#this is one of the rare social media companies making good decisions to let you tailor your experience exactly the way you want it
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Intelligent Internet Marketing Can Yield Great Returns
There is an abundance of information available about Internet marketing today. You may find some information just to remind you. Others may help you to discover new ways to market your website. You can be certain it will help you. To do this, you can use this article!
To boost your eCommerce site's PageRank, use short-term promotions. This allows PageRank to be "bought" via links to news distributors and daily deal sites. This is similar to a company selling an item for a loss with the hope that it will become a profit later.
A page with product information can help you convert a potential buyer to an actual buyer. A video page that shows the product in action could be an example.
Customers want to feel informed before they buy your
product. Customers will be less likely to purchase something they don't know and will appreciate the fact that you made the effort to let them make their decision.
It is not necessary to market via the internet all the time. You might want to organize in-person events or conferences for bloggers you are familiar with. This will create a sense belonging that will make your business name more visible.
To succeed in internet marketing, you must take it seriously. Ask successful Internet marketers to help you set up your system. Many people who are skilled in internet marketing offer free or minimal fees.
Once you've chosen the technique that you like, you should stick with it until it is profitable or you decide to switch to another one. Although starting up can be slow, focusing your attention on the right things will make it easier.
All new internet marketing campaigns should incorporate social media avenues such as Facebook and Twitter. Social networking sites allow you to stay connected with your customers on a daily basis.
People don't like it when you advertise to them too much. You should also include more conversational posts alongside your more promotional messages.
Success is not based on luck. It's all about determination and hard work. This is especially true for internet marketing and business. It was not luck that led to the success of large businesses.
It is not possible to be the top brand in the world today by luck alone. Not at all. Companies like these have achieved great success because of their hard work and dedication.
It is important to provide proof to support claims. It is far more effective to show proof than just saying something works. To convince your audience, make a video showing you demonstrating or performing the services that you offer.
Make your website easy to navigate with a link structure. Your visitors will be able navigate your website easily without becoming confused if you have a good structure.
Small business owners often find it prohibitively costly to hire marketing consultants. The internet offers a wealth information that can help you. You can get valuable information by joining a support group for
business, following blogs and attending conferences.
Your website will be more effective if you include banners in a non-discrete manner. There is a higher chance that customers will click on banners that appear to link to valuable content. People rarely click on banners. Be creative to get them to click.
You should be very knowledgeable about your website's content. This is crucial because you will gain credibility by providing accurate and relevant information. However, it is easy to lose credibility if others
can see through your efforts to pretend to be an expert.
Your website should have a chat area for customers. Your website will feel more like a community than a place to purchase items. People love to be part of groups. Giving your customers a reason to consider your business a group will help them stay longer.
This article may have given you a fresh idea or helped you recall something. Use what works for you. Keep improving your marketing skills.
Common Questions About Digital Marketing
Question:
Is using facebook a good marketing technique?
Answer:
Perhaps you already know how greatly your business can benefit from using Facebook for marketing. If you don't know how to go about that, don't despair. We have the information you need to get started and become successful through Facebook marketing.
Try developing a group rather than a page. This will help generate an online community for better interaction. You can also use a group and a page to give updates and allow users to share content.
When a follower asks you a question on your wall or makes a comment, always respond. If somebody tries to engage with your company, you owe it to them to respond. Facebook is similar to a phone call, you would respond to that, right?
Question:
What about using facebook for my clients?
Answer:
Your current customers need to be your main focus. A lot of people concentrate so much on getting new likes and fans that they forget about the fans they already have.
To maximize the impact of your Facebook marketing campaign, you have to maintain the respect of your audience. This will help them engage themselves in your brand.
Be aware of when it is appropriate to post on other Facebook pages. If you post on someone else's page, it can lead to attention. Having said that, it's crucial that this attention is desirable.
If you feel like you have worthwhile things to say, you should post on other pages. Do not ever do spam posts.
Try holding a giveaway. Give something away for free to a select group of customers who sign up to be on your mailing list or who "like" your Facebook page. It doesn't cost much, and it is a great way to reach out to customers.
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Hi!😁 I'll give you another ship with my dear Lucifer morningstar from Lucifer cuz as it turns out I'm a hoe for a lot of characters but what can ya do? Thank you!
Aw hell yii, somebody's talkin' my lingo! 😎
Who the fuck put the Peeps in the microwave?:
Lucifer. And no, it's not because he actually likes them or is curious about what would happen; he's seen plenty of Youtube videos enough to know exactly what happens.
No . . . It's far more malicious . . .
Generally speaking, you don't like the constant comparison of cats to the devil. But after getting to actually meet The Devil, you think that those believers might be on to something.
Lucifer's whorey ways bleeds into his need for attention like red bleeds into white in the wash, and he's completely shameless about it. For example, if he feels like you may be focusing too much on work or, gasp, other people besides him, you run the risk of encountering a very . . . mischievous Luci. Not that he's not already a prankster, but he somehow becomes a bit more childish. Catlike in some respects.
He puts your mugs up higher than what you can normally reach without having to climb on the countertop. He joins you at your kitchen table while you're reading over files for work and puts on his most angelic face, insisting he just wants to keep you company and will be as quiet as vermin in Dear Old Dad's house . . . then proceed to obnoxiously click a pen while pretending to solve a word problem, or eat cheese puffs obnoxiously loud.
And then . . . the Peeps: The absolute prettyboy bastard used your microwave as a casualty of war, plopping the unplated, mutant-colored marshmallows directly on the glass and letting them go.
To be fair, it technically didn't ruin anything. But at least he had your attention now -- because after fussing at him for making a mess, you were currently supervising him scrubbing not only the effected areas of the glass dish, but the rest of the microwave as well.
Unfortunately, you can't say a lesson was really learned because now Luci knows that if he wants to get a rise out of you, what he needs is a bunch of candies from the bargain bin.
Who forgot to put the cat out before sex?:
It's not that either of you forgot the cat was there -- it was that Lucifer wanted the bloody animal to give the both of you some privacy. And because Lucifer forgot the cat was there. He was simply too busy embracing you in a liplock and laying you down on the couch to notice the glaring eyes of the cat you had rescued from the shelter.
Thankfully, you two didn't get very far before the lovingly-named Lucipurr released a meow, indicating that he had become flesh and bone in the few hours it had been since you'd last fed him.
Suffice to say, after a startled Lucifer flung himself off of you and onto the floor, nearly breaking his ass on the coffee table (and the laughing fit that had induced on your end), the mood was killed. For the next fifteen minutes, that is. The next time he tried anything, Lucifer made sure that his efforts would be continued in the bedroom (but not before he did a complete check of every nook and cranny in there to make sure the furry bastard wasn't trying anything).
Who posts Vines/TikToks of the other doing embarrassing shit?:
Lucifer absolutely lacks boundaries. The moment he discovered smartphones, social media, and all their potential, he was all in and recording as many videos of friends and coworkers as he could in as many awkward or unideal situations as they came.
You felt bad for Dan being his constant target, but you were somewhat sure that Dan felt bad for you in a way: After all, you were dating the freaking guy and yet Lucifer had few qualms about posting a video of you, drunkenly singing karaoke in what was supposed to be a private room? Harsh.
Who breaks the most phones?:
Lucifer does. He's not necessarily careless, but his part-time occupation does lead him to circumstances that tend to put his phone in danger. You, Chloe, Dan, literally everyone has told him to just leave his phone in the car if he's going to get it broken that often while on the job, but the dumbass never learns.
Not that he really seems to care all that much: With his wealth, he can always buy a new one. Though, the only times he gets frustrated is when photos or videos don't quite make it to the transfer and things get lost along the way.
Funny photos, suggestive videos, photos and videos of you . . . Photos and videos of you being funny or suggestive . . . Downright pornographic videos he had recorded of you --
Though don't worry: He's sure you'll be more than happy to help recreate the latter. He'd gladly help you . . .
Who dies first?:
It should go without saying. It really should. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. Lucifer was always one to get caught up in his indulgences, after all: Somewhere along the way, he must've gotten too swept up in the thrill, the feeling of adoration. He tells himself this but it's really just denial. Closer to the truth is that it all really was just denial: He denied the idea that you would ever leave him, that you would ever die.
Luci was never good with his own thoughts and feelings, but the way you made him feel was nearly enough to convince him that, in some way, you would just plain live forever.
But of course, this was not the case: It didn't matter that you were fantastical enough to love and be loved by the Devil; you were still very much a human. Very much mortal. So susceptible to things like time and illness and injury.
Lucifer was the King of Indulgences. It was extremely rare for him to experience regret. But when your time inevitably ran out, remorse filled him like smoke filled his lungs with every cigarette he ran through from the moment your funeral arrangements were decided. He could never regret knowing you, as much as part of him thought doing so would spare him this pain. He tried to think of how much better he might've been had he never met you, and it always felt like he was stuck in his own personal Hell Loop with everything going wrong over and over no matter how hard he tried to change it.
He regretted that for as much time as he lived up with you, he felt like he didn't use nearly enough of that time to just . . . enjoy you. You in your mortality, your fleeting beauty and love that would nonetheless haunt him for however long he might go on for. So maybe . . . for eternity?
This didn't feel like his own personal Hell Loop: This was his own personal Hell Loop. And until he learned to forgive himself, it would never end. So he'd be stuck here for maybe . . . eternity.
Which one I could see as being lactose intolerant:
Neither. Unless they get brought down to mortal enough, Celestials generally don't suffer ailments, let alone from things like food allergies.
Who thinks they can do something really well even though they can't?:
Lucifer . . . It's not that he's not smart. But by Dad, he is lacking in so much self-awareness that it can be maddening. He thinks he's pretty good at following Dr. Linda's advice (and, to an extent, he's progressing). But the fact of the matter is, he's incredibly troubling at best. Not nearly as bad as some patients, mind you, but when Linda admitted to you that one or two sessions of Lucifer completely misinterpreting her advice nearly drove her to consider adding a secret bar into her desk, you believed her and didn't blame her for one bit.
Who is more likely to get kicked out of bed?:
Lucifer is a changed devil. But it's a very slow change. You're more than happy to understand and accept this, but that doesn't mean you have to let him and his issues walk all over you. Sometimes, the big dummy just says or does things without thinking -- or because he thought too hard and thought this was the best decision to avoid further strife.
And you try to be patient with him about these tendencies, you really do. But that doesn’t erase your ability to be upset by these habits, or your right to be. And no amount of him buttering you up is going to be acceptable, even when he comes by your place, armed with a dish he so thoughtfully prepared for you.
Nope, he can literally go to Hell with that (really, you’re sure the demons there would appreciate a nice beef wellington); you just need some space. Ironically, this may create a cycle wherein his need to make you happy again and have your attention on him drives him to constantly hover around you and attempt to win you over, which in turn just further frustrates you.
It’ll likely keep going until you either snap or a loved one pulls Luci to the side and gives him a heads up that maybe he should respect your boundaries. After all, intention isn’t the problem here: It’s the actions taken. And as much as it hurts him knowing that he accidentally hurt you, he has to respect your need for time to cool off.
He forces himself to go back to his place and tries to think less about how he feels and more about how you might feel, and try to work out ways to avoid similar incidents in the future. And even though the conclusions he comes to may not be perfect, you at least respect the effort -- particularly when he next sees you, no longer armed with snacks from your favorite bakery or bouquet-carrying teddy bears.
Instead, all he has is an apology. It’s sheepish, and it feels foreign to someone who rarely experiences shame or regret, but you know his whole heart is in it even if he himself doesn’t understand entirely why that is.
Which is good because that’s just part one of the process; part two involves him warming up that spot in your bed that’s reserved for him!
Who uses the computer the most?:
You, absolutely. Lucifer's adorably but altogether completely crap when it comes to technology. Besides, he can easily find other things with which to amuse himself, and doing the paperwork is for other people anyway.
Thank you sooooo much for participating again!!! It really means a lot!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
#lucifer morningstar x reader#lucifer morningstar imagines#lucifer morningstar imagine#lucifer imagine#lucifer imagines#character ship meme#character ask meme#regrettablewritings#thanks for your patience by the way! i would've had this up last night but i went out with family for the evening!
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Christmas Time!
I do not own any of these characters! This story is post-reveal.
Marinette and Adrien were beyond relieved to know about the other’s identity. It was a big weight lifted off their relationship, both on and off the battlefield. They learned to deal with and trust each other in battle, not worrying too much about the other’s capabilities. Even though they knew each other’s identities, they continued to keep Ladybug and Chat Noir as just partners, nothing more. Chat still swooped into Marinette’s bedroom at odd hours of the night and her and Adrien had gotten a lot closer in everyday life as well. They weren’t too obvious at school, but Adrien was almost one hundred percent sure that Nino knew about them. And if Nino knew, so did Alya. But they were all friends, so he wasn’t worried about it. Years had passed, all of them graduating high school and going into college. Marinette had started her own small business, making her designs and selling them online. She used a lot of social media to promote herself. It took a while, so long that she almost gave up due to lack of confidence. Alya had convinced her to continue, to push through and not give up. It had worked, because now her sales were up and trending.
Adrien had begun to take over his father’s work, mainly to get a good source of income. He had moved out of his father’s mansion and into his own apartment with Marinette as they continued their studies. Adrien honestly had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He had always been stuck to his father’s hip as long as he could remember. It was a miracle he even let him get his own place. Even though he didn’t really know what he was doing, he supported Marinette as much as he could. He took her out when he knew she needed some fresh air from work and school. She taught him to cook in their free time, so he had tried to make her a meal here and there. He was getting much better, but still needed work. Planning dates was harder than most people would imagine. Even though he was still the suave and ever romantic Chat noir, he always wanted things to be perfect and that was rarely the case. Sometimes they would go weeks without going out, just spend a few hours binge watching their favorite shows before bed. Neither of them was upset about it, and they both enjoyed the company.
Adulting sucked, though. But, it was finally the best time of year. The time when everyone was a little kid and no one had to be at school. Christmas time. Adrien was beyond excited to decorate the house. He and Marinette had already planned a day and what they would do. From the moment Adrien opened his eyes that morning he was bouncing off the walls, making pancakes from the box and blasting Christmas music on Spotify. Marinette just laughed at him and ate her pancakes, wondering how she got so lucky. She had everything she ever wanted in life. A good career, great best friend, living with the love of her life, successful student and superhero. She was beyond content. After her meal she washed her dishes and pulled out the decorations they had stored away in a distant closet.
“So are we going with gold and red again this year?” Marinette asked, opening the plastic storage container.
“I always like it, but if you want something different we definitely can.” He smiled, looking at her as she thought. He loved her thinking face; it was funny. She looked like the thinking man statue.
“Maybe we should do…winter wonderland?” She pulled out the white and blue decorations.
“It better be a white Christmas this year then,” Adrien laughed, pulling out similarly colored objects. Marinette was usually in charge of the decor, although Adrien definitely helped in the smaller decisions.
They jammed out to their Christmas music while propping up the ladder to begin placing the decorations on their tree. The tree in question was right next to their front window, across from the couch. It wasn’t so much in the way there, and it was harder for their cat to tip it over. Speaking of the devil, Croissant crawled underneath the ladder to look at the ornaments at the bottom of the tree.
“Don’t even think about it, you mangy cat.” Adrien glared at the overly fluffy tabby cat who innocently looked back at him.
“Don’t talk to him like that!” Marinette immediately went to the cat’s aid. “You’re a good boy, Croissant.” She gently scratched his back before moving him to one of the chairs beside the tree.
“He’s not innocent, he snatched my toothbrush the other day! I couldn’t find it for like twenty minutes. He is a thief,” he said matter-of-factly.
Marinette just laughed at him, the noise releasing the tension from his face. He may have saved that cat and agreed to keep it, but it was trying to steal his girlfriend. Adrien was the only one for her and no cat was getting in his way.
As they continued to decorate their small home Adrien began thinking of the future and what it might hold for them. He couldn’t help but wonder if they would be doing this with their own kids. He looked over at Marinette who was doing a little dance while breaking open her candy canes to put on the tree. “Hey, Princess.” She looked at him, her dance halting. “Do you want kids?”
Marinette’s face went completely red at the seriousness of his question. It’s not like she hadn’t thought of it plenty of times, with him as both Adrien and Chat noir. The thing was, they hadn’t brought it up after they discovered each other’s identities years ago. Now they were midway through their college careers. They weren’t even engaged! That thought also made her nervous and embarrassed.
“Yeah, eventually. It would be nice to have a family, you know?” She smiled, trying desperately not to make it too awkward.
Adrien nodded, looking downward for a second. Marinette wondered what was running through his head as he zoned out.
“I won’t be like my father.” He said, suddenly.
It shocked Marinette, truly. She knew he was nothing like his father and had thought he knew the same. “Of course not, Kitty. I know that. You’ll be a great father.” She put her arms around his, carefully. It was a delicate topic, one that had not been brought up for the longest time. And now it was more serious than ever.
He hugged her back, squeezing her as tightly as he could. At that moment he could almost imagine how it would feel to press against her pregnant belly. Almost immediately he started mentally freaking out and pushing the idea as far away as possible. Maybe in a few years.
Their day continued as happily as it started. They baked cookies, which quickly turned their small kitchen into its own winter wonderland of flour. They put up a tiny stocking for Croissant by the tree and turned on How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss on their TV. Snuggled up on the couch, they cherished the moments. They thought of how amazing this winter break was going to be and what other adventures they might go on as their alter egos. This was their new life together. And it was just as amazing as they thought it would be.
#miraculous fanfic#miraculous ladybug#miraculous marinette#mlb#mlb fanfic#marinette#adrien x marinette#marinette dupain cheng#adrien#adrienette#adrien agreste#adrien and marinette#ladynoir#ladybug#tales of ladybug and cat noir#chatnoir#chat noir#fanfic#fandom#mlb fandom#fluff#christmas#christmas fic#cat#croissant#nino lahiffe#alya cesaire#hawkmoth#adrienette fluff
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AU | Famous!Reader x Fashion student!Harry
☁️ FIC PAGE ☁️
word count: 22.9k
warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol
//
Time, mystical time
Cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine
Were there clues I didn't see?
- Invisible String, Taylor Swift
//
Harry huffs a sigh of relief as he stumbles his way up the last steps of the staircase, being greeted with the familiar sight of the front door to his flat. His shoulders are hunched from the stress of a long day, still getting used to the hectic routine after coming back from the holiday season. Eyelids blinking slower with each step, he sniffs as he reaches for his set of keys in the side pocket of his backpack. Cold drops of rain slide down his neck from his hair and his face feels cold from the whisks of wind that whipped around him in the short jog from the tube station to his building. His feet are sore from standing around for so long, and the beginning of a headache sparking under his temple, making him frown as he takes a beat too long to unlock the door. To say he’s tired would be an understatement, and as much as the warm scent of the vanilla candles welcomed him are soothing, he can’t help but ache for a hot shower.
His bag drops to the floor with a faint thump. The sound of the television takes over the small space, and not long after he shrugs himself out of his coat he catches the sight of a recognizable set of curls from Julia’s spot in the couch across the room, snuggling against the cushions with a bright pink blanket wrapped around her and a big bowl of popcorn popped in her lap. Harry envies her for a moment, for getting the chance to work as she’s cozied up inside their warm apartment. From where he stands, he can still feel Julia’s gaze taking in his undoubtedly drained appearance, her expression softening a bit.
“Rough day?”
“Jus’ tired.” He reaches up to pull out the hair tie that keeps part of his locks from his eyes, massaging his scalp as he does so. “S’raining a lot.”
“You should’ve taken my umbrella.”
“I’m not going out in public with that.” He scrunches his nose, a hand resting on the wall for support as he reaches down to take off his vans, the shoes suddenly becoming too tight on his feet.
He’s referring to the umbrella she got roughly a year ago. She had bought it for her mom at a souvenir store and forgot to take it with her on her flight back home for the holidays, so when she came back she’d made the decision to keep it. The top of it is filled with all sorts of typical figures related to London, big red cabins illustrated on the material, surrounded by matching busses and marching soldiers, and of course, an image of a couple Big Bens standing tall next to it. It’s nothing too bad, Harry reckons there’s many uglier gifts she could’ve gotten, but it’s far too touristy for him not to cringe at the thought of parading it around.
Julia scoffs at him, rolling her eyes with a shake of her head. “Buy your own then!” She brings her attention back to the screen in front of her. “Or just catch a cold from walking around in the rain, see if I care.”
He breathes out a laugh at her dramatics, scratching his nose slightly and feeling his icy skin as he makes his way to the bathroom, not indulging further in the banter with his flatmate. Once he’s locked in, Harry can’t help but shrug out of his clothes in an almost impatient manner, eager to finally wash the tension and sweat off of his body.
He takes his time when he finally gets under the hot jet of his showerhead, not holding back a relieved sigh as the water hits his skin with a hard pressure that’s just as painful as it is satisfying.
When he sees Julia again, stepping out of his room clad in an all grey sweats set (except from a couple paint stains decorating the sweatshirt, result of an art course he attended a few months ago), she’s sitting straighter against the cushions, her hair now up in a ponytail, a small computer propped on her lap taking the place of the popcorn bowl, that’s now by her side. She peeks at Harry for a second from under her glasses before focusing again on typing something he assumes must be work related.
“You know, for someone who’s a fashion major you sure have a questionable taste in clothes.” She doesn’t look up from her screen as she teases.
“When I have money for Gucci I’ll make sure to parade it around the flat.” His steps are still lazy as he reaches the messy counter that separates the kitchen area from where Julia sits on the living room couch. Not paying any mind to the stacks of course books and loose papers on top of it, he leans to rest his hands over the mess. “Until then, you're stuck with my paint-stained sweats. Tea?”
“I’m good.”
Harry’s hand hits the countertop with a faint thump as he turns. The wooden cabinets creek as he opens them in order to locate a hand painted blue mug with colorful little chicks dancing around it. He rests it on the counter as he reaches for the kettle to fill it with water. A woman’s voice takes over the space, her tone pitching louder in enthusiasm as she comments on the name of a couple artists. He recognizes some from scrolling around Spotify playlists or seeing it written on magazines before. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry catches an image of a red carpet of sorts being transmitted on the screen. An awards show.
It’s the kind of program Harry’s gotten quite used to seeing by now. From the moment Julia landed an internship at a music magazine, there had been enough occasions in which she had to write a piece regarding an award show. Usually, though, those evenings are prompted with the presence of her girlfriend, Blake, (who happens to be Harry’s classmate -- and he still prides himself in his matchmaking skills for introducing them to each other) who enjoys making snarky comments about people’s outfits as Julia gushes over their performances. Harry’s even joined them a couple times when those nights are held at their flat and not over at Blake’s, not much so for the content -- actually finding most of it boring -- but more for the company. It’s about listening to the two girls bicker as he steals a handful of Julia’s popcorn.
The odd setting of that night doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, though, and once the kettle’s set on the stove he turns to her, leaning back on the counter, “Is Blake not coming tonight?”
“She left early ‘cause she promised to babysit for her neighbors. Oh! You got mail, by the way.” She doesn’t look up from her computer as she motions with her head to the spot on the counter in front of him where a couple letters sat, some with their seals already ripped. “Quite fancy if you ask me.”
Harry frowns slightly, not expecting any mail, much less anything fancy. sure enough, it doesn’t take him long to spot the one she’s talking about, as the black envelope easily stands out amongst the regular ones as well as his name written in cursive letters on top of it. When he picks it up, turning it around, he notices a small leaf branch with a golden ribbon attached to the front by a wax seal matching its color (it’s the first time Harry’s actually seen anyone seal a letter like this outside period tv shows and satisfying video compilations on his instagram explore page, and it only helps to deepen the crease between his brows). He can make out the figure of a fern engraved on the seal, but no other indication of the content inside of it.
With a quick motion, Harry breaks the seal, barely catching the tiny branch mid-air as it falls to the ground. He leans forward, resting his arms on the counter as he retrieves the card resting inside. It takes a single read of the words printed on it for him to realize what's it all about. A wedding invitation. One he’d completely let slip from his memory that was even happening in the first place. Not that he could be blamed for it, considering the last time he’d chatted with the bride and groom he was seventeen living under his mum’s roof a good four-hour drive away. It’s still nice of them to have him in mind, Harry thinks, setting the letter down once he hears the whistling sound of the kettle behind him.
Not thinking much more of the mail, he moves around the small space of the kitchen, humming along to an overplayed song that comes up on the telly, as he finishes preparing his cuppa. Once he’s done, he walks to the couch, making himself comfortable on the opposite end to where Julia sits. His eyes set on the screen in front of them just as an older woman, with her hair pulled back and a silver gown cascading down her body, speaks into a microphone.
“So, what are we watching?” Harry asks with a sip of his tea.
“The Grammys.”
Harry’s brows shoot up. “Is it today already?”
“Yup.” Julia says, not looking up from her computer as she keeps typing. “Have to write an article about it.”
