don’t even know who’s your maker.”

“No, I was on my own. Until a woman saved me. She owned a brothel. She let me stay there, where I was allowed to feed from her and her girls. In trade, I’d create clothes for their night shows and protect them from the nasty clients. That was my favorite part. Anyways, when she died, some of the girls wanted to come to America, where they hoped they’d find what they were searching for, so I came too.”

“And did you find it? What you were looking for?”

“More than that,” she finally opened a mischievous grin, “he gave me what I needed.”

“Who?”

“No one,” she finished her bottle and wiped the last few tears from her face. “He’s gone now. It doesn’t matter.”

Lysimachus stood up and involved her in a protective embrace. Everything suddenly made sense, her houseboys, the way she treated mortals… she was taking revenge for how she was treated in the past. Being used, abused, broken.

"You don't have to do this," he stroked her soft hair. "You're hiding behind this character you created to mask your pain. I know what I'm saying, this is exactly what I did being a Vampire Hunter."

“No, you have no idea of what you're saying,” she angered. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this! Now you know my weaknesses, you’re going to use it against me!”

“Priya,” Lysimachus held her still, looking into her eyes. “God, I would never use it against you. You can trust me, I promise.”

“But… now you know, it changes everything. You better keep a distance.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

For a moment, she seemed open, vulnerable. Their lips were almost touching when Priya took a step back.

“I need to stay alone for a while.”

Respecting her wish, Lysimachus went to the Shadow Den and left her alone in his apartment. Lily had important news to tell him.

“Amy told me she remembers seeing the mysterious symbol at Wright’s office and temple.”

“So that was where I saw it too.”

“Anyways, after studying it for hours I came to a conclusion,” Lily seemed worried somehow. “It’s a junction of other symbols: this one for ritual, the one for blood or descendant and this one... means sacrifice.”

“A-Are you telling me…”

“In order to kill what the First Vampire created, you must execute the ritual and offer her descendant as sacrifice.”

“You mean…”

“To kill Gaius, we must kill Amy too."

Next: When a meeting with Gaius goes wrong, somebody will be facing a tragic outcome. Stay tuned!

#playchoices #choices stories you play #bloodbound #kamilah sayeed #kamilah x mc #bloodbound fanfiction #priya lacroix #lysimachus

[alphacrone]

the kind who asks you for a little sugar [zimbits neighbors au]

When Jack moved into the plain, white house on Maple Street, he wasn’t expecting much except the peace and quiet he needed to write his next novel. Most of the neighbors were elderly or wrapped up in their young-parent bubble, too busy to notice the quiet, serious man now living in the late Mr. Ripley’s house. And Jack preferred it that way.

Every house on the street seemed a part of the scenery to Jack, weathered and simple with neat yards and the occasional rocking chair or wind chimes on the porches. Every house, that was, but his next door neighbor.

The house to the left of Jack’s was a buttery yellow color, the yard divided between garden and eclectic statues of rabbits and butterflies and other ridiculous things. The mailbox was covered in painted sunflowers and a faded pride flag hung in the window. It made Jack uneasy, knowing his neighbor was probably some overzealous, middle-aged lady who owned several cats and healed her colds with crystals. With one last look at the house and the pie that sat to cool on the windowsill, Jack wrinkled his nose and returned to his own home.

Jack had not lived on Maple Street for longer than 24 hours when someone knocked on his door. Hoping it was the delivery of his new couch, Jack opened the door, and was surprised to find, instead, a handsome man holding a steaming pie.

“Hi!” The man greeted, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m Eric, I live next door.” He nodded toward the yellow house. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Very tentatively, Jack took the pie and grunted out, “I’m Jack.”

“Welcome, Jack,” Eric repeated. “Please let me know if you have any food allergies and I’ll whip up a new pie. The oven’s always running at the Bittle house.”

Jack nodded slowly, a bit overwhelmed. “Thanks,” he managed to say, staring at the pie like he’d never seen a pastry before. “Would you...like to come in?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I’m on my way out for the day, but rain check?” When Jack nodded, Eric continued, “Eat a slice while it’s hot--that’s when it’s the best. And I hope to see you around, Jack.”

And then he was gone down the steps, all but skipping next door to the battered Volkswagen Beetle that sat in his driveway. Jack watched, still shellshocked, as Eric drove off, pop music blaring from his car as he sped out of the sleepy, Massachusetts neighborhood.

Jack supposed there was always that neighbor, no matter where you lived. He shut the front door with a swift kick and deposited the pie on his kitchen counter, unsettled in a most alien way.

(Eric was right, however; the pie did taste best straight from the oven.)

It was a few weeks later, after a harrowing, draining meeting with his editor, that Jack saw Eric again. The man was walking his dog down the street, dressed in tight sweatpants and a cherry-red sweatshirt. Jack had to admit to himself that Eric looked good in red, even if he was loud and talkative and absurdly cheerful for someone over the age of thirty. Jack frowned as he gazed a little longer out of his study window, then returned to the paragraph he’d been struggling with. When he glanced out the window again, not a minute later, Eric and the dog were gone and Maple Street seemed a little darker.

Jack sighed, and decided to go for a walk himself, his bad knee cramping from sitting for so long. He took a moment to stretch it out, then headed out to the sidewalk, surprised at the chilliness of the evening. Though it made him shiver, the cold always reminded him of home, of the rink, of Quebec. Jack smiled, a little sadly, and picked up his pace, speeding past Bittle’s yellow abomination.

Jack circled back twenty minutes later, eyes struggling to adjust to the odd dimness of dusk. The soft, yellow glow of the windows along Maple shone like aisle lights in a theater, dotting along his way home. Music played softly in the distance, and, despite himself, Jack wandered towards it, entranced.

Both surprisingly and utterly unsurprisingly, Jack followed the melody’s trail back to Bittle’s house. In the orange-blue evening, the house seemed warm and golden, and the smells coming from the open window were sweet and buttery and tinged the air with a cacophony of spices.

Curious and possibly a little lonely, Jack walked up the porch steps and knocked on the door.