“Look at you!” Harry stretches his arm to bump on his friend’s shoulder. “Getting that permanent spot, I see.”
“Trying to.” She glances at him, motioning with her head to the counter where the mail now lays open. “What have you got there?”
He reaches for the half empty popcorn bowl resting by her side, stealing a few pieces and quickly tossing them into his mouth. “A wedding invitation.”
“Ew, who eats popcorn with tea.” His friend states, moving the bowl to her other side, out of his reach “A wedding? Since when do you have friends who have their lives together?”
“It’s an old mate, back from school days and all that.” Harry shrugs. “Haven’t spoken to him in a bit, though.”
“Are you going?”
“Think so.” He takes another sip, unpocketing his phone from his sweats. “Will be good to see everyone again.”
Julia simply hums in response, and, as Harry focuses his attention on his phone, he can hear her typing resume. For a while they stay like this, as he scrolls mindlessly through his social media feeds, even answering a text or two --which is rare for Harry since he often left messages unopened for days - except for a comment or two coming from her side of the couch. Every now and then he glances up to the bigger screen, either when he’s asked for his opinion on someone’s outfit or when Julia wants to know whose designer is behind it -- and Harry prides himself on recognizing most of them, having studied their collection campaigns for his marketing class in his last term. What calls his full attention, however, is the mention of a particular name, making his ears perk up and his eyes glue themselves to the screen.
It’s not unusual for him to hear your name, of course it isn’t, as you have settled on top of several radio spots for the past year or two. He’s grown used to hearing your name plenty, but it doesn’t get any less odd for him, to have what once was such a familiar face become such a distant yet still reocurring figure.
Going through a breakup, especially when it’s your first relationship, is already hard enough as it is. Harry reckons most people probably do their best to distance themselves in order to heal and move on, try not to think of the person who hurt them. But it’s not like he had much of a choice with you. He could delete all your pictures from his computer, wipe it all , hide the letters and polaroids in a box under his bed and he still wouldn’t be able to run away from you. It’s as if the moment he was out of your life you’d grown bigger than either of you could’ve imagined as you lied together on his bedroom floor. In a matter of a year or so your name was up in lights, your face greeted him everywhere he went; that being printed in the front of the gossip magazines lined together as he checked out his groceries, or at an editorial cover as he studied for his design theory class. There wasn’t much of an escape.
It was hard in the beginning, of course it was. Mainly when he inevitably had to read the scandalous headlines about you being all over some big haired bloke from a boyband at some extravagant party in West Hollywood. Yeah, that was a hard one. But as most things in life, Harry had to get over it eventually. And with you quickly becoming more and more out of his reach, your image being just as sweet as it is strange of a memory to him, he learned how to desensitize himself.
That doesn’t mean he’s not curious, though, which is what shifts his focus to the tvonce he hears your name. Sure enough, there you are, the most familiar stranger he’s ever known. Your smile is discreet, but still charming in a way that makes whoever’s watching you want to know what kind of secrets you’re keeping, and Harry can’t help but wonder as well. He doesn’t recognize the emerald sequined dress you have on (and makes a mental note to check later who it from) and he figures it was probably custom made for you, as it hugs your body perfectly. He doesn’t mean to notice that, he really doesn’t, but as the camera zooms in, panning from your golden heels, up your leg that appears from the side slit of your skirt as you walk down the carpet, and stopping at your face, still sporting a smirk as you divide your attention between different photographers screaming your name, he can’t help but notice how good you look.
“Look at her.” Julia sighs, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. That's when he realizes he’s slouched forward.. Relaxing back into the cushions, he takes another gulp of his tea, which has gotten considerably cooler as it rests forgotten on his lap. “Don’t blame you for being her groupie, I would too, if I had the chance.”
“Wasn’t a fucking groupie, I told you that.” Harry rolls his eyes at his friend, knowing her love for torturing him since she’s learned the information of his past relationship. “We dated before she even set foot in America.”
“So?” She looks at him, eyebrows shooting towards her hairline as she keeps nudging. “You were her first groupie before she even had them.”
He shakes his head. “Enough with the groupie talk, please, not in front of my tea.”
“I’ll never fully process the fact that you dated her.” Julia pushes the topic, her hand motioning to your image still being shown on the telly. “You got to kiss her and everything! Wild.”
“Julia, can you stop talking about my ex and write whatever it is that you have to.”
“Not when your ex is one of the biggest names in the music industry, no.” Julia pauses and, for a moment, Harry thinks she might’ve finally dropped the subject. However, once he doesn’t hear the sound of her fingers going back to typing on her computer he looks back at her, catching her eyes still glued to the screen, her brows set in a frown. He can almost hear the wheels inside her head turning. He focuses back on his phone, saying a silent prayer that whatever it is she’s thinking, she’ll just drop.. His wishes are futile, however, when she speaks up again, her words coming out slow but full of intention, “Is she friends with this dude that invited you to his wedding?”
“Julia…”
“I’m serious! Imagine if you bump into her at their wedding!” She fully turns to him, her voice pitching in excitement at the scenario.
“Even if she did get invited.” Harry starts, refusing to meet her eyes. “I doubt she’d go.”
“Why not?”
“Cause she’s one of the biggest names in the music industry? Haven’t you just said that?”
“Right.” The girl sits back on the couch, gnawing at her bottom lip before bursting again, “But what if?”
“She won’t.”
“You seem very sure of that.”
“And you’ve been reading too many romance novels.” He scoffs. “It’s starting to affect your perception of reality. It’s worrisome, really.”
“As if you didn’t watch The Notebook every day religiously before going to sleep.”
“Not everyday.”
The two friends keep pestering each other for a bit, until the opening performance starts, signaling the beginning of the award show, and Julia had to focus back on her work . as the silence set in the room, except for Highway To Hell stretching around the walls, Harry let his mind zoom out, his flatmate’s words painting every inch of his brain.
He’d never let his mind wonder what it would be like to see you again. Would you even recognize him? No. And even if you did, , he’d probably become as much of a far-off memory like you have to him. One of those people you think about once or twice after it happened and greets the nostalgic feeling as it embraces you in a brief moment, quickly moving on to more important things. Surely, you have plenty more important things to worry about than your ex boyfriend that you left in your hometown four years ago.
Shaking his head, Harry scolds himself for letting his mind wander. It has been five years, for god’s sake! He’s moved on. He has! But there’s still the tiny voice, whispering annoyingly in the back of his head, like an insistent child trying to get him to listen to them, saying it over and over. What if?
//
Golden specks of sunlight peeked from the cracks of the bricked buildings outside, shining through his window as a silent reminder of the sun setting in the horizon, and you knew it was almost time for you to go home. You ignored it, though. Only snuggling back on the arm resting behind your head as you laid on the ground next to him, focusing on the feeling of his fingers playing with yours that rest on top of your stomach, and the soothing voice of Joni Mitchell singing softly in the background.
Harry was adorably excited to show you the vinyl he got from the weekend getaway with his father and stepmum, pulling you up the stairs before you could even properly greet his mother in the kitchen. You sat on his bed as he went through all the relics he managed to snatch at the local fair he had visited. Barely holding back a smile, you bit your lip as you watched him ramble about a vintage camera he got from a dutch lady. His hair had grown a bit, you’d noticed, messy curls poking out of his head, dancing slightly as he talked. Once he got to the record, you didn’t shy away from placing a peck on his cheek, right next to the dimple the deepened after your action, asking him to play it for you, as you reached for his pillow and placed it on the usual spot you’d hangout right under his window.
He was telling you about some new paint set he wanted, lying on his back looking mindlessly at the ceiling. You closed your eyes, listening to the sound of the words slipping easily out of his lips along with the sound of his breath as you moved your head closer to his chest. What made you blink your eyelids open again was when he stopped talking, a new song starting with gentle strokes of an acoustic guitar.
Looking up at him, you met his gaze already staring back at you, and you adjusted your position, turning on your side so you could take a better look. He was wearing his favorite navy blue Fleetwood Mac tee, one you’d gifted him on his sixteenth. You loved how it enhanced the color of his eyes, and you were reminded of it once again when you looked into his jade irises, almost forgetting to take a breath as you did so.
“What’s this one called?” You broke the silence, softening your voice as you were afraid to speak too loudly, almost feeling as if you were interrupting Mitchell’s declaration of love.
“A Case of You.” Harry answered, turning his body to face yours.
You didn’t say anything back, instead, you took a minute to pay attention to the lyrics that painted the four walls of his room at that moment.
I remember that time you told me / You said, “Love is touching souls.” / Surely you touched mine / Cause it pours out of me
“It’s beautiful.” You whispered, not daring to look away from him.
Harry hummed in agreement, his hand reaching up to move a strand of your hair away from your face. Smiling softly, he said, “‘S my favourite.” You watch him chew on his bottom lip, hesitating for a second before whispering, “I got something for you.”
Your smile widens. “Really?” He nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged, looking down to where his fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Didn’t know if you’d like it.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it, H.” You sit up, crossing your legs under your bum, a spark of excitement and curiosity shooting through your body as you rush him, “Go get it!”
“Okay, okay, calm down, love.” He laughs, sitting up from his position and reaching back for his backpack resting on top of the bed.
You watched as he retrieved a small pale pink box, wrapped with a silver ribbon, tied in a pretty bow on top. There was a nervous hesitance to him as he handed you the gift, you noticed a reddish tone painting his cheeks, it was subtle, you could’ve easily missed it if the light wasn’t shining on his face, still, you couldn’t help but reach forward, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose. It’s quick, but you still earned a giggle that escaped his throat, mumbling afterwards, urging you to unwrap the box as he bit down his lip.
Wrapping your fingers on the ribbon that sealed the package, you swiftly untied it, allowing it to fall on the carpet next to you. A gasp eased out of your lips as soon as you opened the lid, revealing a heart-shaped gold pendant hanging on a delicate chain.
“‘S a locket.” He revealed quietly, eyes jumping from the jewelry in your hands to your face, watching your reaction. “It’s empty now, can put whatever you want in it.”
You touched the piece gently, feeling the texture of the engraved flowers under your fingertips, there’s a knot threatening to tighten your throat at the tenderness of his action but you swallow it back in order to speak, even though your words tremble out of your lips,
“I love it.”
You reach your free hand to touch the necklace being presented to you, craning your neck the slightest bit - as to not disturb Amie’s work on your brows - to get a better look at the piece. It’s a short golden chain, white crystal stones placed carefully around it. As you hold it in your palm you can tell how delicate it is, and you guess it’ll probably barely be noticeable as you strut your way down the red carpet in a couple of hours, but you assume the simple jewelry will make the whole difference in your headshots. With a final look you give a small nod to the short brunette still watching you closely, reaffirming your approval as you gently hand the necklace back to her.
She disappears from your sight in a beat and you relax back on your seat, not bothering to say anything else. It’s clear that everyone else has realized by now that you’re in a mood (if your unusual silence isn’t a big indication, you’re sure your face says it all), as they’re mostly speaking with each other and leaving you be. Acting like a stuck up egocentric diva was never in your plans to start the day of your first attendance at the Grammy Awards. It’s not like you can help it, though, but you try your hardest to make up for it. You force a smile for a bit too long, say please and thank you way too many times in a voice that makes you cringe to yourself. When they ask how you’re doing, you simply brush it off as a bad night of sleep.
Well, that isn’t entirely a lie, you are tired. The routine of staying out until dawn to catch a nap for maybe two or three hours everyday seems to have finally taken a toll on you. And of course it would all hit you like a brick in what feels like one of the most important nights of your career. Because why the fuck wouldn’t it?
Still, you know the main reason for your sour mood has got to do with much more than just a burnout due to a thread of poor sleep nights. You know the reason lies deep within the prior months that led to where you are now. But it’s not like you’re ready to unravel any of that.
So, with barely three hours of sleep under your belt, you woke up with your eyes still sticky from the previous night (due to the poor job you did on taking off your mascara before slipping under the covers) to be met with the high ceiling of the penthouse suite you booked for the week. Most times, when waking up after a night out, mind still buzzing and tongue slightly numb from the alcohol, it’s a slow rise. It starts with lazy blinks and a slow recollection of your surroundings, a lethargic way your head has to process the fact that it needs to start working again. But this morning you didn’t have that privilege of easing your way into consciousness. No. Your eyes snapped open with the sudden invasion of sunlight into your room, the chirping sound of voices coming muffled from the living room.
It’s almost noon, a voice lets you know, coming into your eyesight with a long floral dress flowing all the way down her calves, the sleeves tight on her elbows as she types something on her phone. Sonia, your manager, knows you too well as to not coarse you into waking up, but rather doing the most efficient way, that being not to give an option unless getting out of bed. She doesn’t waste a second before pulling you covers back, the action causing a whine to escape from your lips as the cool air of the AC embraces your body like a bucket of cold water.
“There’s breakfast waiting for you outside.” She gazed up at you, her eyes nudging into a motherly glare at your state.
“Coffee?” Is all you mumbled, sitting up.
“Later. Right now caffeine is not ideal for your headache.”
“I don’t—“
“There’s ibuprofen.” She motioned with her head to the nightstand right next to you, her attention back to the phone in her hand as it started to buzz. “And water. Lots of it. I’m sending in hair and makeup in ten.”
In reality, you had just about five minutes to wash away the night before you heard a commotion outside the bathroom door. There was just enough time for you to swallow back the painkiller that was settled in the nightstand as a good morning gift and to strip out of your clothes when people started knocking on the door. You ignored it, though, as your head pulsed with the continuous streak of sleepless nights and strong drinks and the cold rush of water from the waterfall shower did very little to lighten up your mood. And it doesn’t help that those five minutes were the last relaxing moment of the day before people started rushing in like a violent stream of water.
So, yes, to say you’re moody can be an understatement.
Right now you’ve been munching on an apple for the past half hour, using it as an excuse to not barge into conversations. The leather of the chair you’ve been on for what feels like forever now (which is code for about a full hour) is starting to stick to your thighs as your robe has ridden up your body. There’re what feels like hundreds of hands on you. Pulling at your hair, swiping products on your face, poking onto your nails. Their voices every minute or so smoothing in request as if you’re one of those voice controlled dolls of sorts — turn your head, stay still, close your eyes, don’t move.
This is a process you’ve always found near excessive, and probably your least favorite part of going to an event of such importance. Recalling the first time you had this many people in charge of helping you get ready, you remember the excitement. It was easy, being the center of attention without having to lift a single finger. However, it did lose its glamour rather quickly. You like your independence way too much. That ranges from being able to get ready by yourself to going alone to a cocktail party.
Though you know there’s not much you can do about it, so you just relax back, knowing the less you think about it, the quicker it’ll be over.
The moment you let your eyes fall closed, feeling the smooth brush color your eyelids, you hear it. It’s faint, and you have to focus on the low sound of the speaker in the background, under the rushed voices of what feels like too many people in the room, to really hear it. But once you do, your ears perk up as the oh so familiar voice starts to sing, and you can’t help but let your eyes snap back open at the opening verse of A Case of You. This earns a small scolding from Amie but you don’t register it, instead, you turn your head to the side to listen to it better.
“Whose playlist is this?” You ask, lips twitching upwards as the first chorus comes up.
“Think it’s Mia’s.” Someone from behind you answers it with a slight pull to your hair.
It takes you a second too long to answer her at first, the melody embracing you like a nostalgic hug, “‘S a good one.” You nod, not knowing who Mia is but still appreciating her choice. “I love this song.”
“I remember, back in college, when my ex broke up with me as he was dropping me off from my cousin’s birthday party,” Amie starts, interrupting your moment as she holds your chin between her fingers, gently positioning you to face her and you let your eyes fall closed again. “I sat down in my dorm, put on Joni Mitchell and cried for the rest of the night.”
“Ouch, that must’ve been harsh.” You breathe out a laugh, the action worsening the throb in your head and you immediately fall sober again, recalling your own experience of crying listening to her disks. “Good choice, though. It’s a good song to cry to.”
“Sure is.”
Amie quickly strikes another conversation with the girls in charge of your hair and you fall silent again. The song still plays softly in the background, but as much as you try to focus on it, to let the comforting words of the familiar song detach you from the position you’re in, make you forget about the suffocating feeling of having this many people so up on your personal space, you can barely hear it under their voices. A loud laugh disrupts your attempt and you have to refrain from cringing in frustration.
Suddenly, you feel yourself become too aware of the tangle of noises swiping around the place. The door to the hotel room opens and closes a couple of times. Muffled sounds of steps rushing around on the carpeted floor. Someone calls a name from the living room area. The woman in charge of your nails chats with the one doing your hair as she finishes her work (giving you at least one bit of relief). The overwhelming feeling comes back, hitting you like a brick, and you start feeling too hot under the ring light. You’re about to speak up, excuse yourself for a moment so you can walk to the balcony and feel the outdoor air untangle the knot in your chest. But before you do, you hear a familiar voice coming from behind you.
“How are we feeling here?” Sonia appears in front of you as you blink your eyes open (slowly, as to not mess up Amie’s work on your eyeshadow). She holds up a cup of coffee in your direction and you accept it gladly, holding it carefully with your freshly manicured nails.
“We’re certainly feeling.” You take a sip, wincing slightly at the hot beverage. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Nervous?”
The question makes you suddenly become too aware of the nerves tugging at your belly, like when you only feel the sting of a scratch one someone points it out. The reminder of your first time attending the ceremony as an official Grammy nominee gives your stomach a funny twist. However, it’s not your anxiousness that’s bugging you as you feel another gentle tug at your hair. But you choose not to voice your annoyance, afraid of sounding too much of a diva (something you’ve been policing yourself closely not to do for the past few months), only letting out a slight wince. “A bit.”
“It’ll be alright.” She places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not that different from other award shows, you’ll see.”
“I guess.”
“Oh!” Sonia exclaims, unlocking her phone on her other hand. “I’ve changed your flight back home like you asked.” She scrolls for a bit before stopping with a sip of her own coffee. “You’ll be leaving on the twenty first, is that good?”
“It’s alright.” You sigh, knowing it’s not the ideal scenario you had planned, to catch an early flight the day after your birthday, but being used to the hectic agenda and the sudden change of plans.
“The driver will pick you up at five.” She gives you a look. “In the morning.”
“I know. I know.”
“That’s sorted, then.” She locks her phone again, turning her attention to Amie, who’s brushing a product gently against your cheekbone. “How much longer do you think?”
“Give me fifteen and she’s all yours.” Amie peeks up at the older woman.
“Perfect.” She smiles back at you. “You look beautiful, and you’ll do great tonight.”
“Thanks, Sunny.” You grin at the brim of your cup, addressing her by the nickname you’d given the first week she started working for you.
True to her word, Amie finishes off her work not much longer after Sonia disappears from the room after turning around the threshold leading into the living room area. And, just as you take the last sip of your coffee, while scrolling mindlessly through your phone in an attempt to keep your mind distracted, you hear a commotion coming from the other side of the walls.
It takes another minute for you to get up from the spot you’ve been sitting for what feels like hours now to go investigate. You enter the living room being greeted with a trail of croissants, and you take one, biting carefully before letting out a satisfied hum.
From this moment on, time moves relatively quickly. Soon enough, you’re standing in front of a full body mirror, feeling the poke of the last few adjustments in your gown. It’s a sequined emerald gown, one you’d find a bit too much of a safe choice upon seeing it at first, but as you see how it hugs perfectly at your curves, you’re sold.
You arrive at the red carpet with twenty minutes to spare before the show starts — not too early to be quickly forgotten by the ones that arrive after you, but also not too late to be glazed over. The Los Angeles January sky is cloudless, but despite being in the peak of wintertime the air surrounding you is warm, almost too warm, even.
The screams quickly swallow you, some coming from people on the other side of the street, waiting for a glance of whoever’s stepping out of their cars at the entrance, others are hidden behind bright flashes that you can force yourself to look at for too long. You wave, giving the same smile you’ve perfected over the years, the one that Amie says makes it look like you hold all the secrets of the world, but still friendly enough to avoid headlines about being too pretentious.
A girl, not much younger than you it seems, directs you further down the carpet. You pay little mind to her, only directing a small smile as you blindly follow her steps. Scanning your eyes through the crowd gathered before the entrance, you manage to catch familiar faces all around. Everyone’s at their most presentable, and you feel like, even if you didn’t know any of them, you would’ve easily been able to pick out the stars as they parade around the place like sore thumbs. It’s the Hollywood glow, one that can easily be spotted on their stuffed chests and their cheshire cat smiles, bodies clad in thousand dollar fabric as they spill out the big names behind it. You’re not different from any of them, you’re aware.
It takes longer than you’d expected to finally walk inside the Staples Center, following behind the same girl that greeted you when you made your entrance. Once she directs you to your seat, you hold back a relieved sigh to find Ayame standing right next to it -- you had requested to be seated next to her but considering her tendencies of skipping red carpet for the sake of arriving fashionably late (her words) you’d been scared you’d have to sit through your anxiety by yourself for a good chunk of the show.
Your brows shoot towards your hairline to the sight of her newly dyed bright orange hair, the locks gelled back, allowing her neon colored eye makeup to stand out on her face. She’s in a black latex dress, the silhouette mimicking a classical 50s gown with an off shoulder neckline. The top part of it seems to be clad so tightly to her body that you mindlessly hold your breath for a moment as you approach her.
It takes a while for her to notice you as she chats excitedly with someone you recognize as the lead singer of some pop punk band you haven’t really tried to learn the name of (but you do know is nominated with you for Best Pop Group/Duo Performance). The second her eyes meet yours, however, she’s rushing the couple steps to close the distance between you two, pulling you into a hug as she squeals your name. Her excitement is one of the first things to bring a genuine smile to your face all day, truth to be told.
“Hi, Aya.” You mutter over her shoulder, minding where you place your hands to hug her back so as to not mess with her hair.
“Hey you.” She pulls away, taking a step back to take in your appearance. You’re aware you two probably look like quite the duo together, her out of the box choice of a look certainly contrasting with your safe option (one that can look quite plain as you stand next to her, you realize.) But she doesn’t pay any mind to the antithesis, instead, only clapping her hands together as she moves her gaze down your body. “You look so beautiful! Oh my god, your dress even matches my eye!”
“That’s true.” You giggle (a real one) at her observation, taking notice of the way her thick green eyeliner curls down her cheekbone. “Guess we coordinated even without meaning to.”
“Oh god!” Her shoulders lump, eyes softening, and her lips plumping into a small pout. “Please, will you ever be able to forgive me for not coming with you?”
“Aya, it’s fine.” You reassure her.
From the moment your name started circling around different magazines as one of the favorite’s for snatching a couple nominations, Aya told you how she wanted to be with you for your first official attendance at the awards. You chatted over glasses of wine and endless bowls of oyakodon (on those rare nights that’s just the two of you in her New York apartment and she’d decide to try teaching you yet another japanese dish), making plans for today, daydreaming about getting ready together and walking down the carpet with linked arms and matching smiles. But this was before Aya signed for her Chanel campaign, and before you stopped feeling excited about mingling outside your comfort zone.
“Nothing I’ve never done before.”
“I know but it’s your first Grammy Awards!” She sighs, her voice on the verge of a whine. “You’re the star of the night!”
There’s a sound announcement that the show is merely five minutes away from starting that cuts you as your lips part. As you two move to take your seats by the center-left of the main stage, you say, “Not sure about that one.”
You feel her gaze from the corner of your vision as you glance around the space, watching the biggest names in the industry pacing around just an arm reach away from you. After a second, you meet her concerned eyes, and when she speaks up again her voice is gentle, verging on cautious. “How are you?”
You look away from her, picking at your nails for a moment before you realize you’re ruining the fresh manicure. With a shrug, you try to dodge from the real answer she’s looking for with her question. “Good. Nervous. Tired.”
“Grumpy.” A teasing smile tugs at your friend’s lips.
“Tired.” You repeat. “Didn’t really get any sleep, if I’m honest. Think I might actually pass out this time around.”
“Were you out last night?” She hesitates before continuing, her voice lowering an octave. “With Dora?”
“We just went to a cocktail party, nothing too crazy.”
A photographer stops by, interrupting you to take a picture of the two of you next to each other. As soon as he’s gone you look back at Aya, she’s the one not meeting your eye this time.“I don’t like her.”
You sigh. “I know.”
“I don’t.” She shifts in her seat, looking down at her lap before gazing up at you. “I just don’t think she has your best interests in mind.”
“And I don’t think this is the best place for us to discuss this. Again.”
“You’re right.” Aya nods, more to herself than to you. “Tonight is about you. Screw Dora and screw--”
The music playing around the arena pauses, and you both know this means the ad break is over. Cameras start moving around you and that’s enough for Aya to drop the subject and relax back on her seat. With the lights dimmed and the attention set on stage, it’s much easier for you to let your frown deepen for a moment as you take in the words she was about to say.
It takes just a minute for you to go back to your alert state, however, as a camera dances its way in front of you. A silent reminder of the eyes watching you all around.
The greater half of the show drags by and you find yourself zooming out more times than you wish. You know that Aya notices, giving you the same concerned look when you take a beat too long to clap for someone’s speech, or when you keep repeating the same robotic movements during someone’s performance. Award shows are known for crawling their way to the end, but most times than not, you can easily carry yourself through it with not much yawning. But right now that’s shown to be a harder task than you thought, and you find yourself urging for something to keep you at ease (it’s why you like the Brits so much, at least there you could down a glass of tequila and let its warmth drown the nerves in your belly.)
What bugs you even more is the fact that this was supposed to be the best night of your life. The weight of its importance should be translated into flaps of butterflies in your stomach not a tangle of thoughts clouding your brain. And the pressure you put on yourself to force some enjoyment out of you only helps make it harder for you to fight a crease to form between your brows.
The first time you let go of living inside your head is when the sound announcement for your first category echoes around the arena during -- yet another -- commercial break. You’re talking with Dua Lipa, exchanging the formality of compliments on each other's work (in your weak attempt at networking when you don’t feel like talking), when you hear it. There’s an electric spark that shoots down your spine, and you’re sure it's evident in your face as she comments on your nomination, earning a nervous laugh in return. It jolts you like a flip of a switch, and you have to hold back from bouncing on your feet at the prospect of finally allowing yourself to enjoy the night. Your night, you correct yourself, hopeful.
Around you, cameras come alive again as you reach your seat. It’s like your whole body feels numb, every cell electrified with anticipation in a way that the only thing you can focus on is the speed of your heartbeat. The rush of your bloodstream spreads warmth from the apple of your cheeks to the tip of your toes. You realize Aya’s hand is in yours when she squeezes it tightly, forcing you to share a quick glance at her to find an expectant smile adorning her face.
It’s only when they call the nominees for Best New Artist that you realize you never really thought you had a chance of snatching it. Maybe in a way you tried to keep your expectations low, knowing the set of talents that share the category nominations with you. So you wait for them to call someone else’s name. You prepare to put on your best smile, to clap politely for the winner. But that’s not what happens.
Because they call out your name.
Aya hugs you so tightly it brings tears to your eyes, your mind suddenly snapping back into reality and you realize that yes, this is really happening. You’re sure you float all the way upstage, you mind blank and your hands shaky as you accept the statuette. In a few days, people are gonna ask you about this moment, how it was looking back at the arena with your new Grammy in hands to give your acceptance speech, and you’re just gonna laugh it off charmingly about how you had it at the tip of your tongue. In reality, the moment you gaze back at the ocean of people, all in their black tuxedos and extravagant gowns, the only thing you focus is to fight back the knot in your throat, keeping your voice surprisingly steady as you barely register a single word that leaves your mouth.
Still shaking, you walk backstage, accepting congratulatory words and receiving a couple hugs along the way. You talk to reporters and take pictures, words coming a bit throaty as you allow yourself to feel a bit teary. The award feels heavy in your hand, the golden record player glimmering back at you, the shot of adrenaline waving off as you stare at the blank spot waiting to be engraved with your name.
Once you’re back on your seat, the buzz in your body starts to wear off. You feel your phone going off in your clutch and, when the familiar signal for the commercial break goes off, you reach for it. The screen lights up immediately, showing a thread of messages coming up at the second. You unlock it, feeling the urge to call someone as you let your thumb glaze over it before tapping the phone app. It opens up, showing a couple of missed calls from when you were backstage that you make a mental reminder to check back on it later. You look at the screen expectantly, as if waiting for something to happen when it hits you. You have no one to call.
Looking up, you try desperately to catch some friendly eyes, but you come back empty handed. Aya has gone backstage to get ready for her performance, and Sunny, along with other people from your team, have taken this time to celebrate, mingling around the place.
The messages are still lighting up on your screen as you blink back the tears that now threaten to fall down your cheeks, your chest heaving when the knot gets tighter. It’s a bit ironic, you think, the amount of people reaching out to you and yet you’ve never felt this alone. This was all you wanted, right here in your hands. All you focused on. Your life has never been better. Climb all the way to the mountaintop, isn’t that what they say? Then why does it feel so lonely?
There’s all these people, smiling at you, offering their kind words. Celebrating your achievement. But none of them feel like someone you can rely on, and you can’t help but wonder:
Shouldn't you have someone that you could call?
//
Harry’s not having a good day.
He’s not having a good week, actually. Just as he’s stuck on a hectic routine in the middle of arranging costumes for the next musical (they’re doing Beauty and the Beast which requires a lot of layering that, as pretty as he finds the final result, can be a pain to sew) he managed to come down with a cold. So, whereas he wanted nothing more than to take a couple days off to snuggle under his newly acquired electric blankets while binging the new season of How To Get Away With Murder, the dress rehersal dates are just around the corner, so he just had to ignore his runny nose and throbbing head in order to rush into the final tailoring of the costumes. And if being sick wasn’t enough to throw him off a curve, he’s been having an special difficult time with Lumière’s full-skirted coat, his hazed mind causing him to misplace the golden laser cut detailing twice, as well as poke himself with the needle enough times to leave the skin of his finger red and sore. All of this also warranted him three scoldings from Lisa, who’s the head costume designer and whom Harry had prided himself on never getting on her bad side, so to say he’s been grouchy all week is an understatement.
On top of it all, like the bright red cherry on top of the shit cake that was his week, he’s late. He’s late to a wedding he’d all but forgotten about, and if it wasn’t for the annoyingly loud alarm reminder he’d set on his phone (that rang conventionally just a minute after he finally got to lay back on his bed after getting home from work -- he doesn’t usually work on saturdays but Lisa messaged him about an emergency with Belle’s dress, so he’d spent the entire morning hopping around fabric stores) he’d have probably slept right through it. Harry thought about rain checking it, literally, as he hit the snooze button just as gentle raindrops started tapping against his window. He actually considered it. But as soon as he let his eyes fall closed the guilt started settling in. He had confirmed his presence directly with the groom when he called to send his congratulations after receiving the invitation. He gave him his word, and he’ll stick by it.
But it still doesn’t help the fact that he’s late. Which is why he’s rushing up the escalator on the tube station. The rain hasn’t gotten any better from the moment he’d jumped out of bed, still showering from the sky much like a last goodbye from winter as it blends into spring. This time he took Julia on her offer, grabbing her umbrella before leaving home -- and making sure to avert his eyes from the tacky imprints on the fabric to keep himself from cringing, as the only reason for him to be taking it in the first place is to keep his hair and his clothes as intact as possible (at times like this is when he’s the most thankful for the degree chose, because he’s not quite sure how else he’d be able to get his hand on a suit at the last minute if he hadn’t had one he’d tailored himself on his first year.)
He gets a few looks as he stumbles on the last step, a line of apologies rushing out of his lips while he struggles to open the umbrella. When it finally flings open with a thud, the gush of wind prepares to take it away but is prevented from doing so as Harry tightens his grip on the handle, he checks his phone again for the time. The screen lights up with the indication that he’s got five minutes for the ceremony and Harry mutters a cuss as he remembers the venue is a ten minute walk from the station, so he picks up his pace, the sound of the heels of his boots against the cobblestone blending with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the ground.
He knows he’s arrived as soon as he turns around the corner. The 18th-century building takes over most of the block, its stoned walls take a camel tone contrasting with the black of the iron railing that hugs its front--only giving space to two dark oak wooden columns located on each side of the front entrance. There’s a small group stepping out of a black taxi, a suited-clad man helps a woman out of the vehicle as she holds onto the skirt of her navy blue gown to prevent it from dragging it into the damp concrete sidewalk. They’ve clearly just arrived for the ceremony that’s set to happen in just a couple minutes now, and Harry can’t help but let out a relieved sigh as he realises he’s just about made it in time.
Letting his pace slow down to a jog, his shoulders relax as he tries to even out his breathing as he approaches the group in an attempt to not give away the fact that he was properly running for the past five blocks. But just as he does so, as a stronger gust of wind whips against his face. Harry barely has time to process it as the umbrella in his hand inverts its shape, the wires holding the fabric together snapping broken. It’s so sudden that it takes him backwards a couple steps, a high pitched yelp falling from his lips as the raindrops start to hit his face like needles, quickly sinking through the fabric of his suit.
“Fucking--”
His struggle catches the attention of the group standing outside the building, and he can feel their heads turning in his direction from the corner of his vision. There're a few repressed laughs that still make their way to his ears, and one of the men speaks up, his eyes lit in amusement, “Alright, mate?”
Harry glances down at the broken umbrella in his hand, his other arm coming up in a weak attempt to shield him from the drops now sliding down his cheeks. He looks up, clicking his tongue. “I’m good.”
There’s a shame in his walk as he makes his way to a trash can right next to the group, giving them a small nod before throwing the now-useless tool inside of it. He tries not to think about how perfect it would be for the earth to swallow him whole as he jogs again the few steps towards the entrance of the house.
At least now he’ll never have to look again at that tasteless thing every time he enters his flat, he tries to reason.
Thankfully, the weather consists mostly of sporadic gusts of wind, rather than a proper rainstorm. So, by the time he reaches the covered white-painted entrance, the thin droplets of water were only good for dampening his hair and shoulders (and tangling a few knots into his strands that he feels once he runs his hand through it), but not powerful enough to soak through his clothes.
“Good afternoon, sir.” A lady greets him as he steps inside the venue, she holds a cream clipboard on the crook of her arm, hugging it against her body. Her freshly dyed red locks contrast with the beige tone of the ambient, matching with her earth-brown dress. A smile stretches in her face, accentuating her age lines, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, brows shooting up in surprise as if she didn’t expect him to walk in.
“Afternoon.” Harry reaches his hand to push back his hair, nose scrunching as he feels a few droplets slide down his neck. The lady looks up at him expectantly, her eyes moving down not so subtly, smile tightening as she takes in his appearance. He clears his throat, speaking up when she doesn’t offer any response, “Uhm… I’m here for Michael and Elise… For their wedding, I mean.”
“Right!” She nods, and Harry notices the way her eyes glance down at his blazer one more time before she focuses on the clipboard, moving it so it stands on her eyesight. She opens her mouth but before any word can leave her lips her hand reaches up to press her finger against the ear device, brows furrowing in concentration as she listens in. He stands there awkwardly for a moment,waiting for her instructions as she nods along to whatever’s being said. “I just have one more guest coming in.” She mumbles into the device, shooting a quick glance to down the hallway, before she focuses back on him, her voice coming a bit rushed. “May I have your name, please?”
“Uh, course, yeah. Styles.”
She gazes down at the list in her hand, flipping the pages as her eyes scan through the names. “Harry Styles?” He offers a hum in agreement as he watches her check his name. She looks back up, motioning towards the end of the long hallway, where there are double glass doors, only one of them open, leading to what seems like an outdoor area. “You can just head straight ahead to the courtyard for the ceremony. The reception afterwards will be upstairs.”
“Alright, thanks.” He has half a mind to ask her for the men’s room so he can at least fix his undoubtedly rumpled appearance but, before he even thinks of doing so, she already has her back to him, taking long strides towards a closed door located to the side and disappearing inside of it. He huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly as he mumbles to himself. “Okay, then.”
Harry walks through a threshold leading to a second part of the hallway, this one with a darker cast to it, thanks to the walnut tone of the wooden walls, passing by a number of ash grey armchairs set neatly on each side of the corridor -- looking so sleek that Harry wonders if anyone has ever used them for anything other than a decoration piece. The low mesh of voices invades the indoor space, getting just slightly louder once he enters the courtyard area.
The glass door he enters from leads to the right side of the seating plan, all the white wooden chairs with their backs turned to him (thankfully, as he doesn’t really feel like making a grand entrance to announce how late he is). He notices another set of double glass doors to his left that are set right at the center, a tan colored carpet stretching from it all the way to the altar, and, opposite to where he stands, a white piano is being played, the soft melody serving as background noise. The last few rolls of seats near him are mostly empty, apart from a few people that chose the ones closest to the aisle, so Harry manages to sneak his way to a chair by the far end without catching anyone’s attention.
Once he’s finally able to relax back into the -- not so comfortable -- seat, there’s a relieved sigh that escapes his lips unintentionaly, and he finally allows himself to take a better look at his surroundings. The first thing that he notices as he stretches his neck (in an attempt to relieve some tension he’s been holding throughout the entire day) is a glass roof serving as a shield from the raindrops that still fall stubbornly from the sky. It’s definitely a semi-new addition to the construction, Harry reckons, as it gives a modern touch to the historical building. It’s almost transfixing the way the metal structure bends in the shape of a simple mandala, one that’s now being colored with easing streaks of water running down its dome-esque build.
From where he chose to sit there’s not much of the rest room he can really make out, most of his vision being obstructed by a wall of heads. What he is able to catch sight of is the waterfall fountain standing tall right behind the altar, the blanket of water falling along the stoned wall is so clear that one could easily miss it if it wasn’t for the lights located right above of it, bright and shimmering in contrast to the dim lighting of the rest of the room. The sound of it is soothing, like an indoor drizzle, and it blends so perfectly with the melody of the piano that Harry wonders if the man playing it is even aware of himself doing it. Right next to it, at the opposite far end of the space, is large light up letters spelling the word LOVE in a yellowed light. It’s something that he’s certain he could easily find corny if he didn’t consider himself a hopeless romantic of sorts.
Which also can justify why he’s not able to keep his eyes dry throughout most of the ceremony.
It starts just about a minute after he’s settled on his seat, barely having time to sit back before he finds himself standing up again with the rest of the crowd. And, from the moment Harry caught sight of the groom's face as the bride finally made her entrance, he’s a goner. He remembers as a young boy, being forced by his mum to attend a handful of weddings during his childhood, how boring he used to find them. Funny how time changes things, he feels like, as now he finds himself paying close attention to the whole thing, not being able to help the warmth that grows in his chest all the way to the tip of his nose as he feels his eyes getting glossier at every word being spoken. By the time the vows come up, the intimate declamations of love being spoken in teary voices and shaky hands, he gives up on trying to brush away the tears that tickle their way down his cheeks.
Once the newlywed couple strut their way back the aisle, rings now hugging their fingers and paired smiles stretching their cheeks, Harry’s managed to control his emotions to some degree. When they pass through him, just before disappearing inside the building hand in hand, the groom, Michael, meets his gaze, throwing his hand up in a wave-like gesture. Harry wonders for a second if he’d recognized his face amongst the certain euphoric feeling he’s in right now, or if it was just a blind gesture that he barely registered before disappearing inside the double doors. Regardless, he still brings his finger to his mouth to let out a sharp whistle in felicitation.
The second they’re out the door, everyone starts moving, and that’s when Harry realizes his seat also allows him to be the first out the door. Following the crowd that makes their way back into the building, it comes to him that he never really got the chance to find a toilet so he could check the damage left by the rain-- and he’s sure his emotional state throughout the last hour or so did very little to help him in that department.
So he keeps an eye out as he steps inside the same hallway he came from, this time being directed to an open door by the left that leads him to a staircase. His boots click against the marble steps as Harry climbs up along with the rest of the guests that make their way towards the reception, a light chatter taking over the building as the talk amongst themselves. All the doors along the way are closed, all except the one at the very front of the stairs as he reaches the third floor.
Harry looks around as he waits for the elderly couple in front of him to finish talking with the lady that’s standing in front of the open doors. All the rest of the floor is shut tight, and none of the double white painted doors really seem like they would lead to a bathroom. Soon enough, though, he’s being greeted by the receptionist of sorts.
Like the one when he first walked into the building, she also holds a clipboard close to her arm, and, with her hair being pulled up in a tight ponytail, he catches sight of a matching earpiece poking at the side of her face. He gives her his names and, once she starts directing him to his designated seat, he finds himself scanning the room for what he’s been looking for. He’s not planning on staying long enough to need to know which table he’s in, anyway, only wanting to express his felicitations to the couple before rushing back to his warm covers that call for his name.
“I’m sorry, which way is the toilet?” He interrupts the lady, who only raises her brows for a moment before shooting him a polite smile, gesturing to a set of doors not too far from where he stands. “Thank you.”
Upon entering further inside he notices, the space is much smaller than the courtyard. The room takes an ‘L’ shape, the turn of the place being a small platform to which he assumes must be the dance floor, considering the few musicians tucked in the far corner. Thanks to its shape the place is as narrow as it is long, not giving him much space to walk between the perfectly set tables. Harry doesn’t dwell on it too much, though, only rushing towards where he was directed, and quickly locking himself inside where it's indicated to be the men’s room.
Turning to the circular mirror to his side, Harry takes in his appearance with a sharp inhale. It’s not too bad, he thinks, more or less what he was expecting to find. His tearful state earlier has definitely enhanced the puffiness in his eyes that are still slightly glossy. There’s a reddish tone to his cheeks and at the tip of his nose, light circles under his eyes displaying his poor sleep schedule. He looks like someone who’s still recovering from a cold, if he’s honest. Which was to be expected. His hair, however, took most of the damage of the rain. What once were his neatly locks curling around his jawline, now sits a frizzy nest of strands tangled on each other.
It’s still damp when he runs his fingers through it, trying to undo the knots he finds on the way but, somehow he only makes it worse. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head at his reflection as he lets out a chuckle, thinking of a Friends reference.
He sighs in frustration at the stubborn mop of his hair refusing to stay in place, surrendering to its rebellion as he fetches the hair tie wrapped around his wrist. Maybe he should’ve just listened to his mum’s wishes and just cut it all out when he had the chance, it surely would’ve saved him the embarrassment of walking around a wedding reception with a fucking man bun. But Harry is as stubborn as he is proud, sticking to his statement of allowing his curls to run wild down his neck. So he might just have to suck it up to his knock off hipster image for the night, at least he’ll probably won’t see these people again until the next baby shower, he figures.
What Harry doesn’t expect as he walks out the foamy white restroom after his inner head monologue was to be met with the one person he was not expecting to encounter in a million years. Standing just a few steps away from him, hair neatly wrapped on top of your head, body clad in a pearly green cocktail dress, the top crossing tightly around your chest and its skirt drapes beautifully down your body. It’s Dior, Harry recognizes, and on any other occasion he would’ve been too transfixed on the piece to even notice the person sporting it. But not right now, no, there’s not a chance that the hiccup on his heartbeat and the sweat on his palms are due to the article of clothing.
He freezes on his spot, his eyes shutting tightly for a moment, hoping that when he opens up it’s all just a fragment of his -- very vivid -- imagination. Perhaps he’s falling ill again, and his fever is acting up, creating mirages to trick his mind. But as he opens his eyes that possibility seems to dissolve as quickly as it was created, and Harry’s convinced that this must be some twisted sick joke the universe is pulling on him. Not satisfied on making him walk in the rain after breaking his friend’s tacky umbrella, or having him attend a wedding reception with a fucking manbun of all things as well as a face that’s most likely resembling a dried apple. No, that didn’t seem to be enough of a punishment for him. Because on top of it all, here you are, standing just a few steps away from him, this time not through a screen of a printed paper but in flesh and bone.
It takes him a second to realize he’s been frozen on his spot for quite a while now, and as panic starts to zip through every cell of his body his gaze flickers around the room. He’s not sure what he’s looking for exactly, just trying to find a way out. But how, when he’s not even sure where he’s supposed to sit? His eyes find the lady that greeted him at the entrance and he cusses himself for not paying attention to her instructions during his rush, because now she’s standing on the other side of the room speaking with the musicians and there’s no way he can reach her without bumping into you first.
Why does this place have to be so fucking small?
His foot stops midstep, almost too afraid to move and catch your attention. Frowning to himself, Harry He dares to look in your direction again. You’re turned towards him, but thankfully you’re too caught up in your conversation with a blonde lady, nodding along to whatever it is that she’s saying, that you don’t catch the way he lets his eyes linger in you for a beat too long.
Long enough that you undoubtedly feel the weight of his eyes on you as your gaze meets his, and Harry’s sure he could dig a hole for himself right through this perfectly waxed lightwood floor. But he can’t because you’re looking at him. You’re looking at him and your eyes widen just slightly with recognition, mouth agape as your lips form the shape of his name, your voice standing out amongst the mixture of others chatting around the room.
The girl talking to you turns around as she realizes your focus has gone elsewhere. Melanie. He remembers her from his chem class -- she dropped a whole beaker of hydrogen peroxide on her arm and had a skin burn, her round face is still the same but now she’s a blonde. He barely pays any attention to her, however, letting his eyes bounce back to yours just as quickly as they left, only to find you’re already making your way towards him.
“Harry?” You say again, this time he hears it loud and clear as you get closer, the sound of your voice saying his name again causing an electric spark to shoot down his spine. You stop just before him, as if you’re also unsure on how to properly greet him.
His lips part, taking a sharp breath as he tries to learn how to speak all over again, “H-hi.”
“Hi.” Your smile grows. “I didn’t know you’d be here, didn’t see you at the ceremony.”
“Yeah I-- I got rained on.” He lets out a nervous laugh, hand coming up instinctively to run through his hair but he stops it midair as he realizes his locks are tied back. Clearing his throat he speaks up in an attempt to cover the awkward gesture, “I mean, didn’t know you’d be here as well, you know? Figured you’d be busy and stuff.” He wants to punch himself.
“I made it just fine.” You throw him a playful wink, shooting a look over your shoulder to where Melanie now stands talking to someone else, her eyes still stealing a few curious glances in your direction. “Where are you seated? Figure it can’t be that far from where they seated me.”
“Uhm… To be honest, I’m not quite sure.” His eyes scan the room for a second before meeting yours again. “Was in a bit of a rush when I walked in, actually.”
You laugh, “Well that’s perfect, then, you can just sit with us!” You motion back to the table where you came from. “I’m sure you remember everyone from back in the day.”
“Sounds nice, yeah.” He looks back to where you’re pointing, trying to spot any other familiar face.
“Great! C’mon I’ll get you some champagne.” You catch him by surprise as you lock your arm around his, leading the short way towards the table.
True to your word, you hand him a flute of champagne just a beat after directing him to a seat that seems to be right next to yours. He doesn’t miss the way you’re able to do so with a simple smile shot towards one of the caterers, making him find his way to you in barely a second, handing you another flute without even questioning the fact that you already have one in your hand. Harry doesn’t really blame him, a smile from you would be enough to have him rushing to you, too.
As he figured, you take the seat right next to his, raising your glass briefly in a cheers with him before both of you relax back into your seats. The table is entirely decorated in different shades of white and gold, as well as the rest of the space. Honey orange plates are set in front of each of the seven seats, their tone matching perfectly the color of the fancy patterned curtains around the room that block the outside view. A full bouquet of flowers is set at the center, pale pink roses contrasting with bright red dahlias as they bloom proudly amongst the green leaves. Two other empty glasses are set in front of him, they shimmer under the light coming from two high-hanged chandeliers that illuminate the room, and Harry wonders what they could be for, as their shapes differ only so slightly from each other.
His thoughts are cut shortly as the empty seats quickly begin to fill, and he notices how your attention has gone back to Melanie who now takes the chair on your other side. She seems to have taken a liking to having your attention on herself, Harry notes. Soon enough, though, his own focus is called elsewhere, once he’s greeted by the other people that have taken the rest of the seats. You were right when you told him he’d recognize most of them, and Harry’s thankful that it mostly consists of people he actually used to be relatively close to back on his school days (not close enough to have survived the graduation mark, but still, most of them he still follows on a couple social media platforms, getting sporadic updates on their lives).
Jamie is the first of them to arrive, who takes the chair right next to Harry’s, startling him with a strong grip on his shoulder. “Styles?” His voice chirps in the air, and as recognition comes to him, Harry gets up, greeting him as he’s pulled in a side hug. “Almost didn’t recognize you, mate, are you wearing heels?” The man jokes at the clear height difference between them, earning a polite laugh from Harry.
“Kind of, actually.” He looks down at his foot as he bends his ankle, showing off the black leather boot that has a bit of a heel to it.
“Oh, there he is! Always the stylish one, it’s in the name, innit?” Harry huffs out a chuckle. “With the hair too, right? Heard those buns work wonders with the ladies.” The shorter man motions to Harry’s hair, giving him a playful shove as he laughs, looking back to catch the gaze of a woman that’s standing behind him. She gives Jamie a tight smile and a raise of brows, her eyes flickering from him to Harry. His laugh hauters, arm reaching back to grasp her waist, “Yeah, yeah, H, this is my wife, Faye.”
At the mention of his spouse, Harry’s brows shoot toward his hairline for a second, lips parting before quickly recovering his shocked expression as he leans to greet her. It’s not that he’s surprised that Jamie has gotten himself a wife, somehow (well, a bit of that too) but it always comes like a bit of a jolt to find people his age settling with their life partner. Part of the shock comes mostly to Harry as he thinks back to himself, and he can’t help the comparison that comes as he’s never found himself nearly close to having someone so dearly close to his heart that he can think of such commitment.Well, he had you. But people always talk about how puppy love is usually supposed to be like that anyway. That first love, in which you’re still taking baby steps with the new found feeling of sharing your heart with someone else. The one when you’re too young to really know anything.