It took a moment and quite a bit of muffled shouting before the door swung open to reveal a flour-caked Bittle grinning in surprise.

“Jack!” He cried, already ushering him in. “Goodness, it’s chilly out- and where is your coat, mister? Come in, come in, I’ll put on a pot of decaf.”

Despite that now-familiar overwhelmed feeling Jack got around Bittle, Jack was content to let the man herd him into the kitchen. The walls were papered in an old-fashioned style, yellow and pink flowers climbing upwards in a beautiful pattern, and the cabinets were all painted a soft, cream color.

“Texas Pecan or Cinnamon Hazelnut?” Bittle asked, holding up two tins of coffee. Jack opened and closed his mouth a few times, uncertain what either of those things even tasted like.

“Surprise me,” he eventually said, and this didn’t seem to dampen Bittle’s spirit in the slightest.

“Pecan, then,” he said, putting on tin back in the lower cabinet from which it came. “It’s less sweet, which will pair nicely with the mini coffee cakes that’re baking right now.” He grinned at Jack and began scooping grounds into the small coffee pot on the counter. “I’m making ‘em for Mrs. Lowry’s PTA bake sale--but don’t tell Moira Jones, she’s such a busybody--and Julia--Mrs. Lowry--needs to win the approval of the other mothers so she can run for president of the education board.”

Jack nodded weakly, unsure of who any of these people were. He thought maybe the Jones family lived a few doors down, but hadn’t really talked to many people on Maple street other than Bittle. Bittle, it seemed, knew the entire neighborhood.

“-and I’m sure Julia won’t mind if we steal a couple,” he was still saying, now pouring water into the pot and flipping the switch. “I made so many anyway. So!” He clapped his hands together, a small cloud of flour billowing up in front of him. “What can I do you for? Or did you just come by for a visit?”

“Oh.” Jack swallowed roughly and shrugged. “I heard your music while I was out walking.”

It was a terrible explanation, but it made Bittle smile wide. “Are you a Beyonce fan, Jack?”

“Not really,” Jack admitted. “But it’s...nice.”

“Nice, he says,” Bittle teased, wiping his hands off on a towel. “She’s everything.”

This startled a smile out of Jack, a rare occurrence. “Everything, eh?”

“Of course,” Bittle said simply. “Oh, there you are, Peaches.”

The dog Jack had seen Bittle walking earlier wandered into the kitchen, staring at Jack and quickly skirting around him to hide between Bittle’s legs. It was a goofy-looking creature, one of those corgis Jack could never understand. Peaches was, admittedly, pretty cute, with his wiggly butt and happy face. Jack knelt down and let Peaches approach him slowly, sniffing at his hand. Eventually it got close enough for Jack to pet, and all but melted under his fingers when he began scratching between its ears.

“She likes you,” Bittle said happily. “That’s a good sign. She hates those Phillips boys down the street and they both recently got suspended for vandalism; Peaches has impeccable instincts.”

“I’m sure,” Jack said, grinning down at the ridiculous creature. “Hey there, little bud.”

“Whore’ you calling little?” Bittle asked, laughing. “Peaches is above-average size for a corgi.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jack said and, in a moment of surprise and near-panic, realized he was feeling...happy. Not just content, but happy. Maybe self-imposed solitude in a random Massachusetts suburb hadn’t been the best plan. (Or maybe he’d needed it, but in an unexpected way.)

“So, Jack, what do you do?” Bittle asked, rushing to turn off his rabbit-shaped timer as it signaled the end of his baking time.

“I’m a writer,” Jack said as Bittle pulled two large muffin trays from the wheezing, old oven. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the kitchen like a flood, so much stronger than before. “Mostly historical fiction, though I’ve been working on a manuscript for a more contemporary mystery novel lately.”

Bittle gasped in excitement at that, depositing the trays on trivets so they could cool. “A writer, how interesting. My friend, Derek, he’s a poet, but his day job’s as a professor in Boston. You’re a full-time writer? Those still exist?”

Jack nodded, amused by the reaction. “Yeah, we do. It’s not glamorous, really, but it’s a quiet life, which I like.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could work such a solitary job,” Bittle said, shaking his head. “Or one that requires sitting still for so long. I own the Haus chain,” he added, whirling around to grab two mugs from the cabinet. “Those restaurants around town? The original was just the Haus, and then there’s Full Haus, the larger brick-and-mortar over in the Faber shopping center, near the Target, and Haus and Home, which has the attached home goods shop. We’re opening a location in Worcester, but I haven’t decided on a name for it.”

Jack nodded through the whole spiel, accepting the coffee gratefully. Though it was a lot to process, he found he liked Bittle’s rambling. It filled the silence easily and Bittle never seemed to expect Jack to say much in return. He sipped at the coffee, surprised by the nutty smoothness of the blend, and finally let his guard down completely, soaking in this simple moment with his new neighbor.

Jack didn’t leave for another hour and when he did it was with several cakes tucked away in tupperware and a promise to get together again soon. Jack returned to his house with dog hair on his jeans and an uncomfortably full belly, and he slept hard and soundly with the taste of pecan and spices lingering at the back of his mind.

The following weekend found Jack at the farmer’s market held at the local elementary school. It wasn’t huge, but he still loved the feeling of it, the smell of fresh vegetables and cooking treats.

To his surprise, one of the booths proudly read “The Haus” and was manned by two bored-looking young men. “Sample?” One of them asked Jack, holding out a tray of chopped-up schnitzel. Jack shrugged and took one of the toothpicks.

“Oh, this is good,” he said. “This is Eric Bittle’s restaurant, right?”

The man nodded. “Yep! Mr. Bittle’s here today, actually, though not to babysit us,” he added, face growing serious. “He’s just also here while we’re here. We’re perfectly capable of running the stand alone, the incident with the pig was a long time ago-”

“Tony, chill,” his friend said. “Mr. B’s buying fruit and shit for himself. One sample per customer.”

Jack nodded and tossed the toothpick into a nearby trashcan, thanking the men. He didn’t know why he felt so include to find Bittle, but he started scanning the crowd for that familiar blonde hair all the same.

Jack eventually found Bittle at a beekeeper’s stand, examining honey. “Oh, Jack!” Bittle said as Jack sidled up next to him. “I’m thinking of making baklava for my friend’s engagement party. Here, try this honey, it’s divine.”

Bittle took a tester spoon from the beekeeper, who seemed to know Bittle and made no fuss, and held it up to Jack’s lips. Uncertain, Jack took the spoon into his mouth and sucked the honey from the plastic, delighted by the simple sweetness of it.

“That’s really good,” he said, licking at his lips. “I may have to buy myself a jar, for toast.”

“Mm, butter and honey on toast sounds fantastic right now,” Bittle said, examining the price board. “Oh, and with chamomile tea. Here, I’ll take these two,” he said to the beekeeper, pulling out his wallet.

Acting quickly, Jack grabbed another jar and placed it with Bittle’s, then handed the man a wad of cash before Bittle could protest. “My treat,” he said. “And maybe we could go have that toast and tea?”

Jack hadn’t actually expected Bittle to be a blusher, but he did, splotches of color dancing up his hairline. “That would be nice,” he finally said, as close to shy as Jack had ever seen him. “I’m finished here if you want to head back now.”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t felt this giddy or this nervous since he was a teenager.

“Well, then,” Bittle said, loading the honey into his canvas sack and taking Jack’s arm with an uncertain smile. “Let’s head home.”

This thing with Bittle wasn’t clear to Jack. Were they dating? Still in the flirting stage? Just friends who spent long hours at Bittle’s kitchen table together, curled over steaming mugs and decadent sweets? Who knew?

But as Jack’s novel started growing absurdly romantic, to the point of his editor ranting at him for half an hour, bewildered by this uncharacteristic turn of events, he decided it was time to clarify. Though outright terrified of Bittle’s rejection, Jack was no quitter. He put on his favorite henley and cleanest jeans and headed over the eclectic house next door and knocked on the door, suddenly wondering why the hell he hadn’t thought to bring flowers.

“Jack, just the man I wanted to see,” Bittle said as he opened the door. “I’ve got a pot of peppermint tea steeping and shortbread cookies in the oven. Peaches!” He called, all but pulling Jack into the house. “Your favorite person is here!”

Peaches wobbled into the room, jumping up paw at Jack’s knees. Jack knelt down to pet her, but didn’t linger as Bittle headed back into the kitchen. The dog could wait; Jack was on a mission.

“So, euh, I wanted to talk to you,” Jack said, wringing his hands together as Bittle pulled mugs from the drying rack and checked the strength of the tea. “About...us.”

“Us?” Bittle looked startled. “What about us?”

“Well, um.” Jack swallowed loudly and took a deep breath to fortify himself. “I really like you and I thought maybe the things we were doing qualified as dating but I wasn’t actually sure and I want it to be dating but not if you don’t want to and I’m sorry if I’ve just made things awkward, I really like being friends with you and that’s enough if that’s all you feel-”

Bittle cut him off with two fingers pressed to his lips. “You silly man,” he said quietly, smiling warmly up at Jack. “Of course I want it to be dating, too. I thought it was. Explains why you haven’t tried to kiss me yet.”

Jack let out a quiet, relieved laugh. “Then why haven’t you kissed me?” He asked, grin growing wide as Bittle stepped closer, hands resting on Jack’s chest.

“Because I’m a gentleman, obviously,” he teased, close enough now that he had to look straight up at Jack. “And I was nervous.”

“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to do something about that,” Jack said, and he leaned down to kiss Bittle soundly, hands cupping Bittle’s cheeks. They broke apart just as Bittle’s rabbit-shaped timer chirped at them.

“Guess I should get those cookies,” Bittle said, chewing on his bottom lip. “Don’t you move a muscle.”

And Jack didn’t. He knew there were greater things than cookies waiting for him when Bittle hurried back.

A year later, Jack packed up his belongings and moved from the plain, old house on Maple street. Nextdoor, in the bright yellow abomination, Bittle opened the front door to help him carry in boxes and bags, Peaches at his heels. Jack smiled, and decided he could get used to all the color as long as it meant Bittle was there, too.

[My incomplete writing masterpost]

[My online novel]

#anna writes things #check please! #zimbits #zimbits fanfiction #alternate universe

[hisquccn]

Royai Royalty pt 2

So... again this was supposed to be a one-shot. So here is chapter 2... 

You can read chapter 1: Here

Summary: The prince used to love his gifts from his knights as they conquered new lands, until he realized the blood that was spilled for each new object. As he grew unhappy with material possessions, the knights resorted to bringing him less willing spoils of battle. He has to put an end to their capturing of innocent people... Hopefully his new prize, a blonde with a temper larger than his kingdom, can help him set the country free...

Author’s note: I placed her in an Elizabethan dress, so I tried to be at least a little historically accurate... describing layers of historic dresses are difficult...

The young prince propped himself up on his bed, finally convinced the unwanted captive had given up on her dangerous attempts at escaping for the night. His new 'gift,' so to speak, sat on the floor where he left her, keeping his distance while holding a mirror to examine the bruising on his jaw. “I'm going to have to figure out how to hide this by morning...”

A huff came from the blonde as she curled her knees up, propping her arms loosely on top of them as she avoided looking at the other in the room. “Hate for the kingdom to know you got punched by a peasant woman?” She muttered.

“I'd hate for a young woman to be beheaded because of a bruise.” He corrected. His words held no venom in them, though he hoped, eventually, the young lady would come to find him as less despicable than other noblemen. With a sigh, he went to his feet, grabbing a pillow and the throw blanket at the end of the bed. “I'll get you suitable living quarters tomorrow. For now this will have to do.”

She reached over for the bedding, only for him to pull away. “What? Do I have to say please?”

Roy laughed gently. “No. This is for me. You take the bed. You're a lady, after all, you deserve better than a lounge.” He shook his head, amused at her ferocity as he laid the pillow out on the chaise. “Although telling me your name would definitely be appreciated.”