Harry still cherishes that feeling, which can also explain the effect you hold on him. But there’s something in him that wonders if he’ll ever have what he saw on Michael’s eyes when they locked gazes at the end of the ceremony. The bliss that comes with the knowledge that you don’t have to take those baby steps anymore. You don’t have to hold on to them in fear of what path they’ll take. If they’ll decide that where they need to go is no longer next to yours. He wonders what it feels like to learn that love doesn’t come with dread, and watching people around him find that so easily, it comes to him that maybe he’s the one doing something wrong.
It doesn’t really help that, after Jamie and Faye have settled in their seats, all the others that follow after come with similar introductions. Harry never expected coming here that he’d hear the words “fiancée” and “wife” being thrown around so often, and, quickly, he comes to the realization that he is the only one without a date.
As much as those thoughts keep bothering him, they become dulled as time starts going by and he nurses his second flute of champagne. The conversations that make their way to the table mostly consist of the recollection of times when each other’s faces felt like more than just a “used to be”. They make rounds with digging up old inside jokes, and Harry finds himself stealing glances in your direction more often than he’d like. He tries not to, of course, but you seem to be the only place his eyes want to travel to. With your voice so close to him, more than he ever thought it would be again, it’s like someone’s lighting a candle at the deep of his chest (those nice vanilla ones you used to have in your room, giving the whole place a scent that still sticks to him as yours to this day). It’s nearly scary to him, how easily he falls again to the sound of your laugh.
His nose scrunches in a laugh at a joke Chris blurts out from the other side of the table about their old math teacher the moment there’s a tap in the microphone that echoes through the walls of the small space. A woman stands in the far side of the room, standing on a small platform that was settled for the musicians. She’s the same one that greeted him at the entrance, her hair now pulled up in a tight bun exposing a thin layer of sweat on her forehead that shimmers under the lighting directly above her.
“Good evening, everyone.” Her voice chirps a bit too loud and she throws a look over her shoulder to a man standing next to a speaker, before testing a word again to see it come out now in a more composed tone.
She proceeds to go into a short speech that Harry, in all honesty, zooms out for a great part of it. His body has twisted on his seat to have a better look at the center of the room where she speaks into the mic, but as a result of that, he’s now facing you. From this angle, he has a better look at the side of your face, as you find yourself turned in your seat in order to look at the woman as well. Your makeup is light and most of it falls into a natural tone, and Harry wonders if you’ve made any effort at all into looking this beautiful.
The familiarity of your features tugs at his heartstrings, you’ve grown into them over the years, the lines in your face having matured with time. Still, he can pinpoint reminders of when he last got to gaze at you this closely. A scar just below your eyebrow, now faded, but still very much present, from when your sister scratched you with a branch at the first barbecue he attended at your family’s home. A few beauty marks painting your skin, that he used to press his lips or trace his finger over as if connecting them. Even the tiny golden ball poking through your second ear hole that he held your hand through when you got it pierced, afraid it would hurt too bad. Those details he thought he’d all but forgotten about, now staring right back at him.
Once again, it’s like he’s lost track of how long he’s been looking at you, and surely you can feel him watching, as you turn your head to meet his gaze. Harry blinks a few times, lips parting as he realizes he just got caught staring. There’s barely enough time for him to try and avert his eyes to pretend nothing ever happened, however, as your lips twitch in a gentle smile. The action causes a matching one to poke on his face almost immediately, a reaction Harry himself barely has time to register, a warmth deepening along with his dimples on his cheeks. You let out a slight laugh, bringing the brim of your glass up to your lips before gazing back over your shoulder at the lady that now seems to be wrapping up her speech.
“And with that being said, it’s now an honor to introduce for the first time, mister and missus Michael and Elise Browne!” She gestures to the entrance at the couple that appears through the doors, smiles still stretching their faces as they make their way to the far end of the room where there’s a space reserved for the dance floor.
With everyone’s attention being called towards the two newlyweds, Harry lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Biting into his lip he claps along with the rest of the guests, trying to relax his shoulders to ease the nerves that still tickle deep in his stomach.
Quickly, though, the atmosphere of the place turns into more of a cheerful one.
After the couple’s first dance (which, this time, Harry has to blink away the tears that threaten to spill, knowing he’s much more exposed to someone’s wandering eyes here) there’s a round of short speeches, mostly thanking everyone’s presence, before they start to serve dinner.
During most of the course, however, it’s like you’ve become the main attraction of the table. And it’s not that Harry’s surprised by it, even before you’ve gotten this big in your career, you’ve always held this magnetic aura within you. Something about you draws people’s attention, and you’re good at holding it to you. It’s not something you do consciously, he knows, but as soon as you’re in a room no one else holds a chance at stealing the spotlight.
It’s always been like this, even all those years ago. But now it’s like it’s intensified by tenfold. Harry doesn’t know how you manage to split your attention into so many conversations, and still remain your charming demeanour after hearing the same celebrity joke for the third time in a row. You don’t seem bothered by the amount of questions thrown your way (and he’s sure this is probably the most amount of times he’s heard Beyonce being mentioned in a conversation), in fact, he’s sure you’ve grown more than used to it by now.
Harry, on the other hand, is the one that grows slightly annoyed with time passing. Oddly enough, from the moment he sat next to you, something in him urged to be alone with you. He wants to be the one to hold your attention, your full attention. He wants to talk to you, to really have an actual conversation with you-- none of those ‘what does Adele smells like’ type of questions.
It took him seeing you again to make him realize, he’s missed you.
The chance presents itself, though, just as the empty plates for the main dish get collected by the caterers. Chris mentions something about one of Jamie’s school flings, causing a tension as his wife -Faye- storms out of the table with the man following close behind after shooting a dirty look towards his old friend. Melanie, who had been the main one to be on your shoulder throughout the night, excuses herself to the toilet right after. And, as soon as she’s out of her seat, Harry sees you let out a sigh, reaching for your wine glass before you turn to him for the first time in the night.
“I love your suit, by the way!” You exclaim, eyes moving down his jacket briefly. “Never seen anything like it.”
Harry clears his throat, feeling a heat raise at the back of his neck now that your focus is entirely on him. The suit in question, the same one that got an odd look from the lady at the front door, is actually one he’d firstly tailored on his first year of uni. It’s mostly made with a royal blue fabric, except the lapels that take the same material, but in a deep blood tone (initially, his first plan was to make the entire suit in this tone, but as he realized he barely had enough fabric of the same shade to finish the jacket, he settled on using it only as a detail on the lapels and at the bend of his elbows and knees). His favorite part of it, though, was actually added semi recently. Lisa had ordered some flower detailing to sew to Belle’s dress, but the girl in charge of it embroidered them a shade too dark and, before she got the chance to throw the work away, Harry asked to have them. Now, they’re bound to the lapels of his jacket, twin garden roses on each side, their blooming petals matching beautifully with the darker tone of the fabric. From the moment he added them on, he was in love with it, and now he’s even more glad he did so, because it also caught your attention.
“Thanks, I-” He looks down at his attire, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times before, scratching his nose with the side of his finger as his voice comes out lower than he intended, a shy smile taking over his face. “I designed it myself, actually.”
“Oh my god!” You gasp as the realization hits you. “Really? Wait how-- I mean, I didn’t-- Well, it looks incredible!”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t know you…” You trail off, motioning vaguely down at his attire.
“Uhm, yeah.” He breathes out a laugh, rubbing his nose with the side of his finger in a nervous tick. “I dropped out of art school, actually, to get into fashion.”
Your eyes widen just slightly, blinking back at him a couple times, lips parting. “How did I not know that?” You ask in a mumble, seemingly more to yourself than to him.
“It was just uhm…” Harry looks down at his lap, not knowing how to finish the sentence without making it awkward. “It was right after we…”
“Oh.”
He clicks his tongue. “Yeah…”
“You must be almost done, right?” You change the subject as you bring the brim of your glass up to your lips, barely taking a sip before adding, “With your degree, I mean.”
Harry nods. “Got a year left, yeah.”
You take a full sip of your wine, setting it back to its place on the table before leaning to rest your elbow on top of it so it can support your cheek as you lean forward, turning your body so to show how he has your full attention. “And how’s that going? Do you have any idea of the path you want to take? I know fashion has so many possibilities, it must be exciting.”
“It is.” He nods just as a certerer comes to settle the deserts in front of each of you. After muttering a quick ‘thank you’, he continues, “I had some internships last year, actually. Worked with a couple designers in London, it was pretty cool.”
“That’s sick.” Your eyes still haven’t left him. “Any names I might recognize?”
He uses his fork to play around with a strawberry, focusing on the way it falls from the small piece of tart painted with white ganache, using it as a silent excuse to himself as to not meet your eyes. Truth to be told, it’s a rather strange feeling to him, having someone’s full attention like this, being asked about his life with a genuine curiosity behind your words. Harry’s used to being backstage, is what most of his career choice consists of, anyway. He stays behind the stage lights, doing the work no one cares for when they see the final product; even when working on runway pieces, people weren’t thinking of whoever did the stitching of the tule or the embroidery over the bustier. But the way you’re watching him, eyes glimmering under the warm lights, it’s the closest he’s felt to being thrown under the spotlight.
Which could explain why he feels this nervous.
“Maybe, yeah, I was with Christopher Kane for a semester.” He lowers his voice without meaning to, a rush of shyness tinting his face. “Also worked on a campaign with Molly Goddard.”
“Holy shit, Harry, that’s, like, huge!” You gasp, hand coming to hold onto his shoulder, pushing him back gently as to bring his eyes to meet yours. It’s sweet, really, how you most likely have accomplishments much bigger than he could ever dream of achieving, still, your smile grows as if it’s the most impressive thing you’ve ever heard. It brings a small giggle to escape from his lips. Letting your hand fall from his shoulder, you relax back into your seat. “One of my favorite dresses is Christopher Kane, he works with his sister, right?”
“They’re both creative directors, yeah.”
“I love their work.” You say, a smile still present and he hopes it never fades. “Are you doing any other intership right now?
“Yeah…” He starts. “I’m working right now, actually, doing some costume design for theatre.”
“Really? Now that’s an interesting path.” You point, fingers fiddling with the hem of the tablecloth. “Where are you working?”
“Uhm…” He knew this question was coming, still, he’s not sure how to present you with the information. His voice lowers, eyes falling to his lap before he looks up at you through his lashes. “Act One.”
He hears your hand fall to your lap, eyes widening just barely before you let out a chuckle, “You’re taking the piss.”
“I’m afraid I’m not.”
“Act One?” Your lips part in disbelief. “With my mum?”
The thing is, Harry was only aware about Act One opening a London unit when he saw the job advertisement stuck to the wall of his university’s building about five months ago. He recognized the name, of course, knowing your mother worked as the music director while you two were together, and also knowing you had been part of a fair amount of productions before your career started growing as it is now (having even attended a handful of them himself, back in the day). What he didn’t know was that your family moved to London with the company and that your mother was still part of the crew when he joined for the spring production. So, the news came with a surprise to him as much as it is to you.
He thought maybe she would have mentioned it to you-- and maybe she has and you just brushed past the information, not caring much for it. But the way your face is still hung in shock, blinking at him as you try to process what he just told you, he figures that’s not the case.
“The same one, yeah.”
“I can’t believe it!” You reach for your glass, twirling it in your hand to watch the dark liquid swirl inside, still shaking your head slightly. “She never- She never…”
“To be fair, I don’t see her that often.” He tries to reason, and it’s true, they work in two different spaces. “I’m usually at the atelier.”
“Still, that’s…”
“Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment, please?” Someone cuts you off before you can even process how to finish the sentence you started. Everyone’s attention is called back to the makeshift stage, to a woman with the mic in her hand-- she’s in one of the bridesmaid’s navy blue gown, holding up a flute of champagne on her free hand. Once all eyes are on her, she continues. “For those who don’t know me, my name’s Lara, the bride’s best friend...”
The rounds of speeches start with her, then. Halfway through her second childhood story, that you’re only paying half mind to, you realize your mouth’s still parted in shock from your conversation with Harry. You try to subtly cover it, taking a sip of your wine, before you let yourself zoom out completely for the rest of the toasts.
How come he’s been working with your mum for months now, and you’ve only now become aware of it? It’s what keeps bugging you. The possibility of her mentioning the fact comes to you, but you brush it off as quickly as you think of it. You surely would’ve remembered it. There haven't been many mentions of Harry’s name since your breakup, really, and those become less frequent as the years go by. But you hold on to each one of them, trying to grasp the smallest piece of information about his life as you can.
Truth to be told, you’ve missed him. Before you started a relationship, he had been the closest friend you had. And the fact that the worst possible scenario of turning a friendship into something more came true tore you apart.
After you distanced from each other there was very little contact. Your mother would mention every few months something about him moving out how his family had adopted a new kitten. Those informations were received by you with single word answers or a simple nod, even though on the inside you were desperate to ask for more. Harry’s never really been very in touch with social media, so those updates from your mum were pretty much all the glimpse you had on his life without you.
That is, until they all moved two years ago. Then those small comments stopped all together.
So you tried to turn your mind off of it. Off of him. But every now and then something would happen. You’d listen to a song that you used to dance to in his bedroom, or you’d find one of his necklaces lost deep in your drawer and it would all go back to him. How was he doing? Where has his life gone? Who is he friends with? Who’s loving him?
The only time you ever vocalized those thoughts was once during a wine night with Aya. People often compliment you on how good you are with your words, but every time they do, you can’t help but think they’ve probably never got the chance to meet her. She was the first person to reassure you how normal it is to hang on to an old feeling. Harry was your first love, after all, and he’d always hold a place in your heart, no matter how hard you try to mask it.
After that, you stopped trying to bury something that was so valuable to you.
And living in harmony with your feelings, old and new, is something that you found to be so tranquil. Or, well, at least you were able to say that once.
Still, the conversation with Harry only helped to enhance that curiosity that used to consume you. It was a short one-- due to the circumstances you’re in, you can’t really catch a break to have much of a profound chat; but it still was enough for you to realize how little you know of him. There are still many cues that showed you that he’s still the Harry you once knew with the fullness of your heart. His quiet demeanor, and the shy smile that stretches his lips when the attention is on him. His dimples that you used to poke and kiss just to feel them deepen under your touch. His eyes that you always could get lost in every shade they take.
Those traces that make you want to explore each new one that you don’t know about anymore. The curls in his head, that even being pushed back in a bun, you can still tell are much longer than the last time you ran our finger through them. The tattoos that peak under the sleeve of his jacket, and you can’t help but wonder how many more are hidden under the material. The rings hugging his fingers or the necklaces set on his chest. There’s so much you want to ask him about.
And the next time you get the chance to do that is hours later.
The party is starting to feel like it could die out at any moment, when the children have fallen asleep on the armchairs and the early risers start to bid their goodbyes. There’s still a fair amount of people stumbling their way on the dance floor and making the last few rounds on the free cocktails that are being served. Your table is still pretty much filled, except for Chris that got his way around with one of the bridesmaids, which is why you haven’t managed to catch another time to be alone with Harry.
Throughout the night, as the alcohol started to make its way on people’s bloodstreams, you’ve probably been approached by every person within your age group. And, as much as you’ve gotten used to being the main attraction of those types of gatherings, being thrown around and pointed at like an animal in a cage. At this stage in your career, you know you have to suck it up and smile through it. But this night in particular, you find it especially hard not to roll your eyes in annoyance or let out a frustrated sigh when someone interrupts your eighth attempt at trying to talk to Harry.
But your freedom comes when Melanie -fucking Melanie- finally announces she and her boyfriend (Dan, Dave, Don - something like that) are calling it a night. And when she leaves, it’s just you and him.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure no one’s making their way towards you, but, thankfully, everyone else is pretty occupied with the karaoke machine that was introduced an hour ago.
“I’m sneaking out for a smoke.” You reach for your clutch, eyes hopeful as you glance back at Harry. “Wanna come with?”
To your relief, he nods. “Sure.”
You guide him towards a door you had peeked at when you were taking pictures with the bride’s family.
Just like you’d reckoned, it leads to a terrace of sorts, looking out into the courtyard where the ceremony was held from above the glass ceiling. You shoot Harry a short smile as he holds the door open for you, following just behind into the breezy night.
The sky is clear, the way it is after a rainfall, but a few clouds indicate that it might not be just done yet. The first whisk of wind makes you regret not bringing your coat, but you quickly brush away the idea of going back inside, afraid someone might notice you sneaking out a second time. So you two settle in a place right by the railing, turning to the party so you can relax back into the metal.
Reaching inside your clutch, you retrieve a package of cigarettes, pulling one out before offering it to Harry, who shakes his head in a quick decline. You hold it between your lips as you grab a small lighter that it’s almost lost inside the tiny purse. There’s still a gust of wind dancing around the air, a chill that comes with the aftermath of rainfall. You find it nice, though, the way it brings goosebumps to rise on your skin. It’s a nice balance with the warmth of the flame as you flicker the lighter awake, bringing the flame to the butt of the cigarette that’s propped between your lips. You inhale the smoke, holding it for a moment as you appreciate the peace and quiet of the night, something you haven’t had in a while now.
For a while, both of you just stay quiet, enjoying the other’s presence.
It’s almost funny to you, how people compare meeting again with someone from your past, especially an ex, to seeing a ghost. Because right now, spending this night with Harry after years of being apart, you feel like that couldn’t be further away from the truth. Being in his presence again is everything but haunting. Feels like how it is to go back to your hometown, to walk the streets you memorized growing up, knowing you still know your way around them by heart. Like seeing the places you would go to when you were younger change over time, but still never quite lose the nostalgic feeling they’ve always held. Something that time is not powerful enough to change. The feeling of coming home.
Being with Harry is like that. Still the same, but different.
Harry speaks up first, he could’ve startled you if his voice hadn’t come out as soft as the brush of the wind against the tree branches a couple floors down from where you stand. Nearly shy, as he says it while gazing down at his boots, “Congratulations on your Grammy, by the way.”
“Did you know?” You ask, genuinely surprised.
He’s the only person that hasn’t brought up the elephant you bring to the room every time you walk in a gathering like this. A shadow of your status that people glaze at before even attempting on making a normal conversation. You knew it was coming sooner or later, and you appreciate the fact that he chose the latter.
Somehow, you had convinced yourself that maybe he hadn’t cared about you enough to know anything about your career throughout the years, especially knowing how much he had going on for himself. So to have him mention it, to congratulate you on top of it all, comes as a bit of a shock.
Harry seems oblivious of your surprise, however, as his words come out nearing a nonchalant tone. “Of course, hard not to.”
“Were you…” You start, suddenly feeling oddly shy about the prospect of him knowing this information about you. You wonder what else he knows about, what kind of assumptions he’s made about the person you’ve become. “Were you watching it?”
He nods, looking up at you. “I was, yeah.”
Your chest warms at his confession and it almost unsettles you how he’s got you flustered so easily. Usually, if it were anyone else, you wouldn’t hold back a snarky reply, knowing most people wouldn’t bat an eye before showering with compliments.
You blink at yourself with this thought, hating how truthful it is.
But with Harry there’s something in you that wants to impress him, to show him you still have the girl that he knew so well still somewhere inside of you. It makes you want to question him, desperate to know his impressions of this life you portray for the public. But you hold back, almost scared of the answer you could receive. So instead, you simply offer a vague response, “Seems like so long ago.” You let out a dry laugh. “It’s been barely three months.”
He offers you a small grin. “‘S what they say, time rushes by when you’re having fun, and all that?”
“I guess that’s it, yeah.”
There’s a sudden urge inside of you to tell him the truth. Tell him how miserable you felt throughout most of that day. That you weren’t having fun at all, in fact, you were so preoccupied over the fact that you were supposed to be having the best night of your life that it only made your nerves swallow you in an avalanche. You want to tell him why that entire week was close to miserable, fuck, that entire month, actually. You wish you could cry on his shoulder about all you’ve been bottling up inside of you. You want to open up to him in a way you haven’t opened up to anyone.
You shake your head. What is wrong with you?
You have to remind yourself you barely know him anymore. This is the first time you’ve spoken in years and your first instinct is to throw all your baggage on him. To scare him away before you even get the chance to let a word out.
Instead of letting your big mouth say more than you’d be willing to share, you try to lighten up, thinking of the one part of that night that you actually enjoyed yourself, “I chipped my tooth with it, you know.”
“What?”
“The Grammy.” You reply, taking a short drag of the cigarette as you ponder how much information you want to pour on him of that night. “Chipped my tooth. I was jumping on the bed with it.” He chuckles, causing a loose strand to curl against his forehead. You want to brush it off, folding your arm under your elbow as you avert your eyes from his. “God, that night feels like a blur now. I think I pretty much convinced myself I dreamed a good portion of it.”
You let out a chuckle, watching the way the smoke blends with the air. Harry doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes looking at you from the corner of your vision. You meet his gaze, sensing a silent question from his jade irises, as if they’re waiting for you to keep talking.
“It just-- I don’t know, took a while to click, you know? To realize what had happened.” You elaborate, looking down at the skirt of your dress dancing along with the breeze as you grin to yourself at the memory. “ I got home that night, downed half an old bottle of whiskey that I found in my cellar.”
Harry’s brows shoot up, his voice coming with the verge of a teasing tone. “A cellar?”
“Shit, uh-- yeah it kinda-- I don’t know, came with the house.” There’s the warmth again, you feel it at the tip of your nose and you almost want to facepalm yourself for the slipup. “But yeah, after the ceremony, I went home by myself and just… Well, got drunk.”
“That’s understandable.” He giggles, and the sound makes you glance up at him again. “So you jumped in your bed with it?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much how the story ends.” You click your tongue, giving him an exaggerated nod that turns into a shake. “Was so gone I didn’t even notice I chipped my tooth until I woke up a few hours later.”
He lets out a full laugh now, his eyes squinting and you can’t help but join him. “Sounds like you had fun.”
“Uhm.., I did, yeah.”
Harry falls silent, his smile toning down slowly. He puckers his lips, as if pondering what to say next. When he does speak, his words are slow, “How is it to like…” His words trail off, and you have to bite back a smile when he starts gesturing, remembering how he used to do that before. “I mean, talking to you now, even with this whole fame thing, you’re still so… Shit, I don’t want this to come off the wrong way.”
“It’s fine.” You let your cigarette fall to the floor before crashing it with your boot, the only reason you lit it was to have an excuse to leave the party with him. “Can guarantee you I had worse questions asked.”
“It’s just you’re still so… Well I wouldn’t say the same cause none of us really are the same person we were, like, five years ago.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “But you’re still so… grounded, I guess is the best word to describe it.”
You allow a grin to tuck at your lips, hoping he doesn’t sense the sincere apprehension that comes with your tease. “Were you expecting me to be a stuck up diva, is that it?”
His eyes bulge out. “No! No, of course not! Is just-- I think, well, most people think...And it’s not a you thing but more of a, I don’t know, celebrity thing? Fuck, I really dug myself a hole, haven’t I?”
“Harry, relax. I was just teasing.” You interrupt as he starts to ramble. “But I know what you mean, yeah.”
You ponder his question for a moment. The answer for it being far from a simple one, but, once again, the last thing you want is to overwhelm him with your problems. So you choose your words carefully, chewing at your bottom lip as you feel him watching you patiently.
“It’s not easy, I’ll tell you that.” You start, you voice slowing to an almost cautious tone. “I had… Worse times dealing with it, you know? I…”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s fine, I trust you.” The words leave your mouth before you can register. You try not to show your surprise at them, and you do a better job than Harry, who audibly holds a breath. “Having so many people loving you, being praised for everything you do… It’s easy to let it go to your head, and I can’t say I’ve always been the best at managing it, but--” You regret your next words before you can even stop them from spilling from your lips. “I had a breakup a couple months ago that was uhm… A bit hard, but looking back at it I feel like it was like a bucket of cold water, in that sense.”
His eyes soften, and you have to look away because the last thing you want is to catch his reaction. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be! Really, I’m fine-- I’ll be fine.” You reassure quickly, shaking your head in hopes to shake the subject away.
It seems to work, as silence takes over the space once again, and both your eyes glance towards the party mindlessly.
You two watch Jamie appear in front of the glass doors leading to where you stand. He has his back to you, and from what you see it’s like he’s trying to pull Faye in the direction of the dance floor. She has a frown adorning her face, not giving into her husband’s attempt on pulling her with him. It’s clear, even from where you are, that he’s far off his mind now, his hips swaying with the muffled sounds of an attempt of a Céline Dion cover, still persisting even though it’s clear his wife wants nothing to do with his drunken ideas.
Faye gently pushes his hands away with a roll of her eyes, causing him to give a couple steps back, walking backwards into a chair before crumbling down with it. Neither of you can contain your laughs at the scene, even when you bring your hand up to muffle the sound, it’s too late. Jamie’s eyes look up from where he lies on the floor, catching sight of the two of you, he mumbles something you don’t understand, gesturing for you to come inside. You answer it with a small wave, and, thankfully, his attention is brought to his wife as she tries to help him stand.