The blonde stood, stepping away from him quietly as she made her way to the bed. He'd already proven that arguing did nothing. Besides, the idea of sleeping in a nice bed was appealing... What did it matter to her what discomfort came to the prince, after all? “Being free would also be appreciated.” She mumbled. She lifted a leg, attempting to climb onto the bed before placing it back down. She let out a deep breath before trying once more, only to fall into the seat he'd found her in before. “I can't get in the bed...”

He'd only just laid his jacket over the wardrobe when he turned, watching her dance beside his bed before giving up. “Is it... too tall?” He questioned, the answer suddenly dawning on him as she looked back to him. “You can't really move in all that, can you?” He nodded to her clothing, the ruffled skirt, the tight corset, the layers upon layers that most likely weighed her down from truly lifting herself onto the bed.

“It's not a big deal.”

He turned his head, scratching his neck gently. “I would call a maid in here to assist but, well... it's supposed to be my job to do such things today. Calling someone in would... well rumors could be the death of us...”

“Of me.” She corrected. “The death of me, you mean.”

He wanted to deny the claim, but it was more true than he was willing to admit aloud. “Let me help. Only out of the bodice and skirt.”

She had enough layers beneath the bindings to hide her body, though it would still be considered unseemly to be found in such a state with a man. “I'll hurt you if you try to go further.” She muttered, submitting if for no other reason than to get some well deserved sleep.

Roy nodded, stepping over to her as she turned away. He could see the goosebumps rise on her neck as his hands went to help her from her gown. Each garment was laid carefully on the bed to their side, the petticoat and the farthingale soon joining the outer gown. What she was able to remove herself, he allowed her, not wanting to feel any more of her body than she was comfortable with allowing. At last they were to the bodice, the most binding of all she'd worn that night. Moreso than the ropes on her wrists or ankles, than the way they'd tied her up before dropping her to her knees on the palace floor, the strings pulled tightly behind her, sealing the boning of the contraption against her skin, forcing her bones into a shape they were never meant for, was the worst of all cages.

Her high neck smock hid her body from him, a realization he was glad for. The situation was uncomfortable enough as it was, especially for the woman he'd been assisting. Had she been in a lower smock, she'd have been revealing her collarbone and shoulder blades to him or the length of her leg where her stockings might have been held by garters beneath the lower hem.

With each inch that was loosened from the bodice, he felt her ribs expand, lungs filling with air more with each breath. He'd always held pity for women who found it necessary to dress so painfully, wondering what was appealing about the idea of seeing a young lady faint from breathlessness due to fashion. As he slid the bodice gently over her shoulders, he watched her body relax slightly. “Thank you...”

Roy couldn't help the small smile as he picked up the pile of garments from the bed. “You're welcome.” He said simply, numerous witty comments playing through his mind, though he refrained, for now. “Will you be able to sleep?”

As he turned to her, her hands were on her sides, gently rubbing as if to count if any of her ribs were broken. It wouldn't have been unheard of, especially if it had been her first time in a corset. Nevertheless, she nodded, still looking away from him. “I can sleep on the lounge. Now that I'm not in that... mess of a contraption you people call fashion.”

A warm laugh left his lips. “With as badly as you're hurting after that 'mess of a contraption' was peeled from your bones, I think you deserve the bed.” The young prince turned down the lamp, watching as she climbed into the bed before he settled himself on the chaise. As much as she was one to argue when it came to his chivalry, she gave in when it came to her comfort, it seemed. Or perhaps she was finally realizing that he would keep the distance he'd promised, and she had nothing to fear from him.

Trust wasn't something he expected to gain. Not that night or any other. If she could at least feel safe, however, instead of feeling like a trapped bird, it would be enough for him. “I'm sorry.” His voice came from the corner of the room, his form hidden in the dimly lit room.

“I thought you said you didn't ask for this.” The woman replied, her voice as gentle as his for once. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I'm sorry you were stolen from your home. I'm sorry you were given to me like an object one could place value upon. I'm sorry for many things.”

“You can't be sorry for the problems the world has, Prince. Sorry won't fix them. And I wasn't stolen. I was bought for you.” She corrected. “So at least that's a little guilt off your shoulders.”

“Bought? You were a servant?”

“I was a daughter.” She replied. “A daughter of an apothecary with large dreams and little funds. Taxes came due and past due. When it came to losing our home, his research, and his lab, he chose to lose me instead.” With a bitter laugh she added. “I'm the same value as a house, my lord. I'm quite the gift.”

His words were spoken around a frown, his expression heard in his voice. “You are much higher value. Humans... humans are not valued as things. No matter the ground on which they stand. Upon dirt or marble. Grass or stone. There is no cost high enough to be placed upon their heads, milady.”

Whether the shock on her face was true, or a trick of the dying light, he might have never known. Her voice was quiet as she turned, almost muffled by the sound of the bedding as it shifted. “Riza.”

“I'm sorry?”

“My name. It's Riza Hawkeye.”

The young prince smiled at that. “I've earned your name. Does that mean I have your trust and respect to go along with it?”

“Only the name. It was the least I could do after having you undress me.” There was a gentle laugh in her voice, quiet enough to have been missed if not for the way it caused the male's chest to clench. “You told me I wasn't yours... whose am I?” She asked, the smile in her words fading. “Who must I pay or appease for my freedom?”

Roy laid his dark head back, resting his hands over his chest. “You are your own.” He answered simply. “I'm going to get you out of here as soon as I can. As soon as I know you will be safe upon your leave. Please, miss Riza, be patient with me until then. I will get you your own living quarters. I will have them dress you as you deem appropriate. I will make this a life you can be content with at the very least. All I ask is that you are patient with me. I will set you free. I promise.”

The light of the lamp finally died out as the room went quiet. There was nothing more to be said. He wasn't sure if she'd trust his word. She was true before, what reason was there to trust him? Sure, he'd behaved thus far, but it wouldn't be unheard of for men to be so cunning as to trick women in such a way as to play the game as a kind heart, only to leave a broken soul upon the game's end.

He hoped she'd hold him to that promise. Keep him at his word. He would do the best he could for her, just as he would as king. If he couldn't save a single girl from himself, what hope did he have for his own country?

#royai royalty #royai #royai fanfiction #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #fmab fanfiction #fma fanfiction #roy x riza

[ivoryribcage]

4; ghost verse B))

@shadyxplots | Send “Story + #” | ACCEPTING

Prompt. The first time my muse realized they liked yours.

Title. For the Dancing and the DreamingSetting. OriginalCharacters. Arthur Driscoll (@etherealmeliorism), Blaine McDonough (@shadyxplots), Franklin Donut (@rvbsimsoldiers), Lilah Hall (@sleightxofxhand), Rithisak Aydelotte, (@ireofembers), Veata Aydelotte (@ivoryribcage)

Summary. How odd it was to learn that even in death there could be life.

Death wasn’t what most thought it was. At least not here. Even Blaine McDonough – one of its more knowledgeable residents – was limited at best in his understanding. Once she had asked him if he knew the reason for their state of existence tailoring itself solely to victims of violent deaths, but he’d had no answer. Veata smiled as the pale man swept past her with Lilah’s hands tangled in his. In that moment Blaine looked like a different man from the one that had greeted she and her brother the decade before when the twins had ushered them onto the grounds for the first time: less severe without his formal frock coat and more approachable when laughter added vibrant youthfulness to his face.

The first time she’d met Blaine it had been intimidating. In his formal clothing from a historical era not seen since the 1800′s and with an expression that had been blank of emotion he’d struck an imposing figure. She’d been four years deceased then yet when he’d leveled her with startling blue eyes Veata would’ve sworn she’d felt the blood drain from her face. Even her fearless brother had felt unsettled, and in a bout of protectiveness he’d moved her to stand behind him. The ensuing conversation that had taken place after had been uncertain on their side. By that point the siblings had become more familiar with the realm of the dead, and even more so with the awareness that spirits could be harmed through non-physical means.

Quite a good deal of the people she’d met after her death hadn’t deserved the unfortunate circumstances that ended their lives, but then there were those that had. Such malicious souls were not to be trifled with, and it hadn’t taken long for Veata to learn to err on the side of caution. Blaine’s greeting had been cordial, but the stiffness in his mannerisms and firm lack of emotion when he looked at them had urged her to be cautious of him. He’d made her feel like a student brought in front of her headmaster. It hadn’t been until later as she began to learn more about him that she understood the expression was a habit of a culture from a different time. She had gotten much better at reading the male since but she would remain far from perfect at it for some time to come.

Her mouth curled into a faint, content smile as the traditional folk dance continued. The floor looked like a snapshot that had imposed countless photographs from countless eras one after the other to create a single surreal scene. Her heart – at least the ghost of it – thrummed in her chest as the music began to quicken in tempo, and the steps to the dance became more and more complicated. She felt a hand touch the middle of her back, and she turned with a warm expression to greet Arthur. He returned her cheer with a pleasant grin. Similar to the Aydelottes he hadn’t been an original resident of Louisiana at the time of his death, but had instead found himself wandering there after the last of his siblings had passed into old age.

She hoped that like her friend’s loved ones her parents passed quiet in their sleep. “Not joining in again?” The question was spoken in a thick New York accent that in a most unexpected fashion suited the male. It’d taken her months to learn the nuances of his speech before she felt comfortable deciphering his words. She leaned into his shoulder. “Not tonight. I don’t know the steps well enough yet to keep pace with the others.” His frame bounced with muffled laughter and her head turned at an angle to look at him. His vivid blue eyes danced as he nodded at Rithisak dancing with chaotic enthusiasm in the heart of the crowd. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. He looks like he’s having a great time going at it.”

Giggles bubbled in her chest as she watched her brother bump into three other people after turning in the wrong direction. There wasn’t the slightest hint of embarrassment in his face though as he corrected himself with a second quick turn. It was apparent in nothing more than a glance that her brother wouldn’t be deterred from enjoying himself. She tucked her arm through Art’s, her eyes crinkled with apparent affection as she said, “It’s my brother. Turning a situation into a great time is what Rithisak is known for. I, on the other hand, don’t possess that same confidence and charm.” It’d hardly been a surprise when her brother had taken less time than her to adjust to their newfound afterlife. It was in his nature to shine best in unprecedented environments.

“I’m more surprised you’re not dancing with Franklin tonight.” She didn’t need to look to know the tips of his ears would be flushed a faint shade of red. Even though their bodies no longer contained blood and flesh the memories of such things remained. He cleared his throat. “I don’t dance. I’ve never been interested in learning either.” Veata hummed a note of acknowledgment as the tune reached its final note before a short intermission. She made no remark to Arthur as she spotted the dark blonde standing across the room from them between the dissipating bodies. He’d no doubt been aware of Donut’s presence the entire time. Affection might not have been his strong suit but it was there in even his most subtle behaviors.

There was a sharp whistle from the thinning crowd, and she watched as Lilah jerked her thumb over her shoulder after she was certain she had her attention. “Hey, Spiffy!” she declared in a boisterous tone. “It’s a lot more fun when you participate. I know you know the steps to this next one. Get out here, Girlie!” With a wide grin she waved her over, but Veata didn’t budge from where she stood with a flustered but pleasant smile. She raised her voice over the instruments and reassured Lilah instead, “Thank you, but I’m quite fine here. Maybe another time.” Lilah huffed with her hands on her hips before conceding with an impish grin, “Fine, but this ain’t over! We’ve got a lot of years ahead of us!”

With that she spun on her heel, lacing her arm with Blaine’s before marching to another part of the room as the dancers began to assume their positions for the next tune. Veata leaned into Arthur. He glanced down at her before commenting, “She’s right. You’re not going to be able to turn her down for the rest of time. At some point she’ll wear you down.” Veata laughed into his shoulder. “I don’t doubt it.” She watched as Lilah placed one hand on Blaine’s shoulder and the other in his raised hand. There were countless reasons the two should have made for a comical image – the differences in their height, the stark contrast of their periodical clothes from different centuries – but instead she thought them to be a handsome, admirable pair.