You exhale a small laugh, moving so you’re no longer leaning back into the railing. “I think this is my cue to go before they try to convince me to try out that karaoke machine.”
“Yeah, I told myself I’d be out right after the toasts.”
You stop, pondering for a moment before looking back at him. “How are you going home?”
“I took the tube here.”
“Let me drive you back.”
“You don’t have--”
“It’s fine! I--” You pause, chewing down your bottom lip as you glance around him, feeling oddly embarrassed. “I got a driver waiting for me, you can just tell him your address, won’t be a problem to drop you off.”
He hesitates, waiting a beat before nodding. “If it’s not a bother.”
“It’s not.” You say a bit too quickly. “I’m suggesting it, after all.”
“Okay, then.”
//
As soon as you dropped Harry home, when the sky was awaking lazily with an orange bloom of dawn, he started to wonder if the entire night had even been real. By the time he woke up, just a couple hours later, he was sure it had been a spur of his imagination. He must’ve fallen asleep while getting dressed, yeah, that must’ve been it, he got ready and decided to lay down for a bit, which led him to fall asleep and dream of the whole thing.
That night feels like a blur now. I think I pretty much convinced myself I dreamed a good portion of it.
You said that to him. But how convenient is it, that describes perfectly how he feels about that night? Of course, you were talking about the night you won your first Grammy, and he’s merely thinking about how it was to meet you again. The two reasons for each of you to feel this way are so polar apart, Harry can’t help but feel like it translates well into the time in your lives you two are in. After all, you’re out there winning prestigious awards, wearing Dior to go out for groceries (do you even go out for your own groceries?), and having a whole cellar in your house, for christ's sake. Meanwhile, Harry’s still a full year away from getting his degree, wearing the same mismatched vans as a fashion statement, and having cheap bottles of wine tucked in the back of his creaky wooden cabinet.
It’s not that he hates the life he has, of course not. But it’s clear to him how distant you are from each other, even when he got the closest he had been to you in years.
So it doesn’t come as a surprise to him when he doesn’t hear from you for the next couple days. It’s what was expected, even. It doesn’t take away the fact that he’s a bit disappointed, though, but there’s no one else to blame for that but himself. What did he expect? That after spending one night together after five years you’d suddenly get close again as if nothing happened?
But it’s not his fault that he’s hopeful, not when you’d been so friendly that night, seeming so eager to catch up with him. So, yeah, you can’t really blame him for the hiccup on his heart every time he phone vibrated-- only to be left with a frustrated crease marking his features and a slight pout.
The day after was the worst one. It was a Sunday, after all, and Julia had left early in the morning to spend the week at Blake’s, which meant Harry had spent the entire day alone, dwelling on his confusion about what had been the night prior. He almost felt a bit stupid about how sure he had been that you’d text him, as that was the reason for you to exchange phone number with him, wasn’t it? As hours went by, however, and the loneliness of the tiny apartment got louder than the Friends’ rerun he was binging, he started to question it.
Maybe he got too nosy, asking too much about something you clearly weren’t comfortable answering. Maybe his question had offended you, and that’s why you wanted to leave early. Maybe you only gave him your number to be polite. Maybe that’s not even your actual phone number, he reckons, how many do you probably have?
He slept with the telly on that night, trying to muffle the maybes that kept nagging him.
It got better once the week started. Between classes and work, he barely had enough time to let his thoughts wander off. He was still going back to an empty home, but this time he brought back work with him. As a result of his late night on the weekend, Harry’s sleep schedule got completely spoiled. So he resorts into spending the wee hours of the morning perfecting a detailing he wasn’t all that satisfied with, or working on a draft for his fashion sketching class a week before it’s due (he even tries to cook for himself some recipes Julia sent him to try and keep his mind occupied).
Once Wednesday night rolls around, he has all but swept it out of his mind completely. And that’s when he finally hears from you.
Seems like you’ve taken a fancy on catching him off guard.
He’s on the couch when it happens, snuggled under his heated blanket as he tries to fix the embroidery at the hem of an extra’s jacket. The pilot of Stranger Things makes for background noise, and he pays half a mind to it while humming a tune that’s been stuck on his head throughout the whole day-- they started tuning in on the radio at the atelier and now he gets the privilege to listen to the same four songs about ten times a day. His alarm for a meditation app he’s trying out has just gone off on top of the side table - indicating it would be around time for his regular night routine - and just as he reaches for it to turn it off, the screen lights up again. This time for a phone call.
When he catches sight of the name displayed on the screen he almost chokes on his own saliva, the hoop in his hand falling to his lap as he rushes to catch the device. Harry blinks twice at the screen, thinking his eyes might be tricking him into seeing your name shine at the caller id. And for a moment he just stays like this, mind blank before realizing he should pick up before it goes to voicemail.
Taking a deep breath, he tries to even the thumping on his chest as he clears his throat, quickly pressing the accept button before bringing the phone to his ear. “‘Lo?”
“Harry?” Your voice comes in a higher pitch.
“Hi.”
“Are you home right now?”
His brows furrow at the question. “I-Uh- Well, yeah, Wh-”
“That’s perfect! I’m at your front door now…”
“What-” He just about jumps from his spot, tripping over the blanket as it falls around his ankles.
“And I’ve just realized I don’t know which flat to ring!” You continue, oblivious to the hectic man on the other side of the line.
“You’re outside?” Rushing to the window just a couple steps away, he pushes back the curtains to get a view of the street right below. And there you are, leaning back against a black car, similar to the one that gave him a ride, one hand holding the phone to your ear as the other is occupied with something he can’t quite figure out from where he stands. What calls his attention, though, is the gown you’re dressed in, definitely something way too lavish for a wednesday night.
“Yup.” You say simply, and he catches how your gaze moves up, meeting his. “Oh! Hey you!”
“Right. I’ll- I’ll be down in a minute.”
Harry’s not sure how he doesn’t break an ankle on the way down the steps of his building, flying three floors down at a near record speed. Once he reaches the ground floor, he takes a second to catch his breath, leaning with a hand against a wall as he cusses himself out for forgetting about his asthma in the midst of his rush. He manages to ease his breathing, but is still unable to calm the speed of his heartbeats, that now send an electric flow on his bloodstream, and he suddenly feels too warm.
He opens the door to find you just as you were when he saw you from the window. A smile stretches your face when you see him, giving him a wave. You turn back to say something on the driver's window he doesn’t quite catch, but just as you lean away from the vehicle, he watches as it drives away.
From this distance, he has a better look at you, and he’s sure now that your wednesday evening has most definitely played out much different than his. You’re wearing the new Valentino collection, a strapless navy blue dress with golden sparks detailing resembling a firework explosion right at your waist and going all the way down the skirt and up the top. Your hair is done in an updo, leaving your shoulders bare to the night breeze and he wonders if you’re not cold.
Harry barely has time to notice the silver statuete in your hand before you’re stepping towards him, embracing him into a hug. “Hey!”
“Hi.” He tries not to focus on how you smell like fresh roses, or how soft your skin feels when you nuzzle against his neck for a second before pulling back.
“I was around and decided to stop by for a bit!” You grin up at him. “So, are you not gonna invite me up?”
The last few words come out just a bit slurred from your mouth, and that’s when he realizes.
Oh.
You’re drunk.
“Uh, sure, of course.” He holds the door open, waiting for you to step inside before closing it behind him.
You don’t say anything on the way up, and Harry’s got his head going way too fast at once to try to wrap his mind at what’s happening. There’s too many questions he wants to ask, more than he can really make out at the moment. And on top of it all, he’s just started to worry about the state of his tiny little undergrad flat and how he’s about to receive someone who probably has a house with a washroom the size of the whole thing.
His lips part to try to apologize for the mess you’re about to walk in when you two reach his front door, but before he can let a word out, you beat him to it. “Do you have a loo I could use?”
He blinks. “Yeah, it’s just to your right.”
You step out of your heels once you walk in, quickly making a beeline to where he directed, not bothering to glance around the place.
Harry darts towards the living room, trying his best to tidy the mess he left before you step out. He throws the blanket that’s lying limply on the floor over the couch, gathering his embroidery tools that fell to the side of the couch and making his best attempt at folding them. The screen has gone to the second episode now, and he quickly shuts it off. Pondering for a moment if he should put on some music, he decides against it. Instead, he decides on pouring you a glass of water, now that he understands you’re still at least a bit tipsy, he finds it that his best option is to help you get on your best mind so he can figure out why, out of all places, you’ve decided to come here.
Because that’s the thing.
He still doesn’t know why on earth you’ve decided to show up on his flat unprompted, and all he can do is thank every outer force for Julia being out tonight. She would probably fall dead if she knew about this.
A minute too long passes as Harry waits for you, leaning on his kitchen counter with the glass of water sat in front of him. He feels as if he can’t keep still, leg bouncing nervously and fingers tapping against the countertop as he bites into his inner cheek. It’s only when he finally glances in the direction of the toilet that he notices. The door is wide open.
He strides towards the room, stopping just as he reaches the doorway. “Is everything alright in there?”
“Oh! Yeah! You can come in!” Your voice echoes from inside.
Peeking in slowly, his brows shoot up as he sees you sitting at the edge of the bathtub, phone in hands and the statute lying on your lap. You shoot him a smile.
He gestures back vaguely to the kitchen behind him. “Got you some water.”
“There’s no need for that, tonight it’s to celebrate! --Oop” You try to straighten your back, but you end up falling back into the tub, the tulle of the skirt almost swallowing you in the process.
“Fuck-” He rushes towards you, reaching from your arms to try to help you as you burst into giggles. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m great!” You assure, waving his hands off as you adjust yourself to sit more comfortably. “Do you have any wine you can pop?”
“I--” The question takes him back, and he racks his brain to think if there’s still a bottle he’d purchased a couple weeks ago. “I think so.”
“Bring it, then, let's make this our little after-party.” You throw your arms around dramatically. “A very exclusive one, as you can see.”
“Right.” He chuckles. “Give me a minute.”
“I’ll be right here!”
Turns up there’s just about half a bottle left sitting inside the creaky cabinet. He chooses the glass with the smallest crack at the base-- the glasses are very cheap and Harry’s not very careful with them.
He decides to leave the bottle at the counter, grabbing the filled glass of water as well before heading back where he left you sitting inside his bathtub.
“There he is!” You exclaim when he walks in, handing you the glass of wine and setting the other next to the sink. “You didn’t pour one for yourself?”
He closes the lid of the toilet, sitting on top of it. “Uhm… Not really a drinking kind of night for me.”
“Oh god!” You gasp. “Of course, how could I be so stupid? I’ll leave you be--”
“No!” Harry quickly asserts, “No, I mean- It’s fine, really. I was just surprised, is all.”
When you speak, your voice comes out softer, “I don’t mean to disturb.”
“You aren’t!”He assures. “Really, stay I-- It’s nice to see you again.”
You smile up at him, he can tell from this close how your eyes are a bit glossy, and he wonders if he should’ve told you he didn’t have any wine. But still, it’s live you have him at the palm of your hand. “It’s nice to see you again, too.”You scoop a bit to the side, tapping the space next to you. “C’mon.”
“What?”
“Come join me here.”
“I don’t think it fits us both.”
“Of course it does! Here,” You attempt to pull at your skirt with one hand, barely budging the tulle from where it spreads inside the tub. “See?”
He chuckles as you look back up at him. “I’ll ruin your dress.”
“It’s okay, it’s not like I’ll wear it again.” Your eyes widen. “Oh my god, I sounded like a bitch, I didn’t mean it like that just--” Trying again, you do a better job at containing the skirt, giving it enough space for him to sit. “There. Now we can both sit inside, my dress will be intact!”
He laughs, dropping next to you inside the empty bathtub. The hem of your skirt tickles his skin, and he mindlessly reaches to hold the fabric between his fingers. His eyes fall to your lap as he does so, the silver of the statuete catching his eye, he taps the base of it, “What is it for?”
“Huh?” You stop midsip, brows creasing slightly before gazing down to where he’s pointing. “Oh! It’s a Brit. Best New Artist.” Picking it up, you offer it to Harry. The award feels heavier than he thought it would as he holds it, the shape of it resembling a woman’s shape, her body curving in an ‘S’. You sigh next to him, taking a small sip. “Funny, innit? Been doing this for so long, it feels like, but I’m still being treated as if I’m new blood.”
“That’s true.” He turns the award in his hand before handing it back to you, and you simply let it fall back to your lap. There’s a moment of silence as he mulls over the question he’s been wanting to ask since you showed up at his doorstep. “Why didn’t you go to an after-party?”
“Not really in the mood.” You shrug. “Needed a familiar face, I guess.”
He hums in response. Surely, you’ve got plenty of familiar faces in London, ones that you probably see more often than you’ve ever seen him. Friends. Family. So why was it your first instinct to go to his building? You didn’t even text him after you parted ways after the wedding, he was sure you had even forgotten about him once again.
It’s all much too confusing to him.
“H?” You speak up first, your tone is gentle, even a bit uncertain.
The sound of his nickname falling from your lips causes a stutter on his heartbeat.
“Yeah?”
You’re looking down at your lap, watching the liquid inside your glass twirl as you move it slowly. “Is it… Is it too weird that I came here today?”
Harry shakes his head. “Not weird, no.” He comforts. “Was just surprised, is all.”
“I just-” You sigh, a soft frown set between your brows. “Seeing you again, it was really nice, you know?”
“I do.”
“Really.” You meet his eyes with a nod, trying to show how truthful your words are. “Felt like I could let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding for so long.”
He relaxes his shoulders. “I know.” Harry nods. “Yeah I-- I know what you mean.”
When you speak up again, it’s barely above a whisper. The words so sweet it brings the prettiest butterflies to flutter on his belly. “I missed you.”
Harry’s lips part, he wants to say the words back, he can feel them at the tip of his tongue. Because he’s missed you, too. He’s so sure of it. But nothing comes out, his mind going numb as he blinks at you.
“I’m sorry, this was weird, It’s just--” You shake your head to yourself, letting out a nervous laugh. “What I mean is that… I don’t know, I wish we could’ve still talked, you know? After…”
“Yeah.”
You grin. “At the reception, when we chatted, and you told me all those things you’ve been up to, it just… I don’t know, I just wished I could’ve been there with you.” Your eyes look between his, searching for something he can’t quite put his finger on before you take a breath. “And I don’t mean that, like, in a weird way! But as a friend, you know? Wish I could’ve been there with you.”
He clears his throat, forcing himself to speak. “I didn’t…” He opens his mouth, closing it before finally saying. “I never thought you felt that way.”
“I don’t think I realized how much I needed someone close to me that knows me until I saw you again, really.”The words spill out of your mouth, adorably switching from a gentle tone to a rushed one. “And I mean, I have friends that I love and that I trust but… Having someone that’s like…”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Normal?”
“Don’t say it like that!” You shove him playfully. “But, yeah, someone that knows me without the lights, and the expensive clothes, and the big houses.” Your lips frown as you shrug. “That just wouldn’t care if I didn’t have all that, that would still like me regardless.”
“You can still have that.” He tries to reassure you, the confession making him want to comfort you. “It’s not too late.”
Looking down at your lap, he sees your breathing halter for a second. “Have we become strangers?” You meet his gaze, chewing down at your bottom lip. “It’s what I kept thinking after I dropped you off, I don’t think I want you to be a stranger.”
Then, he reaches up, brushing a strand out of your forehead. “I don’t think I want that, either.”
Your smile grows. “It’s settled, then.” You nod. “I’m officially promoting you from distant ex to the close friend position.”
Harry lets out a full laugh. “That’s a very sudden rise of positions.”
“We’ll make it slow, then.” You reason, your words starting to stumble out of your mouth again. “Get to know each other again, we can do it when I’m not drunk inside your bathtub. Do you like coffee now?”
“I do, actually.” He replies with a grin. “Hard not to when you’re a uni student.”
“Lovely! We’ll have a coffee and chat.”
“Sounds great.”
You hold up your almost empty wine glass.“To caffeine and friendship.” Tilting it. “Cheers.”
He lets a moment of silence settle, before smirking down at you. “Now, what you said about the expensive clothes…”
“Oh my god, cut the deal.” Rolling your eyes, you try to make it as if you’re about to get up. “We don’t need to get to know each other again, I can tell you’re still a pest.”
“Don’t know what you mean, pet.” He giggles, brushing his hair off his shoulder in dramatics. “I’ve always been a dream.”
//
A/N: I’ve been so excited to share this one with you all!! Thank you so much for reading it :D I’m so curious to know what you all will think about it so please, if you enjoyed it, reblog it or send some feedback to support!! Also, make sure to check the fic page where I keep all my inspo for Curious Time :)
#harry styles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles one shot#harry styles imagine#harry styles fanfic#harry styles smut#harry styles fluff#harry styles x reader#harry styles writing
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A Guardian in Gotham
Read A Guardian in Gotham on AO3
Masterlist
Written for Maribat March Day 19 - Guardian
Note: In this AU Master Fu gave out the Ladybug Miraculous to Marinette and the Black Cat Miraculous to Adrien before consulting the Kwami. Marinette turned out to be a true holder, but for the Black Cat Miraculous, not the Ladybug Miraculous. However, she and Adrien made it work and were able to defeat Hawkmoth anyway. After Hawkmoth's defeat she becomes Lady Noire full-time.
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Being the Guardian of the Miraculous was hard work. There were no family vacations, no sleeping in or going to bed early, no breaks. Marinette could not relax until Hawkmoth was defeated. Which explained why it was such a jarring change once the Miraculous Team defeated Hawkmoth.
Gabriel Agreste was behind bars. The citizens of Paris were free from the threat of akumatization. Tikki, Plagg, and the rest of the Kwamis went dormant in order to restore the damage done to Duusu's Miraculous. Marinette didn't exactly know what to do with herself. Suddenly it hit her that she was no longer the middle schooler who accepted the burden of Guardianship. She was in her final year of high school, nearly an adult. All around her, her friends were making future plans. Adrien was taking a gap year to help Emilie recover from her coma. Alya was accepted to a prestigious journalism program. Nino was DJing at one of the best clubs in Paris. Luka was releasing his EP. Kagami was training for the Olympics. Chloé took up an internship with her mother.
Marinette couldn't move on, the way all of her friends were able to. Marinette couldn't be a normal girl anymore. She couldn't go to university, start a family, live a normal life. She needed the rush of adrenaline that came from two little words - Spots on! or more recently, Claws out!
It was around this time that the Temple of Guardian got in touch with Marinette, offering her an opportunity to continue her work as a Guardian of the Miraculous. They send Marinette a box of old journals, dating back to the 18th century. The journals detailed the discovery of twin "wells of evil" located in the American cities of Gotham and Metropolis, then named Mortham City. The Masters of the Miraculous who made this discovery studied the evil and expressed the desire to find a way to remove it, but didn't have the chance to complete the task before the Temple of Guardians fell. When the Temple reappeared they believed that the Masters had managed to destroy the evil in Mortham, due to the reports of the city's recovery and renaming to Metropolis soon after, but were unable to destroy the evil in Gotham. The city festered, growing more and more troubled while Metropolis flourished. Marinette's task was to do her best to study and remove the evil in Gotham.
Marinette applied to Gotham University, feeling relieved that she might finally find her purpose.
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Marinette's dorm room at Gotham University was rather lackluster; it was the typical tiny, cramped American university dorm, complete with a stained carpet and a bathroom shared between six girls. Her roommate was a computer science major named Barbara Gordon. Barbara was older than Marinette, a senior while Marinette was only a freshman. It was a fluke accident that the freshman dorms had filled up before she was admitted. Secretly Marinette wished that she had been able to room with another freshman. Barbara was rarely in the dorm room, too busy with her coursework and her real friends to make small talk with her nervous roommate.
Marinette barely spent any time in her dorm room, either. She spent most of her time in class or at the library studying. Marinette had the ambitious plan of double majoring in both fashion and business, in order to start her own fashion company someday. Her classes overwhelmed her, and Marinette began to regret overloading her first-semester schedule. It gave her barely any time to work on her Guardian work, let alone join an extracurricular.
Marinette wanted to decorate the dorm and make it more of a home, but because of a plane delay, she ended up arriving at the university the day before classes started, giving her no time at all to go to the store and buy anything. Another unfortunate casualty of Marinette's late arrival was that she still hadn't figured out how Gotham's bus schedule worked, so she walked everywhere, even in the pouring rain.
Overall, Marinette's first week of classes was miserable. That was why Marinette was crying in her dorm room, alone, at six in the evening on a Friday night. It all started when Marinette saw a picture of her old class on social media. Alya and Nino were making faces at the camera; Marinette and Adrien were both grinning, Marinette's blue scarf wrapped around his neck; Ivan and Mylène were holding hands, staring into each other's eyes; Rose was posing, kissing Juleka's cheek; Alix was perched on Kim's shoulders; Nathaniel had his arm wrapped around Marc's shoulders; Max was holding up Markov so he could wave to the camera, Sabrina and Chloé were smiling, holding hands.
The photo had been taken years ago, on their first day of lycée. Marinette remembered it well. They had all been nervous about starting at a new school. There was no guarantee that they would all be in the same class. Max had calculated the odds for even half of their class staying together and it wasn't good. But that morning, when Marinette walked into her homeroom and saw all of her friends sitting there, she knew that it would be okay. Chloé revealed that she had gotten her father to provide a generous donation to the school to keep them all in the same class for the rest of their education. Marinette had been so happy to get to stay with her friends. Now she was on a different continent from them.
The tears started to fall, slowly at first, then more and more until Marinette was sobbing, face pressed into a pillow. How could she have made such a stupid decision? All of her friends were in France and she left them, all because she couldn't move on.
Two knocks on the door halted Marinette's sobs. "Babs? Are you in here?"
Marinette got up and opened the door, revealing a young man. He looked to be her age, tall, with black hair and blue eyes. "Barbara isn't here right now," she told the man.
The man blinked, looking at Marinette like she wasn't what he expected at all. "I guess I should have called her before I showed up. I'm Tim, by the way. I was just here to drop this off." Tim held up a container filled with chocolate chip cookies.
"I'm Marinette. If you want, you can drop the cookies off on her desk. I'll tell Barbara that they're from you, once she comes back to the dorm." Marinette wiped her eyes with her shirt sleeve, trying to get rid of the evidence of her crying.
"Are you okay?" asked Tim.
"Oh, I'm fine. Just a little homesick. Nothing to worry about."
"You should come with me to get dinner," offered Tim. "I was just about to stop in at the dining hall."
Marinette shook her head. "I wouldn't want to impose."
"It wouldn't be an imposition at all. I hate eating alone."
Marinette gave him a wary look. "I don't know you. Why would you invite me to eat with you?"
Tim shrugged. "You look like you could use some company, to take your mind off of your homesickness. Unless you want to spend the rest of your night crying in your dorm."
Marinette bit her lip as she thought it over. It would be nice to get out of the dorm and get something to eat. On the other hand, Tim was a complete stranger whose intentions Marinette still didn't trust. Then Marinette remembered the photo of her friends and made up her mind. If she couldn't have her old friends here in Gotham she would have to make new ones. "Alright. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."
Marinette threw on a pair of jeans, a Gotham University hoodie, and her sturdiest pair of sneakers.
"So what's on the menu tonight?" asked Marinette as they walked out of the dorm building to Tim's car.
"Uncertain. I can't remember the last time the dining hall actually updating its online menu. I was planning on crossing my fingers and hoping that they would be serving something edible tonight."
Marinette wrinkled her nose. "Is the food usually edible?"
"It's hit or miss. If you want, we could go to a diner instead?"
Marinette nodded. "I don't want to spend my weekend with food poisoning."
"Good choice." Tim turned the car around and started driving into the center of Gotham.
"Are you a senior like Barbara?" asked Marinette.
Tim shook his head. "I'm a sophomore. How about you?"
"Freshman. This is actually my first Friday in Gotham."
"Where are you from?" asked Tim.
"Paris, 21st arrondissement."
"That must be a pretty big change. What made you choose Gotham?"
Marinette shrugged, not wanting to give away her real reason. "I figured all the supervillains and Rogues might remind me of home."
Tim looked confused for a second before a realization passed over him. "I forgot about Hawkmoth. It was a big deal here in Gotham when he first emerged because the Mayor of Paris refused to allow the Justice League to intervene. All because he was worried about 'damaging the historic buildings of Paris'."
Marinette let out a bitter laugh. "That wasn't the real reason, you know. I was friends with Andre Bourgeois's daughter, Chloé. She says that he didn't want the Justice League to get involved in the fight against Hawkmoth because he couldn't merchandise any of the Justice League members. Ladybug, Chat Noir, and the rest of the Miraculous Team, on the other hand, never copyrighted their images. Paris used the Miraculous Team to bring in billions in tourism and Bourgeois never paid them a cent."