The music resumed and Veata basked in the jovial atmosphere as she and Arthur continued their talk. Death had frightened her as a child. When she’d thought of it she’d thought of something grim and colorless – she’d thought of it like an abyss that turned something whole into nothing. She’d been wrong. Without a doubt there were its morbid, terrible tragedies, but there was liveliness to be found after it and such a vibrant range of colors it left her dizzied sometimes. The festivities continued into the heart of night, and she paid no mind to the passage of time until Arthur in the middle of recounting one of his stories paused. She followed his gaze to find Blaine parting through the crowd to approach them. Lilah was no longer near him.

She cocked her head at the male with a curious expression as he cleared his throat then offered his hand. “C’mon. You’ll have to sooner or later.” Her eyes moved past him to the floor. For just a moment she spotted Lilah’s dark hair when the music signaled for the third partner change of the dance. “She’s not exactly one to give up.” There was a hint of teasing in his voice as he half-joked, “Last chance to do it of your own free will.” She considered the proffered hand before resigning herself to her fate with a gentle exhale. Lilah was quite persistent. In her gracious defeat Veata smiled as she placed her hands in his, and even Arthur had to duck his head to hide a bemused grin. “I give up. She wins.”

Blaine squeezed her hand before escorting her to the floor. Behind them Arthur stood with a knowing look in his eyes and a half-cocked eyebrow. It was as both men had said: Lilah Hall would not be denied when she was determined. She turned to face Blaine, her feet moving into position but before either of them could take so much as a single step together the music signaled the fourth partner change. Veata looked surprised for a moment and then amused as someone else took her hand from the blond’s. Over the stranger’s shoulder – a man dressed rather like a dock worker in the 1900′s – she had only the time to flash him a smile. With one hand held against his back and the other in his she lost herself to the music.

Dancing was second nature to Veata, and it wasn’t long before she moved with the same practiced grace as the other participants. Her partner with his hands on her waist lifted her into the air, and she grabbed his shoulders with peals of laughter as he spun her before placing her down on the ground. In her chest her phantom heart tittered with delight. Like with the act of breathing her body hadn’t forgotten the pleasures of dance. He placed his hand on the small of her back, and the two of them returned to the rehearsed steps. Too soon the music signaled another change, and she was handed to her second partner of the night. The room spun around them as if it were a living, breathing creature itself, and she sank deeper into its vibrant warmth.

When she found herself pulled into Blaine’s arms it was with chest heaving with exhilaration and her eyes bright with tittering awareness. He smiled down at her as he moved one hand around her lower back and she to his upper back, their fingers on the other locking together before he swept her into the first quick steps. His head lowered closer to hers, and she noted not for the last time how handsome his crooked lip made his smile. Blaine teased her, “Hello. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again tonight.” She huffed a laugh. Teasing was another trait she wouldn’t have thought him capable of when she’s first met him, but it’d soon proven to be one of his near constant behaviors. There’d been so much that had been wrong about her first impression of Blaine.

“Hello yourself, Blaine.” He chuckled, and the two of them settled into an amicable quiet as the dance continued. There was a familiar comfort about moving with him that hadn’t been present with her other partners. Unlike them Blaine wasn’t a stranger to her. She’d spent countless hours learning from him about the inner workings of their world: how to materialize a living appearance, how to brush for the briefest moment with the physical world. There’d been other lessons too as she’d slowly mastered the abilities of the dead. With nothing but time left to her he’d began to teach her how to play piano or rather he’d taught her as well as a spirit could be taught without the physical touch to create sound on the keys.

Her hands fluttered to his shoulders as he lifted her then draped themselves across the back of his neck as he spun her back to the ground. She touched the tip of her toes to the floor with mastered grace before standing flat on her feet as he took her into his hands once more. It helped that Blaine had been the one to teach her the dance as well. He wasn’t much of a dancer himself, but he’d attended these parties – social events that were meant to help Louisiana’s countless spirits pass the time – so often he knew enough to teach her. As the manor’s chosen master, he’d explained once, these lessons were part of his duties. The historical grounds were a living entity themselves, and would notice when he slacked in his responsibilities to its residents.

If he had a scent she would imagine as he moved with her that it was a musk sprinkled with cigar smoke and spices – perhaps a hint of bourbon. The dead couldn’t smell, but as his arm wrapped around her waist she imagined for a moment that she could. The breath hitched in her throat as in the last three string notes he dipped her without warning. “Oh!” In her fright her hands gripped the back of his neck tight and she arched herself against his torso with a gasp. She could feel his deep, immediate laughter caught in his chest. Blaine smirked at her then winked at her flustered expression. To him she must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Keeping you on your toes, Aydelotte. I lost you for a few minutes there.”

With surprising strength for such a lean frame he lifted her from the dip, his hands on her hips and her arms lowering into the space between their chests. The tip of their noses brushed as she breathed heavier than a person that didn’t need to breathe should have. His eyes half lowered until the blues were nothing more than slits beneath his pale lashes, and he laughed at her once more with undeniable pride over his little prank. Veata lowered her face into his shoulder with her heart thundering in her chest. There was so much that her phantom flesh remembered from her short time as a living person. “You’re terrible, Blaine,” she laughed into his skin. He danced his fingers over the length of her spine.

“I know.” She could hear the smirk in the tone of his voice, and her head lifted from his shoulder. He continued to look down at her with the expression of a fat, content cat as their noses bumped again. Despite her scolding Veata herself looked to be tangled with threads of content warmth. The erratic beating of her heart hadn’t slowed yet, and her fingers, she realized, played with the edges of his collar and vest. She laid her hands flat against his chest. “I mean it,” she argued. His smirk only widened and his face lowered until their foreheads touched. With a cockiness only he was capable of he responded, “I know.” Her heart skipped another beat. She grinned despite herself as she leaned into him – almost as if she were drunk on him. In a sense she was.

She liked his cockiness – his confidence and his charm – though in too high of a dose it became irritable instead. Her eyes lowered to his chest as his face nudged closer. She fingered the material of his vest, reluctant to step back from him so soon even as the others around them began to disperse with good cheer. Veata knew he was aware of the sparks of attraction she’d felt to him over the last ten years. Like seeds though attraction required attention and time to become something more. It was only here as the two of them stood in the center of the room feeling as if the rest of the world had faded out that she recognized in a single clear and coherent thought that she liked him. Veata smiled to herself.

It seemed like a natural progression. She leaned back from Blaine, breaking the near contact between the two of them. To like a person was harmless. It changed nothing between them. There was no reason it should. One had to wonder though if in his eyes there was a hint of knowing as he straightened without taking his attention from her. It wouldn’t have surprised Veata if there was. She’d become so distracted in Blaine that she didn’t notice Lilah’s approach, and she stiffened with wide-eyed alarm at her presence. “What did I tell you?” Lilah questioned boisterously. “You had fun, didn’t you?” Veata relaxed the tension from her bones. “I did.” The sprite of a woman looked triumphant at the two of them. “I told you so.”

#✉ ▌our veins are filled with stories of survival ⌞MEME⌝ #Blaine McDonough #shadyxplots #♓ ▌welcome to the end of eras; he’s taking back the crown ⌞BLAINE MCDONOUGH⌝ #💕 ▌c’est la mort; i am yours forevermore ⌞VLAINE⌝ #📚 ▌how i pitied the violins in their glass coffins ⌞V. AFTERLIFE⌝

[deweydguinn]

Ranker: How to make a Google algorithm-proof website

Source: First appeared at

Any SEO or webmaster who has ever had a website affected by a Google algorithm change – or feared being affected by one – has probably wished that they could find a way to make their website “algorithm-proof”.

Still, surely there’s no such thing as a website that’s never impacted by Google algorithms, right? As long as your site is indexed by Google, it’s at the mercy of the algorithms that Google uses to determine website ranking, all the more so if you happen to rely heavily on organic search traffic for your business.

The art – or science – of search engine optimization is about determining as best you can what those algorithms are looking for, and giving it to them.

Yet one website believes it has found the formula for making its content “Google algorithm-proof”. Ranker is a website made up of dynamic, crowdsourced lists that users can vote on, about everything from pop culture to geography, history to sports, celebrities to science.

And according to its CEO, Clark Benson, Ranker has never suffered a negative effect from a Google algorithm change, growing its traffic steadily without interruption over the course of eight and a half years.

Search Engine Watch caught up with Benson to find out Ranker’s secret to success, and whether there is a formula for creating an algorithm-proof website.

Rankings, not review sites

So what is Ranker, exactly?

“Ranker’s primary reason for being is to crowdsource anything that makes sense to rank,” says Benson. “Any topic that people are really interested in.

“The unique angle that we’ve pursued is that instead of having this being one 23-year-old blogger’s opinion of the best new TV shows of the year, or whatever it happens to be, we would have a dynamic list that visitors could vote on, potentially add items to, and re-rank.

“The end result is a very wisdom-of-crowds-based answer which is always changing and dynamically moving along as tastes change, and as more people vote on things.”

Voting on a list of ‘Historical events you most want to go back and see’ on Ranker

Lists have been a time-honored draw for magazines and other print media over the years, but it was when the internet came along that they really exploded – spawning dozens of list-oriented viral websites and the much-mocked listicle, which became a staple of online journalism. However, Benson – a self-described “lifelong list nerd” – was frustrated by the fact that these lists only ever represented one person’s opinion.

In a similar vein, he found review websites unhelpful, as user-generated reviews represented a single person’s subjective opinion in a format that wasn’t conducive to making a decision.

“Part of the reason to build Ranker was my frustration with review sites, because when I’m looking for an answer to something, like which TV show to watch, I don’t want to read a lot of text reviews.

“I also feel that in typical five-star rating systems, everything tends to be clustered around three and a half to four stars, so you don’t get any true granularity on what is best.”

In a world increasingly “cluttered with choices”, therefore, Benson was convinced that rankings were “the simplest way to dissect a choice in a category, without losing the credibility of the answer”. And so he built Ranker as a website where the wisdom of the crowd could determine the ultimate ranking for any list of items, on any topic.

The secret to Ranker’s SEO success: Content freshness

Since Ranker’s launch in 2009, the site has amassed more than 100,000 rankings across dozens of broad categories, encompassing almost any topic that people could have a passion for.

When the website first launched, however, it had very few resources, and Benson explains that he had to learn SEO from scratch in order to give the website a strong foundation.

Luckily, earning traffic was never a problem for the site, because the type of content published on Ranker was uniquely suited to catering to Google’s algorithms.

“We’ve never been hit by any algorithm changes – we’ve always grown our organic search traffic year over year over year, steadily, for the eight and a half years we’ve been live.

“You never exactly know what works in SEO, because Google doesn’t tell you what works, but I’ve always believed that the best intelligence on what to do comes from the public statements Google makes – their best practices.

“And one of the key factors that Google says is in their index is freshness of content. Content has a lifespan. In our case, because our rankings are dynamic and always changing – people are adding things to them, voting things up and down – this makes for perpetually fresh content.

“We have a lot of content that is six, seven, even eight years old that is still doing as well as it was years ago, and in some cases it’s even growing in traffic.”

One of Ranker’s most evergreen pieces of content is a list ranking the ‘Best Movies of All Time’ – which is more than 5,000 items long.

“Obviously that’s a topic that there’s a lot of passion and a lot of competition for [in search rankings]. And in the last few years, we’ve been on the top three or so results on Google for that term.

“We’ve watched that page just grow in rankings over the span of seven or eight years. I can only guess it’s because the page is always changing.”

User-curated content

At the time of writing this article, Ranker’s front page is currently spotlighting a list of best-dressed celebs at the 2018 Oscars, a best TV episode names ranking, and a list of possible game-changing deep space observations to be made by the Webb Telescope.