Tim looked surprised. "You sound like you know a lot about the Miraculous Team."
"I got to know them all pretty well. My classmates were known throughout Paris as the 'Children of Hawkmoth' - as if it was our fault that Hawkmoth targeted my school at a rate astronomically higher than the rest of the city. Of course, when it turned out that Gabriel Agreste's son was one of my classmates the nickname got a bit more personal."
Tim let out a break. "I suppose moving to Gotham makes sense when you've spent that much time in proximity to superheroes and supervillains."
"Gotham is an improvement to Paris under Hawkmoth. At least none one your Rogues can mind control." Marinette shuddered at the memory of her friends and loved ones turning against her due to Hawkmoth's influence.
Tim pulled into the diner parking lot. The pair got a booth in the back and put in their orders. Tim and Marinette spent the night trading stories of the most interesting Parisian akumas and Gotham Rogues.
Tim was enraptured. He told Marinette that for years it had been difficult for outsiders to get any reliable information about the Miraculous Team, outside of what Andre Bourgeois used for his tourism campaign. So Marinette did her best to share all the little details that every Parisian knew like the back of their hand: That Valentines Day was the worst holiday because all of the akumas were love-based. That they were trained in school to either lock their emotions down or let them all out, if they saw an akuma, to try and diminish the akuma's power. That Ladybug and Chat Noir, once they realized that their fanbase was primarily children, made it a point to never swear during their battles.
By the end of the night, Tim and Marinette made plans to meet up the following day. Tim promised to take Marinette out into the city for the shopping trip that her delayed flight caused her to miss. Marinette went to bed that night hopeful for her future in Gotham, a feeling she never thought she would have again.
----------
Over the next few weeks, things got better at Gotham University. Marinette started spending more time out of her dorm room with Tim, and eventually, with her roommate Babs and Tim's brother (and Bab's boyfriend) Dick. Tim became Marinette's lifesaver after he taught Marinette how Gotham's bus system worked. Marinette finally got around to decorating her side of the room. Her new style and color scheme (navy blue and sunflower yellow, Gotham University school colors) suited her much better than the pinks and whites of her high school days. Her productivity increased as she settled into the school, and Marinette found that she actually enjoyed her classes. It wasn't perfect, but Gotham University began to feel a bit more like home.
Most importantly, Marinette had begun to make progress on her work as a guardian. It had taken a whole weekend, but she eventually located the epicenter of Gotham's evil, a rundown tenement building in the heart of Crime Alley. The basement of the building housed storage units, one of which Marinette promptly rented. She set up her workshop there, bringing out the Miraculous Box so that she could consult the Kwami. Tikki and Plagg both woke up from their hibernation and Marinette got to work.
"I can sense the evil," spoke Tikki. "It's overpowering."
"It's like going from the Sahara Desert straight to the middle of the ocean," added Plagg.
"It does feel similar to drowning," Tikki agreed.
"Do either of you have any idea how to get rid of it?" asked Marinette.
Tikki shrugged. "I wish I could tell you how to defeat it, but it's unlike any enemy the Kwami of your Miracle Box have ever gone up against before. But look on the bright side, we know that it can be eliminating. I can only assume that the Kwami were involved when the evil was eliminated in Metropolis."
"The solution is easy. We cataclysm the evil," said Plagg.
"We don't know what would happen if we use cataclysm against something that isn't fully corporeal."
"Then we use Sass's second chance until we get it right."
Tikki brightened up. "Oh, that is a good idea - using second chance, not using cataclysm irresponsibly."
"See! I do have good ideas sometimes. We could also use Pollen's venom to freeze the evil in place and stop it from fighting back."
Marinette could listen to her two favorite Kwami argue forever. She had missed them terribly. But she had a job to do, so she interrupted their banter. "Do you think I should use Mullo to wield multiple Miraculous?"
Tikki shook her head. "You'll need at least one other person with you. If you get hurt, someone else will have to use second chance."
Marinette pondered that fact. "Luka's going on tour next month. He's stopping in Gotham for a weekend. Chloé is only an hour drive from Gotham, up in New York City, so she could be here any time. If we plan everything right, we could have the evil destroyed before the semester is over."
Once again, Tikki shot down Marinette's plan. "This is too strong for Luka's second chance or Chloé's venom. If you want to do this right you'll need to use true holders."
Marinette winced. Finding the true holder of a Miraculous was a near-impossible task. Of her entire Miraculous Team, only Marinette and Adrien were true holders. While the Kwami could sense a person's aptitude, they needed to be within fifty feet to get an accurate read. There was no way Marinette would be able to find the true holder of both Sass and Pollen. "Okay, new plan. What if I get Mullo to multiply myself and then have each copy of me take a different Miraculous?"
Marinette brainstormed with the two Kwami for hours, desperate to find a solution to the problem that had plagued Gotham for centuries. However, they still couldn't come up with a plan in which Marinette would be able to rid Gotham of the evil without enlisting the help of at least one other true holder. In the end, Marinette decided to take Tikki, Plagg, Sass, and Pollen back to the dorm with her, hoping that they might stumble upon another true holder.
"I wish we had a better plan," sighed Marinette.
"Keep your head up, Marinette. The only thing we can do now is stay positive and hope for the best," advised Tikki.
It wasn't a good plan, passively waiting for someone to solve her problem for her, but it was the only plan they had. Marinette had no other choice. If she tried to take on the evil alone, it would overpower her. It was disheartening. Marinette rode the bus back to her dorm. The streets of Gotham felt colder on the return trip.
Getting dinner with Tim was the only thing that could cheer Marinette up, so she pulled out her phone and sent him an invitation to meet up.
Marinette: Do you want to go get dinner? I heard the dining hall has vegetarian lasagne
Tim: Sure! Be there in twenty
Marinette put her phone away as she got off the bus and started walking towards the dining hall, dodging the sidewalk puddles that never seemed to dry. Even when it wasn't raining, Gotham was a dreary city.
Tim and Marinette chatted about their classes as they ate their food. By the end of dinner, Marinette felt a little better about her disappointing day. Tim could always lift her out of a bad mood. Marinette considered it his superpower.
"I'll see you tomorrow," said Marinette as she got out of Tim's car in front of her dorm hall. She expected to get to her room without incident, but as soon as she got into the relative privacy of the stairwell, all four of her Kwami were circling around her head, speaking in rapid succession, too quick for Marinette to keep up.
"I can't believe it!"
"You've got some luck, Pigtails!"
"This is great news!"
"I can't wait to meet him!"
Marinette blinked as she tried to make sense of the Kwamis' words. "What's going on?"
Pollen's eyes were bright. "Tim is my true holder!" the Kwami squeaked excitedly.
Marinette gasped. "Really?"
"He'll make a perfect Bee. He seems so smart and funny and considerate. I bet he'll feed me loads of honey and get fresh flowers for all of his rooms and be my best friend." Pollen sighed dreamily, pure joy in her voice.
"Pollen, have you ever had a true holder before?" asked Marinette.
"Of course. It's been a long time, though - at least a thousand years since my last true holder died. I missed it a lot. But now I have Tim!"
Marinette smiled, overjoyed that she finally had the means to complete her mission, that Pollen finally got to meet one of her true holders again, that Gotham might be freed from the evil that had loomed over it for centuries. Mostly, she was overjoyed that she met Tim all those weeks ago, that he took the time to get to know her, that he was there for her when no one else was.
----------
"So the Kwami are little gods?" Tim stared at Pollen with an almost scary intensity, as if he thought looking away might make the Kwami disappear.
Pollen flew up closer to Tim to explain. "The Kwami are linked to certain aspects of humanity: creation, destruction, intuition, protection, et cetera. We have a certain amount of control over these qualities. I am the Kwami of Subjection, of control and mastery. I can give you the power to incapacitate your enemies."
"Incapacitate them how?"
"Using the power of venom, you will be able to freeze your enemies in place."
Tim wrinkled his nose. "That sounds a little morality dubious. How do you know I wouldn't use it for evil. This is Gotham."
Pollen rolled her eyes. "You're my true holder, Tim Drake. I trust you with my entire being."
"What does that mean, for me to be your true holder?"
Pollen's cheerful expression turned sad. "Of all the Kwami, my powers are the most often exploited. The power of subjection, of complete and total control over your enemies, is corrupting. However, you, Tim, are my true holder. Your self-control is strong, I can sense it. You will not be corrupted by the power I give you. You will wield it fairly."
Tim glanced over at Marinette, and she gave him her most encouraging smile. "I need you, Tim. I've needed you for a while. First, as a friend, when I was at my lowest, and now as my partner. There's an evil that resides in this city, that I have been tasked with destroying. I can't get rid of it alone. I need you to help me."
Tim's eyes widened. "You mean there's a supernatural reason for Gotham's condition?"
Marinette nodded. "There's a well of evil underneath the city. Using the Miraculous, I can remove it. But it's too powerful for me to do it alone. I know this is a lot to ask, but-"
Tim interrupted Marinette before she could finish her sentence. "You know, Gotham is well known for its distaste for magic-users and meta-humans." Marinette opened her mouth to protest but was interrupted once more by Tim. "However, I trust that you want to do what's best for this city. I'll help you."
Marinette's face brightened. "Thank you! I have a plan but I still need to fine-tune the details. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. For now, you should take the Bee Comb with you. You'll need to form an emotional bond with Pollen before you can achieve peak performance."
"You seem to know a lot about the Miraculous and the Kwami."
"It's my job to be knowledgable. I'm a Guardian of the Miraculous."
----------
"So how does a girl like you become a Guardian of the Miraculous?" asked Tim as they ate their lunch in the storage unit after a long morning of pouring over plans.
"I was chosen by the previous master. It's a long-standing tradition that the Guardian can only be a true holder, because true holders notoriously incorruptible except in the most extreme situations. I was the only true holder that Master Fu knew of, other than himself, so despite my age and despite the fact that I wielded the Ladybug Miraculous rather than the Black Cat Miraculous, the Miraculous I was the true holder for, he passed the responsibility onto me."
"How old were you when you became the Guardian full-time?"
Marinette tensed her shoulders. "I was fourteen. Master Fu wanted to wait longer, but there was a situation. I lost my only mentor, with only a fraction of my training completed."
"That sounds rough," Tim's tone was sympathetic. He placed his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
"It was difficult," Marinette admitted. "For the longest time, I was mad at Master Fu for waiting so long to start training me. It wasn't until I got older that I realized why he was so reluctant to start my training. He felt guilty for stealing my childhood away from me. The situation in Paris was bad and tough choices had to be made. I don't blame him, but there are a lot of things I wish had been done differently."
"I'm sorry that you had to go through that. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost my mentor-" Tim's thoughtful tone turned frantic. "Not that my experience with mentorship would compare to yours, because I wouldn't know anything about being a teenage superhero."
Tim's words were suspicious, but Marinette didn't have time to figure out what he was hiding. They had a job to do. "Well, it's time to get back to work. You need to practice using venom on non-corporeal objects. I want to see if you're able to freeze the wind."
"Sounds good, Bugs."
"Bugs?"
Tim nodded. "I figured you could use a nickname. Do you not like it?"
"No, it's fine." Marinette paused. "Actually, it's better than fine. I really appreciate it. Thank you, Tim."
"No problem, Buggsy," Tim teased.
"Okay, now you're pushing your luck," Marinette teased right back.
----------
Lady Noire and her partner Yellowjacket stood in the basement of a rundown tenement building in the heart of Crime Alley.
Lady Noire spoke the plan aloud, the rhythm of her words revealing that she had spoken them many times before in preparation for the event. "I'll start by drawing out the evil. As soon as it senses the power of destruction that I hold it will try and consume me. I need you to be ready to use your venom the moment it emerges. Once it is frozen, I will use cataclysm. Are you ready?"
Yellowjacket responded. "I'm ready."
Lady Noire closed her eyes and let out her breath in a drawn-out hiss. The shadows around her darkened and she let out a pained gasp as she fell to her knees.
Yellowjacket sprung into action. "Venom!" he shouted, thrusting his palms out to let his power fill the room. The whole room lit up with yellow light, bright enough to rid the room of all but the supernatural shadows.
The shadows, which had been growing exponentially, suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. Lady Noire got back up onto her feet, a vicious snarl on her face. "You have been terrorizing this city for centuries. No longer will I will allow this evil to haunt Gotham. Cataclysm!"
The shadows crumbled, leaving behind only natural darkness. The transformation disappeared from Lady Noire, leaving behind a girl, who gasped for breath. "Tim, we did it!"
"Pollen, buzz off," commanded Yellowjacket. He was so impatient to hug the girl that he had his arms wrapped around her before his transformation was finished. "It's over, Marinette."
The girl shook her head gently. "It's not completely over. The effects will surely linger - Metropolis still sees its fair share of villains - but it will be nothing like what it was before. I imagine the vigilantes that roam Gotham will have a much easier job, though."
The boy tensed up. "Speaking of the vigilantes that roam Gotham, I suppose there's something that I should probably tell you. I'm Red Robin."
The girl blinked once, a dumbstruck expression on her face then burst out into peals of laughter. "Just my silly luck that I ask a vigilante to be my superhero partner."
The boy grinned. "I am rather fond of your silly luck. It's what brought us together."
@maribatmarch-2k21
#maribat#timari#timinette#marinette dupain-cheng#tim drake#MaribatMarch2021#miraculous ladybug fic#my work
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Here’s my response to @pussyibo, who tagged me on a post about Gg’s Li-Ning brand endorsement.
First of all, I’d like everyone to please read @accio-victuuri‘s wonderfully written, detailedly researched post on the Li-Ning brand, the Xinjiang cotton support rally on Weibo, and the narrative the state has spun on the issue. I would’ve provided similar information in my response as well—although no way I could’ve laid it out as clearly, as to-the-point as @accio-victuuri did—because this background is critical in explaining my thoughts on this issue.
I haven’t reblogged the Li-Ning ads, but I must confess that the decision had little to do with politics. I’ve always leaned towards re-blogging art than real people.
That said, however, Gg’s Li-Ning ads have, of course, crossed my dash. And I’d be honest and say this as well: I haven’t really found them—or by extension, the idea that Gg was endorsing the brand—offensive, precisely for the reasons @accio-victuuri laid out. Li-Ning is a legend in China; a highly decorated olympic gymnast, he was the national pride chosen to be the final torch-bearer and torch-lighter for the 2008 Beijing Olympics. His company, established in 1990, was among the first Chinese brands with name-recognition overseas and has won high-profile international sponsorships—rare achievements among Chinese-owned enterprises, even to this day.
Based on Li Ning’s identity and his company being a National Brand, I’d be more surprise if the Li-Ning brand doesn’t use homegrown, “patriotic” cotton, before even considering the practical reasons—Xinjiang cotton being a domestic product that eliminates the costs of shipping, tariffs etc; that it’s of such superior quality that international brands touted its use—a reversal of the usual downplaying of their products’ Chinese origin, due to the common associations of “Made in China”=“Bootleg”,“awful quality”; that makes up ~20% of worldwide cotton production—ie. most Chinese families are probably already using products with cotton from the region (blankets, for example).
From that perspective, therefore, I’ve viewed the endorsement as little more than a case of a high-profile Chinese celebrity endorsing a high-profile Chinese brand, named after a national hero and targeted towards the local market. I breathed a little sigh of relief for Gg, admittedly—imagine if his new endorsement over those same few days had been for a brand under the Better Cotton Initiative; he would’ve been flayed alive, if the antis’ words were knives.
(And who said they aren’t?)
As such, I also haven’t considered the Li-Ning brand as “morally inferior” to Gg or Dd, or, the other way around, that Gg or Dd are “morally superior” to the Li-Ning brand. I haven’t considered drawing a moral ruler along this axis. I either believe they’re all doing what their sociopolitical environment has taught them, guided them, demanded them to do, or I don’t. Li Ning (the person and the brand), Gg, and Dd all have a celebrity status attached to them. They’ve all flourished in that one sociopolitical environment—that one they also call home.
Ultimately, Gg and Dd belong to China. They’re the product of the country, its all powerful, all controlling regime. No one can be isolated from their backgrounds—my background colours every word I say here; likewise, there’s no place I can draw a line and separate Gg and Dd from the Communist Red behind them. I wouldn’t have posted about China’s sociopolitical environment, researched on it as a GgDd fan otherwise.
I either walk away from them all, or I don’t. I either stay a fan, or I don’t. The latter is my choice. Every minute.
Have there been instances in which news about Gg and Dd make me especially uncomfortable? Yes. Photos of Gg in PLA (People’s Liberation Army; Chinese army) uniform for AT, or Dd in police uniform for BAH, for TTXS still give me stomach churns every time I see them. A violent squeeze of the heart.
Visceral reactions that come from, I suppose, the amyglada. More organic, primitive than thought.
I’ve seen those uniforms in RL action—uniforms worn by those who’re truly responsible for the labor camps and mass surveillance, the torture, the unreported deaths, the disappearances; uniforms Gg and Dd have expressed support outside their drama, their host roles:
Translation: #I support Hong Kong Police too#
(On red banner) “I support HK police. You can beat me up now.” What a shame for Hong Kong.
(Dd reblogged the same post originated from People’s Daily, the State-Controlled Newspaper).
I’m going to go on a quick detour and provide the backstory of this red little box, this piece of propaganda that is much more blatant than a clothing ad. I’ll explain why in a bit.
Here’s an article that explained the incident from which the quote was drawn, that occurred on 8/13/2019 during the Hong Kong Protest and the airing of The Untamed. Essentially, a Chinese state media reporter was suspected to be a spy among the protestors after taking photos, refusing to show his press pass (he was found to have one but not his own), and possessing a “I love HK Police” shirt; he was tied to the luggage cart and beaten up. The reporter said the quote in the red little box; he suffered mild injuries and was soon discharged by the hospital.
What was the background of this story, however? Why did the protestors beat up someone who could be from the press—who, regardless of their affiliation, protestors know should be protected? The protests began in June, 2019. Hong Kong had had another large scale protest in between September to November, 2014 (aka the “Umbrella Revolution”). Spies had always been an issue. Why didn’t a spy beating happen earlier?
Here’s an English-subbed documentary (warning: violence) that offers insight of the background—the fear and fury of the protestors. The subject is what is now known as 721 Yuen Long incident, or the evening Hong Kongers—even those who had not been involved, who had been unsure about the protests—lost their trust of the Hong Kong Police, once known as “Asia’s finest”.
That evening went like this. On 7/21/2019, the local mafia violently attacked the passengers of a late night train in Yuen Long station—passengers who weren‘t protestors (who wore black)—while the police ignored the multiple emergency calls from locals who’d spotted something suspicious, and didn’t show up on the scene while the beatings occurred. Evidences, which the documentary detailed, pointed to the Hong Kong Police, and the government that backed it, endorsing the beatings, therefore working with the local mafia to deal with the protests.
By 8/13/2019, therefore, protestors were convinced that their opposition wasn’t beyond using very low blows to get their way. One could argue that they overreacted to the spy-reporter; the Western media, who had long trusted HKers to know what they were doing, expressed its disappointment, and the protestors soon apologised. The Chinese propaganda machine, of course, jumped at the chance of casting the protestors as bad people, and the online rally on Weibo ensued (It lasted for at least three days; Gg and Dd reblogged post about HK between 8/14/2019-8/16/2019).
That was, briefly, the story behind Gg and Dd’s Weibo reblog.
Why did I make a detour and write up this story? Because I’ve actually posted blatant propaganda on my blog—the Weibo post, with its red little box. However, does it still feel like propaganda with the story?
Therefore, I haven’t, and don’t plan on pressuring anyone to stop posting and re-blogging specific pieces of GgDd information—be it an ad as in this scenario, or propaganda material from films, series, government/state-controlled media announcements etc. That I believe everyone should set their own boundaries, be their own judge of what they’d like to share on their own blog aside, I think—and this is where my opinion may deviate from many—“canceling” falsehoods often isn’t the best way to deal with them.
This opinion is likely, again, coloured by my background.
My observations have been this: “cancelling” is effective only if the cancelling force is, overall, significantly stronger than the force being cancelled. In the scenario that prompted this post, making Gg’s Li-Ning ads disappear from the dash is only possible if there are more fans who ignore the ads than those who post and reblog them. “Canceling” is therefore a competition of headcount, with tactics for sidekick—the side with more people, and people who are good at disseminating information, decides the outcome: whether the intended-to-be-cancelled material go viral within the fandom, or whether they die out.
I’d like to highlight this word: headcount.
This isn’t the most favourable kind of competition to participate in, therefore, if the potential opposition belongs to the populous country in the world, its members, people who may have participated in fan circles, which are essentially fan armies who’ve been used to organising, battling on social media for their idols. I’ve previously set up a hypothetical scenario, in which Dd’s supertopic members were encouraged by their government to scale the Great Firewall to Twitter, spread their support of Xinjiang cotton—a scenario that is not totally unrealistic, given that the Chinese government has previously mobilised fans for propaganda purpose.
We’ll use this thought experiment again ~ please bear in mind, once more, that this is SJD; a figment of our imagination.
Since we’re talking about Li-Ning brand, let’s add Gg’s supertopic members to the mix. The total supertopics member count is 6.11 + 8.34 = 14.45 million, as of today (2021/04/04).
Let’s say, only a tiny, tiny percent—0.01% of them are mobilised; that’s 1,400 people.
Is it possible to cancel the voices, the retweets of 1,400 in Gg and Dd’s i-fandom? Cut down another 90%, reduce the opposition headcount to 140. Is it possible?
There are also overseas Chinese who do not intend to spread propaganda, but believe in the story and have no qualms disseminating the information. There are also fans who wish to remove politics from fandom and pass all information along.
Here lies the frustration of those who’ve tried to raise their voice of concerns re: the policies and practices of the Chinese government on social media; and this is why I mentioned that my background informed my opinion. On social media, where headcount and whoever shouts the loudest, retweet etc the most wins the exposure game, it’s nearly impossible to win against the Chinese Communist Party (CCP)’s propaganda machine, if the party chooses to have the machine running.
Their side has so many people.
One more RL example: here’s a scholarly article detailing how Diba (帝吧), an old, popular online forum in China with 20 million members, mobilised, collectively scaled the Firewall and engaged in a cyberattack of the Facebook page of Taiwanese President Tsai Ing-Wen on January 20, 2016 — the day of President Tsai Ing-wen’s first inauguration; they left a total of 26,000 comments against Taiwan independence, using Simplified Chinese (which China uses) for their font instead of Traditional Chinese (which Taiwan and Hong Kong uses)—ie, the commenters didn’t even pretend to be not from China. They were proud and open about their "Expedition”.
(China’s state-controlled tabloid Global Times—yes, the same one involved in the Hong Kong airport incident above—”concluded the campaign was a “fun normal incident” that showcased young people’s passion for politics”)
Is it possible to try to cancel something of that scale? Is it realistic?
Personally, therefore, I’ve always advocated for “immunisation”: rather than protecting a fact by wiping out its associated lies—the idea behind “cancelling” a message, not having it show up on the dash—I prefer to do so by allowing it to be visibly challenged, until observers are no longer easily swayed by falsehoods. I used Gg and Dd’s Weibo reblog re: Hong Kong police as an example—is the red little box propaganda, a challenge to the protests? Yes. Is it information that I deeply disagree with, something I wish I’ll never see again? Also yes. But by providing context to it, I’m hoping to turn it into a vaccine—something mimicking the virus, the potentially viral piece of information, but doesn’t function the same way anymore.
Hopefully, this vaccine will also encourage stop-and-think moments that boost future immunity; hopefully, with a few more boosters, questions will come automatically with such red little boxes reappear— questions about the context, the purpose, the message.
Questions like these, for this incident: why did the State media make this incident the “Gotcha” moment in the Hong Kong Protests, important enough for People’s Daily to make a rally-starting meme? Why was the reporter, Fu Guohao hailed as a hero, when he’d just got ... beaten up?
What did People’s Daily, and the government behind it, want people to find when the red little box popped up everywhere on Weibo, including the Weibo of the fastest rising stars from the hit summer TV series? What belief could be expected to be instilled into the audience with this photo, published by China’s state TV station (CGTN), of the reporter tied up to a luggage cart and surrounded by black-cladded protestors?
Who looked like the strong, evil side? The meek, good side? Why, finally, was the tag about the Hong Kong Police, when the conflict was between the protestors and an alleged Chinese state media reporter?
By then, Hong Kongers were already suspicious that the Hong Kong Police had been infiltrated by China’s law enforcement arm, from hints from the different dialects the police used, how they handled the protestors etc. It was the start the final break down of Hong Kong’s autonomy. Their suspicions were not wrong. Now, with the National Security Law having taken effect since July 2020, Hong Kong’s transformation into a police state is well under way.
What does the tag #I support Hong Kong Police too# mean now?
[Please excuse my using many examples from HK because 1) I’m familiar with the details; and 2) it’s the only instance in recent history in which the outside world can see, with relative clarity, a large-scale protest against the Chinese government and its outcome.]
Here’s my humble wish: next time, when a government-sponsored memes like this get translated and posted, be it originally reblogged by Gg, Dd, or other c-ent stars, be it on Twitter or Tumblr, the vaccinated, immunised will pause and wonder: What’s the story? What’s being told inside the Great Firewall, and outside?
If this happens, red little boxes on my blog, unpleasant as they are, are 100% worth it.
The Li-Ning ads are therefore worth it too, IMO, if they spark a conversation, a dissemination of facts and perspectives. To me, the latter is especially precious in this fandom, where significant language and cultural barriers exist. Fans who move Gg and Dd’s news and candies from Weibo are the pillars of this fandom. Sieving through that website is hard, translations harder; it’s unfair and unrealistic to ask them to also be the background knowledge deliverers.
I’ve tried to do a small part, but I’m ... slow. Very, very slow. However, even if the background isn’t available, I’ve found being careful, skeptical about the information is already a very good thing. At heart, this is no different from the lessons from media literacy here, except there are even more falsehoods and half-truths to wade through given the country of origin of Gg and Dd’s material, and trustworthy sources are not always available. Li-Ning brand is an example that things do not need to be blatant propaganda to carry a pro-CCP message.
What can i-fans do then about the Xinjiang cotton situation, if competing against the Chinese government propaganda machine on social media appears to be a losing game?
My thoughts are these, at the moment. First, please consider not dwelling on the competition, especially within fandom. Remember: getting several fewer fans to buy Li-Ning brand isn’t going to change the big picture.
Instead, if this is an area of activism you choose to participate in—please consider channeling your effort to watching the companies in your country. Put pressure on sustainability & good practice certification companies like Better Cotton Initiative, make sure they don’t, can’t have it both ways. Xinjiang cotton is either certified or it isn’t. There’re suspicions of forced labor on its production or there aren’t. The answer should be a simple yes or no, not whether the office is in Geneva or in Shanghai.
This is an answer that we, as consumers, have the right to know. Transparency in China isn’t for us to demand; we can, however, demand transparency in our own country. Remember too: it makes a far, far greater difference for one international company to re-consider its cotton source, than for one fandom to do the same.
Meanwhile, and again, this is my humble opinion—please do whatever you’re comfortable with, that is within your ability, to fortify your stance. Should you choose to speak out online, you’ll likely meet opposition. Responses on current events from the Chinese Foreign Ministry (you can also find the spokespeople on Twitter) can offer a glimpse of the counterarguments you may meet. How will you answer them? Here’s a clip of one of the spokespeople arguing that the US used to use black slavery to pick cotton in the past. If you’re American and this is presented to you—what would you say? (Does mistakes by one country in the past mean mistakes by another country in the present is automatically acceptable?) The opposition may also use vicious words, the most extreme of which is probably “racist”. If someone call you racist—if many Twitter users scream racist!!!!!!!! at you at the same time for your critique—can you stand firm?
[The pro-CCP camp has been taking advantage of the West’s effort to move forward from its racist past to stop any criticism of the Chinese government. It already knows the easiest way to silence the criticisms is to call whoever makes them racist.]
[If everyone fears the racist allegation, allows the conflation of Chinese government and Chinese people to take root, will there be more or less anti-Asian sentiments in the long run?]
[I’ve been called racist by writing these metas.]
The last thing I’d like to say is this: please be kind to your fellow fans who’ve kept mum, or been hesitant about making their stance known. Some may be closely connected to China, others may not be in a psychological / health space to deal with the politics. Also, and here’s my default way of looking at this: I disagree with the idea that anyone owes anyone else a declaration of their political beliefs. I can’t imagine this issue to be an easy thing to think about for many Gg and Dd fans, myself most definitely included ~ as a (former) Hong Konger, a uniformed Gg or Dd gives me an unpleasant visceral response, but at the same time, it also means I’m used to accepting, even genuinely liking people on the other side of this political ... Grand Canyon. I can imagine the conflict, the pain this issue may have caused some fans who’re not accustomed to the latter, as being a fan, IMO, is never purely logical ~ and I mean that in the best of ways.
Passion is the magic ingredient that separates a fan and a consumer. It’s also what makes choices difficult, when conclusions from logic, political stance included, conflict with it. Some make the hard choices quickly; some, slowly. Some make them in one go; some, piece by piece. Some never make them, let time be the decision maker.
As Dd said so famously and wisely, about the conflict between passion and logic:
愛就是這樣，沒有辦法
Love is like that. Nothing can be done.
The only common denominator is this: we’re all made to love.
❤️.💛.💚.
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sugar | s.j ❀
━ listen to: sugar by brockhampton
❀ johnny suh x fem!reader
❀ genre - smut, angst, fluff?
❀ details - fwb!au, kinda unrequited love? who knows lol, sweet love makin
❀ word count - 2k
❀ synopsis - he’s always a call away, ready to love you when you think no one else will. and this will be the one time you ask him to spend the night because johnny suh is the only sweetener you need in your bitterness.
❀ a/n: hello its author doie❀! its based off of the song sugar which is one of my favs ever so i hope u enjoy this smut, rlly this was just me avoiding explicit words lol ps i have never laughed harder in my life when @legendnct (ily hannah) asked me if i was J O R N Y when i told her i was writing this at 4am
The honey dripping, rush of candy goodness, and sugar high of a man --- Johnny Suh. He’s like walking on sunshine, no other cares in the world can harm him, and with a bright happiness that promises anything worth fighting for.
He stands six feet tall of sunflowers that turn up to the clear blue skies and soak up the positive energy needed for growth. Johnny Suh, the man that has sugar addicts craving for a slice of his attention; Johnny Suh is the epitome of goodness and virtue.
And the puzzling, estranged question of why you are his subject of sweetness is beyond any galaxy and he’d never tell a soul his reason behind his many dazed gazes, or if they even had much meaning to them. Johnny Suh is the one boy that wears his heart on his sleeve, but holds your’s at his fingertips.
There have been many countless encounters of long and, some unfortunately short, nights of sleeping with bodies that only add to the list of people you’ve kissed. But to have consistency in that aspect? Quite hesitant, to say the least.
While you are able to tolerate a random one night stand with no necessary remembrance of the individual’s name, to give your vulnerability and consistent attention to one person is asking for too much. A flawed characteristic of yours is falling in love too easily.
The hookups are meaningless, quick fucks to fill the evening and rid the irritable desire of lust. The muscles involved exclude the heart because there is no opportunity to fall for someone if you are only going to part ways right afterwards.
Yet, the one remarkable night with Johnny turned into several nights which led into your current relationship with the glowing sun. The one thing you had wished to steer away from --- a friend with benefits.
There was no metaphorical gun to your head, you weren’t forced to sign a contract, there were no ridiculously restrictive rules. No boundaries to hold you back.
When there is no fencing around the edge of a cliff, is that grounds for people to free fall? Regardless, your lack of self control and demising loneliness had you jumping and falling into Johnny’s comfort. The golden boy is someone hard to come by, and you’re not foolish enough to turn down this once in a lifetime chance to be intimately acquainted.
But as you continued to see him, there was an unconscious decision to stop your other random flings. It felt like you already had someone to fulfill the ache, someone to spend your nights with. If you needed him, he’d be there. So, unknowingly by choice, you made yourself exclusive to him, even though Johnny did not decide to do the same.
That shouldn’t bother you, right? But it does. The worst part is that it’s no one’s fault but your own. Johnny’s harmless actions affect you because your feelings allow them to. As much as you ignore the fact you two are nothing more than friends with benefits, the annoying drumming of your foolish heart reminds you of your denial.
While you’ve always had a bitter palette, the dash of sweetener never hurt anyone. He never hurts anyone, with his best efforts. And the intent should have been made clear, that your nightly hookups are an unhealthy coping mechanism. Too much sugar has your glucose levels derailing and seeking out the one person that lights up your endorphins.
The love for Johnny stems from his warmhearted character. His bubbly, goodwill nature that has him overextending himself for people who take him for granted. An extroverted, head-turning personality that you can’t despise and look away, instead are easily attracted to.
Johnny is kind, he’s thoughtful, yet entirely complex as a human being with a fair share of cloudy days. He is simply someone you want to get to know because he makes the atmosphere a safe space and he reads like an open hardback book.
Everyone has a small crush on him, it would be a complete tyranny of your feelings to deny it. Some infatuations are bigger than others and you’ll shamefully admit that you fit under this group of individuals.
On another lonely night, you wonder if he’d be at your will and call, if he would drop the world to come make you feel better. One moment, you are staring at his contact name and imaging the deep voice answering with his signature greeting. The next, you’re actually hearing his voice on the other end of the receiver and panic settles as it’s too late to cancel the call.
“Hey baby, what’s up?” The nickname sends a crown of hearts swirling around your temples. However, he sounds rushed, like he had been in the middle of a strenuous activity.
A nervousness has stammered words falling from your lips, and you’re too incoherent for even your own mind to understand. Johnny chuckles lovingly, and the slight rustling that distorts the background has you imagining that the phone is pressed between his cheek and shoulder. “Collect your thoughts, babe. I’m ready whenever you are.”
A heavy notable sigh erupts into Johnny’s ear, but he doesn’t pull away from the device. He’s all ears, attentive and patiently waiting for you to speak, despite having company on his bed.
“I need you. Can you come over?” If only pride wasn’t so hard to swallow, the question would have flowed much smoother. As if your heart grew hands, it chokes your throat from the inside and you’re preparing yourself for the rejection.
Truthfully, he isn’t obligated to come and there have been rare nights where he declines your offer. But your hope holds onto the slipping strands and the tension of your nerves have fists forming and eyes squeeze shut.
Johnny takes a fast peek at the girl already in his sheets, mindlessly and effortlessly scrolling through her social media. There is a hint of sadness in your voice that he can’t let go and while that’s usually not entirely uncommon, he can tell it took a lot for you to call tonight. So, he finds himself pulling up his sweats and a clean shirt over his head.
“Be there before you know it.” And the clench in your throat relaxes, along with the other parts that had your nails digging moon crescents into your palm and wrinkles forming at your tight creases.
And with a sweet goodbye, he hangs up the call and politely offers to take the girl home as he makes his way over to your place. And you’re dosing yourself in puffs of fruity scents and cleaning up the runny mascara around your under eyes.
With no words exchanged, Johnny knows every way to heal you and dawn a warmth that coats your darkest corners. All you have to do is open the door and let him in. His strength has you lifted from the ground, lips hungry to devour your softness.
A few fumble steps, he reaches your room at ease and gently lays you on your neatly made sheets. Johnny is consistent, no missed beats when it comes to loving you, and without a fail, he always takes a moment to himself to step back and admire your beauty. And your priceless shyness is also an added delight to the scene.
Each article of clothing is discarded and left at different areas of your small room, kisses lining your worst parts to you, but the best parts to him. When you can’t love parts of yourself, Johnny loves them for you and makes you whole.
“Were you in the middle of something?” It did not become aware to you of the possibility that you had interrupted something else, or someone else. And even if Johnny did choose to see you over spending time with them, you have the decent courtesy to make sure he is okay with his decision.
“Nothing important.” You’ll never be able to read him or notice any lies he tells. His smile is enough reassurance, and your question is quickly forgotten when his fingers dive into your wet flower. He uses his thumb to soothe circles around your growing bud, making your whole lower half blossom with trembling ecstasy.
His lips leave soft reminders to love your thighs, your legs, to not overlook their importance: they carry your graciousness into new ventures. Then, he pushes them wide open as he bends your left knee and your right dangles over his sturdy shoulder. The tight grip on your hip is bound to leave marks the next morning, along with the dark love bites he leaves across your canvas.
But his thoughts are focused on the meal ahead, your sugary juices coat the plush of his tongue. He remembers exactly how you like it, where melodic sounds hit the silence in gasps or groans. He suckles, he licks, he kisses your bead in a speed that has his brown locks tangled in between your fingers.
He drinks up more than your wetness, but also the pure image of your fucked out expression and the twists of your reacting body. He wants to surpass your limits, max you out until there isn’t a hint of melancholy in your tone anymore. To remember, to remind, to recall your happiness through heightened pleasure.
At the announcement of your high, he enters your spasming hole with rubber already on and groans at your walls squeezing around him, which halts him in place. However, the dragged movement of his length hits your sweet spot, your orgasm prolongs into a rapturous euphoria and you’re no longer in control of your body.
Johnny’s toned arms hold you close to him. The chemistry in your gazes has your heart pounding faster than his hips. As ruthless as each thrust is and each push moves you an inch upward on the bed, Johnny’s eyes are still kind and loving.
His fluttering kisses are delicate and nurturing. The marks resemble a healing touch that will settle you enough for the next day. For the night, he rids any angst that corrupts your mood by loving you when you think no one else will.
Together, your bodies fall into one another with a bite of elation as he finishes into the protection and your walls hug around him for the last time tonight. Even when your bodies disconnect, the feeling of fullness lingers and you wish to keep this for as long as you can. No more emptiness, not right now.
Perhaps it's the daze of your orgasm, but your hand reaches for his wrist to stop him from making his exit so soon. Selfishly, carelessly, honestly, this will be the one time you ask for him to spend the night. You can’t stand seeing him go, not at this instant. You refuse to spend one more night alone when your heart longs for him to be by your side when you fall asleep.
While the big heart of his beats speechlessly at your request, he lays down to draw you into his toned chest and pampers your forehead with honeyed pecks. Like many times before, no words need to be exchanged for him to know the remedy to your somber.
Possibly, the scene with Johnny caressing your chin and tracing your smile lines is all too perfect for your imperfect reality. And him whispering and wishing a happier narrative for you is more than what you had asked for. Nonetheless, he’s very good at it, mentally noting the fact that he’s probably done the same to other hookups or broken friends.
While you can get used to this form of aftercare, the guards you put up tell you that this is a one time thing. So, you’ll take and indulge all of Johnny’s affection and false love for the next few hours you had left of the night.
Nevertheless, even sweetness can be an overpowering flavor when consumed in tremendous amounts. And you wonder when you’d grow sick of his candied sugar or if you’d just forfeit your health to keep indulging more into your addiction. A sickly saccharine question of your own will be the pit of your downfall: do you love me?
#nct scenarios#nct smut#nct#johnny suh#suh johnny#johnny scenarios#johnny suh x reader#johnny smut#nct 127#nct 127 smut#nct angst#nct fluff#nct imagines#nct 127 scenarios#johnny suh scenarios#nct 127 imagines#nct johnny#johnny suh smut#nct 127 johnny#nct dream#wayv#nct-writers
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I love your art, it is very detailed in a neat way. Was wondering how you got started making it as a source of income? How did you get your first paid work, I'd love some advice on how to get started, if that's ok
Thank you. Of course it's okay, although I doubt I have enough work experience in art to really delve into this. I only went full freelance this year, and had been juggling art as a side hobby until then. If you're still interested in my somewhat narrow perspective, and are okay with my long-winded rambles, I'll give it a shot:
So to answer your question fully, I'll describe how I started and move into personal advice and learnings later on. As a disclaimer, I am a white cishet dude in my late twenties with a moderate cocktail of mental illnesses, but overall I can pass for a functioning adult so a lot I have to say may come laced with privilege I cannot fully identify.
So uhh I began drawing in around 2012? I think? Maybe halfway through 2011? And I mostly made fanart for things I enjoyed and tried to branch out in communities that felt nourishing to my style and interests (I caught a bug for alt posters and enjoyed mainstream movies so I spent a long time on posterspy early on). There were a handful of opportunities that came from there but I could only accept a couple because of primary workplace commitments. Still, it showed that networking in a focused community was definitely a good place to start; I myself have huge trouble committing to social networks and really staying socially active, but I knew it was an essential ingredient in succeeding so I tried to make myself be involved in challenges and art support trains etc. as much as I could.
In parallel to all that I also ran a few third party online stores (redbubble, teepublic) for disposable income and would sometimes, if rarely, hit around $100-150 a month from those sources combined. It is a sort of thing that requires helper accounts on other social media sites to promote it on, because the stores themselves have a huge volume of content that translates into low organic discoverability. Obviously it was never gonna be the way towards financial independence through art, and with community projects being few and far between, I opened private commissions in around uhhh 2017 I think, focusing on offering a few styles I knew I could do well, and sometimes operating in individual fandoms (it was mostly a bioware thing to be frank). But I had to close them back down after a year or so, again because of work-life conflict and how badly it was burning me out. The reason I kept trying to monetize this hobby is because I honestly hated what I did for my main job and wanted to see a way out in some shape or form in the future.
And then in 2020 I had to quit my main job altogether because of *gestures at pandemic* and deal with a mental breakdown from all the wonderful things it did to us and me specifically. I took a short break and decided to give art a shot full-time, and that was around May this year. I was planning on opening up commissions again (and I still am), but a few sudden opportunities that fell in my lap moved that timetable down and now I'm grateful to even be doing something I am getting adequately paid for.
So, with that somewhat limited perspective, here's what I've learned that I'd tell myself if I was just starting out:
1. Being a fan of something can be a shortcut towards effective networking kickoffs. Which are important evidently. If you love something and enjoy making content for it, join communities, settle into a combination of social media websites that feel right for those interests + your body of work + your inner rhythm, and try to play to content discovery as much as your mental health allows you to. Like I said, I know that I myself am incredibly bad at self-motivating to talk to people, so I found that synergizing common interests into fanart - which I enjoyed making anyway - could be a way to give myself a gentle nudge forward and build those bridges leading to community activities, which then net experience and coverage. Sometimes even freelance projects from official avenues. Again; picking the right spaces for what you're after is key. Companies roam twitter, concept art recruiters scour artstation or linkedin etc, instagram can land you private commissions and collab opportunities, so on and so forth. Find your niche and try to kick up dust. However...
2. I do not believe that any social profile can replace a good portfolio. The thing that made an immediate difference to me this year was building a coherent, simple website with my best work front and center and a contact form on top. Every single opportunity I got came from that form (maybe via twitter or instagram initially, but always sealing the decision after going through the website), so I firmly believe that showcasing your skills and portfolio in a visually arresting and user-friendly way is a big priority. I had some reservations about tackling that task but fortunately I had help from a savvy life partner and we slapped it together via wordpress in less than a day. Twitter/whatever social media is prevalent in your target groups is definitely important to get the right eyes on your shit, yes, but those eyes will then look for a second stop where your work and rates are more clear and concise. Simplicity is key imo, I cannot overstate this. So make a cute, simple portfolio!
3. Your skills and rates will grow and change as you do. Let them. Over the years I built several lasting professional relationships from my obsession over mass effect and kept getting opportunities both from bioware and their partner companies, some small and some a bit bigger. A one-off job earlier this year opened an unexpected door to another much larger commitment, and then the work I did there brought some attention from small businesses looking for commercial commissions. These were all incredibly different projects in terms of scope and budget, and I've been tackling them all on a case-by-case basis and slowly coming into my own irt my needs, rates, and SOW thresholds. It is still a work in progress (and a LOT of literal work as well), and very much a thing I struggle with in publicly marketing, which is why I felt a tad underqualified to answer your question in the first place (obviously I did not let that stop me). But what it means for me now is that I am rapidly developing into whatever my "version" of a functioning freelance artist is, and when the conditions for that guy are met, I need to be able to confidently plant myself and operate from that space despite past precedents. Do not let anyone bully you into downpricing what you yourself perceive as legitimate products of personal growth and development. Speaking of which...
4. The shitty challenge of turning envy into inspiration, and paddling outside your comfort zones in full riot gear. it is hard, but realizing that being a miserable, self-hating artist in my early days got me nothing but more misery back was the first real step I took and what truly blew the hinges off. I was just not pleasant to be around, I would badmouth my work all the time, and it all somehow made sense in my broken mind because the validation I sought was purely external and the way I sought it was through eliciting sympathy via self-victimization (even when I made something objectively nice). It all led fucking nowhere. Except perhaps to my own narcissism that I one day managed to identify and start managing. So I started looking at things that made me seethe with envy and calmly deconstruct and figure out their inner workings instead, do studies, and find nuggets of inspiration or discover new ways to approach rendering or building up specific elements. It was an application of analytical diligence to what I wanted to be a purely emotional, esoteric workflow, but that I deep down knew wasn't. Art is a discipline and a skill, and maybe it isn't a straight line, but you gotta find some line to thread nevertheless. Being self-hating was almost an identity I had to break out of, and despite it still being like, 4-5% there? I realize its cause and effect on me, my work, and those around me, so it is with a conscious choice that I gently set it aside when I work and especially when I learn. It won't always stay quiet, but the effort is the difference. Your doors towards accepting true growth and venturing into uncharted territories, art styles, and networking will really open from there. But there's a huge caveat...
5. Toolsets, accessibility, privilege, and all the good things that enable artistic expression and profitability are not given equal to all. you might do all the mental work I mentioned to be ready to rock and roll and learn and draw your way out of anything, but digital art is a fucking money pit that asks almost too much at times. I don't got a good case study here but identifying and ensuring accessibility to the tools you need to do your best work is, like, super important. The ergonomics can improve as you make money and settle into the job, but the basics have to be made available to you. And some of that might not even be under your direct control. That can be anything from pen tablets to software subscriptions to opportunities in hiring sullied by sexism or what have you. You gotta navigate all that through careful networking and money/time management. I don't do a good job of devoting specific slices of time to work/study, and my primary clutch is iPad software which went from a good deal to a nightmare scenario over the years. So all I can say here is do what I didn't; network, invest in a PC/tablet, and pick a software you'll learn that won't burn a hole in your pocket.
6. Be nice to work with? This one is hard to articulate and has landed my own ass in hot water in my early years because of how socially inept I am, but nothing is more worthwhile than being.. like. a good person to work with. That can be anything like meeting deadlines, or sometimes missing them but eloquently articulating why, being generous in early stages, being communicable and not too wordy in your emails, having a good grasp on abstract artistic concepts and how to describe them in simple terms, having a clear, laid out framework of your working rates in commercial and non-commercial projects and sticking to those guns with grace, understanding when you need to say no and saying it well, the works. Just being nice. Sometimes that might mean going headstrong with something you believe in, or simmering down and sucking up to the big man, all relative and adaptive. Part and parcel of the service provision dance that we all have to do in order to make bank. Know your lines here, obviously, and don't like. work for nazis. or uh.. *shudders* exposure. but be nice and empathetic and communicable and word will travel eventually. Skill may be in abundance these days, but good people are most certainly not, and capitalism has a way of bubbling up scarcity. Grim, but uh, them's the breaks.
I know I'm ultimately telling you to like. Have a body of work, make a portfolio, grow, and network. But that's really how I see it for now. And being nice can be a cherry on top that sets you apart, along with the inherent irreplaceable voice of your artwork. I think I rambled on enough, but if there is something specific you need my help with, even if you want to come off anon and talk in private, please feel free.
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May I please request Headcanons for Kuroo, Kageyama, Futakuchi, Bokuto, Ushijima, and Iwaizumi where they broke up with their girlfriends to focus on volleyball but they get jealous when they see other people trying to flirt with her? I’m not sure if you have a character limit but if you do then just do whichever ones you want and sorry I don’t mean to over whelm you I just love everything you write!
My limit is 6 characters so you’re good! Thank you I appreciate you!
I love Ushijima oml
Kuroo :
- Whether it’s real life or on social media that he notices someone else catching your attention - he does a bit of stalking. He wants to know who it is and what’s you status with them.
- It greatly pisses him off, but he’s well aware he has no right to be mad because he’s the one who broke up with you. He thought he’d be alright breaking it off and he was, for about a week. He still greeted you when he saw you after the whole thing but he accepted it when you ignored him.
- Turns out you’re doing much better than he is. Kuroo keeps himself distracted from it all with volleyball and the company of his friends but he begins thinking about you more often. He’s feeling guilty and regretting his decision. He thinks about texting you and he’s conflicted about it.
Kageyama :
- He doesn’t realise at first the dumbassery of it. He got attached to you and he let his mind wander somewhere else like Mars or some shit. He immediately notices someone else trying to get your attention and it almost makes him want to puke. His stomach drops and his heart beats so fast. He’s not sure if he ever made you laugh that hard.
- When you catch him staring, he quickly looks away and tries to look like he doesn’t care but his face has anger engraved on every feature. He’s jealous but he won’t admit it. He misses you and he beats himself up for breaking up with you. He’s angry at how much it affects him.
- He purposely brushes his arm against yours if you’re anywhere near him and he’s going to pretend like it didn’t happen. But he hopes that you’ll magically jump into his arms and tell him you’d like to make it work with another chance. But that won’t happen. He’d have to fight harder.
Futakuchi :
- He has this mindset where he’s like “Pfft I’ll be better without it anyways.” He’s certain he’s okay and it’s a good idea. He tries to excuse his mistake for it to look better. All of his teammates can tell he’s secretly going through it but he’ll smile through tears in his eyes.