Anyone can add an item to a list on Ranker, although Ranker’s content is not purely user-generated. Ranker has an editorial team which is made up of people who, in Benson’s words, “have a mind for cataloging things” rather than people who specialize in writing a lot of prose.

Lists are typically started off by one of Ranker’s editors, and when a user wants to add a new item to a list, it’s cross-referenced with Ranker’s database, a huge data set made up of more than 28 million people, places and things. If the item isn’t found in the database, it’s added to a moderation queue.

Rather than UGC (user-generated content), therefore, Benson thinks of Ranker’s lists as something he terms UCC – user-curated content.

How did Ranker build such a huge data set? Beginning in 2007, a company called Metaweb ran an open source, collaborative knowledge base called Freebase, which contained data harvested from sources such as Wikipedia, the Notable Names Database, Fashion Model Directory and MusicBrainz, along with user-submitted wiki contributions.

This knowledge base made up a large part of Ranker’s data set. What’s interesting is that Freebase was later acquired by none other than Google – and is the foundation of Google’s Knowledge Graph.

Additionally, not every list on Ranker is crowdsourced or voted on. Some lists, such as Everyone Who Has Been Fired Or Resigned From The Trump Administration So Far, don’t make sense to have users voting on them, but are kept fresh with the addition of new items whenever the topic is in the news.

Can other websites do ‘Ranker SEO’?

Benson acknowledges that Ranker’s setup is fairly unique, and so it isn’t necessarily possible to emulate its success with SEO by trying to do the same thing – unless you just happen to have your own crowdsourced, user-curated list website, of course.

With that said, there are still some practical lessons that website owners, particularly publishers, can take away from Ranker’s success and apply to their own SEO strategy.

First and foremost: content freshness is king

As you’ve no doubt gathered by now, the freshness of Ranker’s content is probably the biggest contributing factor to its success in search. “We’re convinced that the dynamism of our content is what really lets it just grow and grow and grow in search traffic,” says Benson.

“While our approach is somewhat unique to the way Ranker works – we have a bespoke CMS that makes lists out of datasets – I’m positive that there are other ways to apply this kind of thinking.”

To put content freshness front and center of your content marketing efforts, make sure that your publication or blog is well-stocked with evergreen content. For those articles or posts that are more time-sensitive, you can still publish a refreshed version, or look for an up-to-date spin to put on the old content, for example linking it in with current events.

According to research by Moz, other factors which can contribute to a positive “freshness” score for your website as a whole include:

Changes made to the core content of your website (as opposed to peripheral elements like JavaScript, comments, ads and navigation)

Frequency of new page creation

Rate of new link growth (an increase in links pointing back to your site or page)

Links from other fresh websites, which have the ability to transfer their “fresh value” (Justin Briggs dubbed this quality “FreshRank” in 2011)

Internal links trump external links

Other than content freshness, Benson attributes Ranker’s SEO success to one other big factor: its intricate network of internal links, which Benson believes are far more valuable to SEO than an impressive backlink profile.

“I think a lot of people who are new to SEO focus too much on trying to get outside links, versus optimizing their own internal infrastructure,” he says.

“We have a very broad site with millions of pages – not just lists, but a page for every item that’s included in a list on Ranker, showing you where it ranks on all of our different lists.”

The Ranker page for Leonardo da Vinci

“We made the mistake early on of leaving all of those pages open to Google’s index, and we learned over time that some of them are very thin, content-wise. New links are added to them, but they’re thin pages. So we quickly adopted a strategy of noindexing the thinner pages on our site – so they have utility, but they don’t necessarily have search utility.

“We’ve really focused a lot on internal link structure and on interlinking our content in a very intelligent and vertical-driven, page-optimized way. We’ve put a lot of engineering and product resources towards building a robust internal link structure that can also change as pages become more valuable in search.

“Outside links are very important, but they’re increasingly difficult to get. If you have good, unique content, and a strong internal link structure, I think you can get by with far fewer backlinks. Ranker has a lot of backlinks – we’re a big site – but we’ve never tactically gone out to build backlinks. And we get more than 30 million organic search visits per month.”

Think about how your content will appear to searchers

Benson emphasizes the importance of paying attention to basic on-site optimization like crafting good title tags and meta descriptions. These elements dictate how your website appears in the SERP to users when they search, and so will form the first impressions of your content.

“When it comes to creating new content, our editorial team definitely focuses on best practice with regards to title tags and meta descriptions – the basic stuff still applies,” says Benson. “Anyone doing editorial still needs to think about your content from the lens of the searcher.”

Optimizing for Google’s rich results and using Schema.org markup are additional ways that website owners can make sure that their website listing appears as attractive as possible to a searcher encountering it on the SERP.

The future is psychographic

What plans does Benson have for the future of Ranker? Up to now, the site has been concentrating mostly on search and social distribution (Facebook is another big source of organic traffic), but are now beginning to focus more on ad sales, media tie-ins and getting the brand name out there.

“We’re always focused on growing traffic, and we’re certainly investing a lot more into our brand,” says Benson.

However, the most exciting future project for Ranker is something called Ranker Insights – a psychographic interests platform which makes use of Ranker’s thousands of data points on what people are interested in and like to vote on.

Drawing connections between people’s interests on Ranker Insights

Big data on anything is extremely valuable in marketing, but big data on the things that people like is near enough invaluable – particularly in a world where psychographics (classifying people according to their attitudes, aspirations, and other aspects of their psychology) are increasingly more important than demographics (classifying people according to things like age, gender, race and nationality).

“The marketing world in general is steering a lot more towards psychographics rather than demographics,” says Benson. “Netflix doesn’t care what country you live in – when it comes to marketing or even recommendations, all they care about is your tastes. They stopped using demographics entirely years ago – and clearly they’re doing something right.

“We feel that in an interconnected world, what you like says at least as much about you as your age or your gender.

“And in a world where what you like tells people how to market to you and how to reach you, we have very, very granular, deep data on that front. There’s a lot of different applications for insights like this in a very data-driven world.”

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