- Truth is : When Futakuchi first saw you after the break up, he turned the other way after staring at you with the most saddest expression on his face. His voice cracked but he acted like it was all okay. But when he saw or heard someone else planning to confess to you or just flirt, he almost flipped. It put him in a shitty mood for the longest time.
- He says you won’t find anyone better than him, but he knows you can easily replace him with someone who will give you all their time - unlike him. He lowkey tries to make a conversation with you, but he feels awkward and he’s sick in his stomach as anxiety takes over him. He doesn’t feel so confident anymore. He wants to get back with you and he slowly, over time tries to build your trust again.
Bokuto :
- He didn’t really want to break up with you but the time between the two of you was so limited he actually considered you’d be happier without him. He was in a bad mood for a long time but he told you he would still do anything for you. His respect and love never changes, he smiles at you even when you’re not happy with him.
- Bokuto sees you with someone and pauses. His eyes widen and he just wants to disappear. Immediate regret because he knew what he was going to miss from the very start. He asks Akaashi why he did that stupid shit again and he receives his answer very honestly and bluntly. He feels like an absolute idiot and he wants to fix it somehow.
- Somehow he tries to catch your attention but he decides best thing to do is ask to talk. He wants you to know he’s a dumbass for that and he’d like to try again but it’s a hard emotional thing so it’s up to you how the story continues or ends.
Ushijima :
- I refuse to believe he’s that dense sorry but no. Unfortunately he puts volleyball above anything else so it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone if he chooses volleyball over a person. But damn, you’re all he thinks about. He picks up his phone if by any chance you texted him, but no he just sees you’ve opened his message weeks ago when you were still dating.
- He lives through it and accepts it. But the wounds are still fresh and it affects him more through more time that passes. God when he sees you with someone, it crushes his heart that even something on his usually stoic facial expression shows pain.
- Ushijima was never confident as a boyfriend and he learned so much about it by being with you. But when he encounters you smiling with another guy, it hurts him and he uncomfortably rubs his chest where his heart settles. He noticed that guy always had a thing for you but you never realised because your eyes were always set on Ushi. He doesn’t do anything about it, he thinks you deserve better. He rarely had time for you.
Iwaizumi :
- Nobody expected the break up to happen but it’s something he’s been fighting back and forth. It’s not what he wanted but he felt it was the right thing to do at the time. Both of you were such a power couple that it hurt other people around you. He still promised to be there for you.
- Iwaizumi accepted the fact you’d probably want to avoid him, even for a while or for good. He’s not taking it with ease - the whole break up thing but he does his best to stay positive about it. Fuck though, it breaks him into the smallest pieces when he sees you with someone else. He hopes you didn’t move on that fast but no… You’re not like that. Plus you deserve happiness.
- He just convinces himself you moved on and you’re happier. He really doesn’t take Oikawa’s shit for a while though and the captain actually understands he’s going through it and doesn’t hesitate to be a supportive friend instead. He keeps a close watch on you and that other person though. He can see the flirting and it pains him but he won’t do anything about it. Iwa will probably ask people about the guy on the lowkey so he can find out some information.
#Kuroo Tetsurou#Ushijima Wakatoshi#Iwaizumi Hajime#Bokuto Koutarou#kageyama tobio#Futakuchi Kenji#haikyuu#kuroo x reader#ushijima x reader#iwaizumi x reader#bokuto x reader#kageyama x reader
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I am under the impression since it’s the first time in Korean music history let alone Kpop that a Korean act ( in this case BTS ) have received global recognition and not only that but have won awards originally created for American artists competing in the biggest music industry in the world ,they have felt the pressure to go far and beyond and receive every award possible a music artist can, it’s the reason why it keeps on bothering them so much. It’s almost like they don’t want to leave room for the next Korean artist to achieve what they were unable to.
I feel like globally every decade there is a boy group that gets this massive fame. Before them was One direction, now it’s them however for a Korean artist to do this again let me tell you it’s not going to be happening every decade, so their position is very special. Whether they win a Grammy or not it doesn’t matter, they have achieved so much and the bar has been raised so high that in the years to come winning at MAMA is not going to do it, which I remember back in 2015 for example, was the ultimate award for a Korean group.
Once they started coming into the global scene in 2017 where they attended their first billboard, people and Koreans where so fast to forget both Big Bang and Exo which had already received career milestones. This is the same exact reason why people like Stray kids and Ateez while they have the quality in terms of just simple timing they are in a very unfortunate position. Especially Ateez, the story of a group from a small company archiving what others were able only to dream of its not going to happen, it’s too similar to BTS ‘s story, so yeah just by simple timing and framework they are I am sorry to say, very much a case of right people wrong timing.
What I feel hopeful for is that in the decades to come the next act to even come close to be compared to them it going to have to just not even get their minds around achieving what BTS has. Since it’s already been done, what I hope for is that they won’t feel the pressure of being the first and instead this time around do what BTS was unable to,not in case of awards but rather in case of staying true and authentic to who they are. This is going to be the biggest challenge, realising that it won’t matter what BTS has achieved because what they are going to be aiming for is generations of good music!
Sorry for my mumbling, I think I really had to get this out there for whoever needed to see it. I would love to hear your feedback and insight. Thanks!
Let's be clear, I was around before Kpop was popular in the US, that was 2010. So I’ve actually seen the beginning of global recognition and popularity of Kpop.
First Rain led the way and Big Bang followed after that. Actually the first group to receive huge global recognition was Big Bang. Because they were the first to utilize social media to bring attention to kpop. A move that BTS took and ran with to get their global recognition. Those are straight facts. I sat there and watched it with my own eyes.
Big Bang could have competed against bigger artists and in some ways they actually were. And it was new to everyone that they didn’t know how to utilize it like BTS. Big Bang did go far and beyond anything an average kpop group has done in that time period.
So no, BTS is not the first Korean act to receive global recognition. I don’t know where yall fans are getting this from. It’s not facts.
Sorry every boy group does not get massive fame. Kpop is a machine pumping out new groups every month and a lot of these groups fall through the cracks and barely get to the top. Groups that get massive fame are rare and far and few between and you never know who is going to make it big. So you can’t say oh it's this decade or its this timing. No one knows when one group is going to pop and make it big.
BTS 'position I’m sorry to tell you is not special, it's just that they made certain decisions to go and pursue certain things that haven't been taken on before in Kpop. Just like social media wasn’t taken on in Kpop before but Big Bang decided to. It’s as simple as that.
My problem with your statement about the Grammy and the Western music industry is. It sounds like you're upholding White western Grammy higher than their own Asian music industry awards. Again the whole reason why Asain music industry was even created because the west wouldn’t validate music from other minorities. So the Asain’s said okay we are going to create our own. And if you think a MAMA is less valuable to them than a Grammy then you're mistaken. Because that comes from their own people and home.
Looking back Big Bang could have gone that route but I’m glad they didn’t. Because honestly looking at how the West looks at them and disrespects BTS. And play in they face with this stupid award that a lot of minorities protest each year. It doesn’t even seem worth it to me in the end. And the Grammy’s is losing its prestige anyway. So.. I’m glad Big Bang stirred away from that and just stayed true and stayed in their own lane. Because now they are still the most respected group in Kpop to this day.
All I have to say is this about Ateez and Stray kids. There was a time when we thought no one could knock Big Bang off or reach their level they dominated Kpop. Then guess who came along. BTS. So never underestimate who can be the next big thing. I’m telling you all these groups have to rise and fall one day and when they do. Another hungry group is going right behind them. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And it will happen again. If you like it or not. BTS needs to be careful how they move because people are going to forget all their achievements just like everyone has done with Big Bang.
So I don’t feel decades will come to the next act. That’s wishful thinking to me. With social media and now so much attention on Kpop. The next can come at any time. The next act will come and achieve more or press for more than what BTS has done. Just like how BTS studied the Big Bang play book. Someone is studying a BTS play book. There is not just one path, there are many roads a lot of Kpop groups can pave and open up other opportunities that BTS hasn’t even touched.
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I just saw a photo of "What persona. Dick Grayson isn't a mask. Not like Bruce Wayne is" from Detective Comics #725 and I find it interesting that Dick and the rest of the bats, with the exception of Bruce, don't wear "masks" per se. They are who they are with or without the domino mask/helmet. The only time I can really think of Dick faking things is when he pretended to be an incompetent BPD cop. How was he able to avoid creating and living, half the time, through a "persona" like "Brucie"?
Oooh, this is a lovely, meaty question. There’s a lot more analysis of Bruce than I planned because let’s be real, it’s kinda weirder for a guy to run around with half a dozen personas than for someone else to run around as himself. I hope you still find it interesting, but if you want to skip straight to the more Dick-centric stuff, head under the readmore.
A simple but significant factor is that Dick thrives on the company of people in a way that Bruce does not. I suspect if you talk honestly to many introverts, you will find they too have an extroverted ‘mask’ they put on to the larger world, though probably not quite so extreme.
Another factor is that the civilian social circles Dick and Bruce travel in are vastly different. Though they each have a reason for being in those circles, that difference itself enables Dick to escape much of the scrutiny that Bruce’s public identity undergoes, because he doesn’t frequently associate with the much more media-hounded elite.
An interesting thing here is that the large difference in social circles between their civilian lives is actually caused by their own personal similarities: they are 100% committed work-a-holics. It’s just that they have differing civilian approaches to their goals.
I want to start with Bruce because as you point out, his use of persona is distinct among the bats and his reasons for using them in part explain why Dick and the other bats do not.
Bruce is a child of privilege, he has always lived a lifestyle of privilege, regardless of the tragedies that have occurred during it, and his default view of the world, through no fault of his own, is natively that of the extreme upper class. This drastically influences his perspective and approach to change, and changing the world is his perpetual goal, the reason he put on the suit in the first place.
Bruce works a top-down society approach toward systemic change, and he works it all the time. This is actually my favorite but woefully under-emphasized part of him: he is not just someone who punches people on the street ‘for justice’, he uses his company, his money, and his social position toward substantial systemic change. This post does a wonderful job covering the ways he does this through his corporations and personal wealth, as does this one. I cannot recommend either enough because I constantly want to push even the most casual Batman fans to understand: Bruce Wayne is not just a violent punchy puncher man. He is a traumatized person genuinely trying to use all his resources including himself to make the world safer.
Detective Comics #725
Bruce has many personas he maintains, and he uses all of them according to what suits his need--Batman for places the law can’t go, Bruce Wayne the CEO pushing for systemic changes, Matches Malone for street information, and Brucie the society high roller for society information and social influencing. He is rarely ever not in a persona and simply ‘Bruce’.
His top-down perspective of enacting change are what dictated the usage and necessity of these personas. He has the means and capacity to basically disappear from society if he so chose--he in fact does so to train during his younger years so successfully they don’t even know how long he was actually gone.
The Batman Files
So he doesn’t need the personas. Not Bruce Wayne, CEO, or Brucie, or any of them really, to protect his identity. That tells us that Brucie is a deliberate choice he made at some point. He could have been a recluse billionaire Batman indefinitely. Even though he fully has the status and means to not maintain a job or a persona or, let’s be frank, a life outside the mask at all, it’s his own work-a-holicness that led to the creation of his public personas. He’s an obsessive strategist, so if Brucie is a choice, that leads us to why?
Bruce does many philanthropic things with his money, but he isn’t the only rich person around, especially not in a city as old and corrupt as Gotham. But he’s one of the very few ones doing good with it.
The comic you mentioned has a very beautiful moment where Bruce touches on that, and in full context you can feel how consumed he is by this goal of creating the Gotham his parents would have wanted. Batman mentions he never sees himself in that place, and the morbid interpretation is that the city kills him before he reaches it, but the hopeful interpretation is that in that shining city, Bruce Wayne and Batman and Brucie and all his masks will no longer be needed.
Detective Comics #725
Back in the old days they’d call it noblesse oblige: the inferred responsibility of privileged people to act with generosity and nobility toward those less privileged. Thomas and Martha Wayne ingrained this feeling of responsibility into Bruce by example, and as all things related to them, he obsesses over it. It urges him to fulfill expectations within segments of society he finds onorous for the betterment of society as a whole in order to carry out their unfinished works.
Enter Brucie.
Brucie serves a two-fold purpose. Since Bruce has chosen to maintain personas among society, it becomes a false face to justify any oddities Batman might bring into the life of Bruce Wayne by setting himself up as a eccentric, popular social scion. But that persona itself also allows him to manipulate the upper crust of society.
I have some insider perspective on the kind of society events Brucie attends. They’re all about the who’s who of making connections, name-dropping and networking, and unspoken class-based elitism. Charity events among the upper class have these things at the forefront and the cause is the background. You don’t get your hands dirty, you don’t go out and make change yourself, you pay money to be socially seen and sometimes it happens to go towards a philanthropic cause. If you want to raise money from the rich and keep people with deep pockets coming in the door, you have to have social currency yourself. This is where, and why, Brucie comes in. I believe Brucie ws crafted to maintain Batman’s cover but still attempt to carry on his parents’ legacy to grease the wheels of the rich in the directions he chooses: one of generosity towards those less privileged.
Superman/Batman #51
The inevitable flaw of Bruce’s approach to his personas and their philanthropy is that in a city rife with corruption, money distributed from the top has many opportunities to disappear well before it reaches the bottom. As in many of ways they are complements to each other, Dick’s approach balances that out, because his approach to helping his fellow man starts out at the street level...literally.
Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)
Dick, we know, does not come from privilege. His mother was from a middle class family before she joined the circus, and despite being world famous athletes, most circus workers are lower to middle class. The people he grew up with, was comfortable with, were all working folk who expected everyone to pull their weight right alongside each other. He enacts this everyone-together approach in almost all aspects and phases of his life.
Batman #615
Even once he had settled into being Robin and adapted to living at the manor, he didn’t feel belonging to a culture of privilege, materialism, or high society. He preferred shotgun in the limo to chat with the driver to riding fancy in the back. Once he was able to start making his own decisions about where and how he lived, despite having both Bruce’s money and then later inheriting a substantial amount of his own, he chose mostly lower-class communal places.
Batman Black and White #6
Dick also doesn’t see the value of throwing money at a problem when there is an option to fix it with his own hands. We see this frequently, from building his own car instead of buying a finished one or outsourcing the work, to deciding the best way to clean out the BPD was to start at the bottom and work his way up (literally), to quitting college because his classes never got prioritized over crimesolving. Most of his day jobs ended for similar reasons.
Nightwing #153 (Nightwing: The Great Leap)
Despite the showmanship training, he gravitates away from spotlight on the rich and wealthy, who are notoriously the kind of people who do not get their hands dirty or go out and take care of things themselves, and prefers to find or build communities around the kind of people who do.
Finally, Dick is an extrovert. He doesn’t need to act extroverted as Brucie does because he is extroverted. He likes people and likes being around people. Whether by conscious choice or not, he tends to put himself in situations where he is surrounded by people in nearly all aspects of his life. He chooses apartment buildings whose occupants frequently pass each other on the stairs; jobs that involve interacting with many co-workers, patrons, or students; and collects superhero teammates like Boy Scout badges. And all of these behaviors come very naturally to him.
He doesn’t need a mask or a role or a persona for those kind of interactions; his mask is pre-supplied as “neighbor” or “co-worker” or “teacher” by the situations he puts himself in. It helps make him an exemplary leader, because just by acting authentically to himself, he automatically builds up little communities around him any time he arrives somewhere.
Bruce, on the other hand, is an introvert. For him, interacting with people isn’t easy, automatic, or comfortable unless it has a purpose, but as a strategist, he knows the necessity of human interaction as a catalyst to achieving dynamic change. So he adapts personas to suit people’s expectations. Extroverts have more social currency; the life of the party can generate more resources than a brooding wallflower.
So, it boils down to just a few elements: Dick believes in living and interacting at the street level to accomplish the things that he wants to, and he is extroverted enough that the level of social interaction that entails is not a burden to him. He surrounds himself with the types of people he is more familiar or perhaps more comfortable with, which happens to keep him further out from the media’s eye than associating with the upper crust does. The lower profile is more incidental than intentional, but it lessens his need to have a cover story for every single bruise and lets him get away with even less of a ‘persona’.
Bruce, on the other hand, is introverted and follows a more classist view that systemic change needs to be effected from the top down. His personas are more of a self-assumed duty than a necessity, as a way of trying to carry out his parents’ legacy. Any of his children could have chosen to follow his path in business or the high society limelight, but the sense of obligation toward it is something personal to him that most of them don’t share.
#bruce wayne#batman#dick grayson#nightwing#character analysis#dc#comics#meta#o.c.#bruce wayne analysis#bruce + dick#asks#anonymous#cover stories
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Is it frowned upon for traditionally published authors to try and get book sales by going door-to-door, trying to sell their own books at fairs or cons or somesuch, or even by cold-calling? I've seen trad-pubbed authors get pretty down in the past because their publishers promised a certain level of marketing at first, but then the marketing never happens and sales end up being really low.
I'm not sure what this looks like in practice. "Door-to-door" lol - like, I'm imagining you with a rolling suitcase as though you are a traveling hairbrush salesman? Cold-calling WHOM?
At the end of the day, as I have said before (like possibly in the question-before-last) -- your publisher, when you are traditionally published, typically has a MUCH more robust reach than you could possibly hope to achieve as a single person. They have literally an entire team of sales people that go to every bookstore buyer in the country to pitch your book, and a team of school/library marketing folks that are dedicated to making sure that your books are on the radar at ALA and such conventions, and a department full of folks pitching you for conference talks and newspaper coverage and whatever else -- things that are just, for the most part, NOT going to be in your power, personally.
Now - if you are also being pro-active, that's great! Like, YES, you should absolutely develop social media skills if that is something that you are willing and able to do, and YES, if you have or want to develop personal connections with bookstores and librarians or people who run book fairs and things like that, FANTASTIC. All to the good! But I'd just say, that you, one person, hustling to sell one book at at time to one reader at a time, while it's nice and great, and those efforts are appreciated -- unless you hit a rare stroke of luck, these efforts are probably not going to be as effective as a company getting the word out to LOTS of people at a time via reviews and whatnot, or reaching out to people who make decisions about buying LOTS of books at at time.
You need to do a cost-benefit analysis on what is actually achievable by YOU, and if it is worth the effort. Like, for example, let's say you have heard of the Brooklyn Book Fair, and you want to go there and shill your book. Great. But you live six hours away, and the publisher knows from experience that you are only likely to sell ten books max. If you ask your publisher "will you pay for me to go to this event" -- they will probably say no. That's not because they are being jerks -- it's because it's not worth your time or their money for you to make a 12 hour round-trip drive or train ride and stay in a hotel in NYC overnight, to sell 8 books or whatever. Now - you could just foot the bill yourself - but will it REALLY be worth it? Maybe that time and effort would be better spent, you know, with your family, or working on the next book, or spending ONE hour doing social media promo or a podcast interview that reaches a lot more people and is free.
Basically - if you are a born self-promoter and love getting out there and chopping it up with readers - fantastic. Your publisher won't be mad about that AT ALL, they'll love it. But DO talk to them about what they are already doing, and how you can HELP their efforts, rather than trying to run an entire media empire or whatever all on your own. Be mindful about expending your energies in ways that are actually useful to you, so you aren't spending a ton of your own money and time where it isn't likely to help very much.
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Unexpectedly
Pairing: Kihyun x Reader
Genre : Fluff
Warnings : None
It had been 2 years since you and Kihyun broke up, it’s not a messy break up as anyone would make it out to be, it was a somewhat mutual decision.
You don’t have time for each other, he was busy with his idol life and you were busy juggling your studies and part time job, you rarely see each other and if you do, it was just for a few minutes and one of you would hurry and leave the other one.
To say it was getting complicated at that time was an understatement.
That was two years ago, and now both of you had achieved what you two had been trying to reach, he became a famous Idol and you now work for the company you’ve been wanting to be in since from the start.
But.
Even if it was two years ago since you two last talked, the feeling still lingers in the depth of your heart, you would occasionally come across his posts on Social Media Everytime you would take a break from continous works.
You sighed as you plopped down your couch. Slumping all the way down just because you were too exhausted to even sit properly.
You reached out for your phone, checking all the e-mails your co-workers had sent you that day.
A familiar ding echoed from your phone as you were scrolling through it, then the notification banner appeared from the top of your screen , you almost dropped your phone on the process after reading the texts written on the said notification.
@yookihhh followed you on Instagram.
You coughed several times as you continously re read the notification your eyes wide as saucers.
You contemplated on wether you should open it or leave it at that, but the voice in your head says you should open it and find out why he suddenly just followed you out of nowhere after two years of having Instagram but the other part of the voice said he probably just wanted to follow for no reason I mean it’s his account he probably just needed followers. It was like a devil and an angel were arguing in your head.
You shook your head taking off all the thoughts you’d been thinking and clicked on it.
Nothing special, he just followed you.
But then as you were about to turn your phone off, another ding sounded from your phone and you almost choked on your spit seeing that Kihyun had sent you a message.
“can he read my mind through my phone?” You thought
You bit your lip as you opened the message.
@yookihhh: Hey
“hey? That's it?” you muttered as you stared at the message “after two years of not talking, you’ll just send me a ‘hey’?”
You turned your phone off placing it on the table face down.
“tch, does he think I'm going to reply to that message? Ha! he wish” you mumbled basically to yourself.
@username: Heyy!
Welp, what happened to what you said earlier? Let's forget about that.
You anxiously waited for his reply.
@yookihhh: How are you?
Your heart stuttered for a second.
@username: I’m good, how about you?
“I've been a mess since we broke up but now i’m overly ecstatic after your message” you thought smiling to yourself.
@yookihhh: i’m doing okay.
You raised your eyebrows at his message.
@username: that's good then.
You nibbled on your nails as you wiggled your thumb hovering above the screen of your phone.
@yookihhh: are you busy today?
Without thinking much, you immediately replied.
@username: no, not really, why?
You tapped your foot anxiously on the floor anticipating his next reply.
@yookihhh: I was thinking.. maybe. Can we meet up? and you know, have dinner?
Your brows shot up at his suggestion
@yookihhh: only if it's okay with you 😅
You smiled as you replied hastily.
@username: of course it is, where do you want to meet?
You were almost screaming from the inside it’s been so long since Kihyun made you feel like this, and it never change even a bit.
***
You made a beeline to your room almost skipping steps as you started humming to some songs while you got ready for your meet up with Kihyun.
You smiled as you tried on several dresses feeling giddy all of a sudden. But after the nonstop trying of different dresses from your wardrobe you’ve finally given up and threw the final dress on your bed sighing.
You looked up at the clock placed on the corner of your room, and realized there's not enough time for you to look good for Kihyun , I mean not that it matters since he said he just wanted to meet up and have dinner.
Having last thoughts, you just threw on random clothes from your bed consists of Jeans and a White button up tucked in front and the first two buttons unbuttoned, you put your hair in a messy bun. Looking at yourself one last time in the mirror you smiled before you went on your merry way.
***
You stepped inside the expensive looking restaurant feeling the cool gush of wind of the air conditioner hit you, making you regret wearing a thin fabric of clothing.
You looked around the place, stopping for a few moments before you spotted Kihyun sitting a few tables down from where you were standing.
He looked handsome, his hair brushed off from his forehead, he was wearing a Leather Jacket followed by a white shirt and a black jeans. He was looking down on his phone brows furrowed.
You exhaled deeply as you made your way towards him, you were halfway towards the table he was sitting in when he looked up and made eye contact with you.
A smile appeared on his lips as he saw you, you almost tripped on air, your heart jumping out of your chest of how breathtaking his smile was.
You mentally scolded yourself as you made your way towards him somewhat presentable while the butterflies in your stomach getting wild.
He stood up from his seat meeting you halfway and gave you a hug. You stiffened for a moment before returning the hug.
He pulled out the chair for you before making his way towards his seat.
Your hands are sweating and you probably look as red as tomato, just sitting infront of Kihyun made you nervous. It’s been two years but he can still make you feel like he's sucking the air out of your lungs.
“uh- Y/N? are you okay?” His voice cut through your thoughts.
You snapped your head towards him.
“o-ofcourse I'm fine” you stuttered
You almost want to smack yourself right then and there for stuttering without any reason.
“are you sure? You look really.. red” he asked a bit concerned.
You nodded trying to calm yourself.
“if you say so” he smiled and waved the waiter over.
***
You talked and talked about the things you've both been busy with and laughing at the stories he was telling you about his members from his band
You both left the restaurant with a smile plastered both on your faces.
He suggested on driving you back to your apartment to which you declined at first saying that your apartment was not that far from where you two are, but still he insists it was already dark and dangerous to walk on streets at this time.
Silence enveloped the whole car ride, only the soft music from the radio was heard and the casual humming of Kihyun together with the song.
A few turns later the car stopped infront of your apartment.
“it was nice meeting you again Y/N” he stared at you.
You nodded in agreement “i had a great time” you replied.
“honestly, I missed this” he muttered looking straight ahead.
You looked at him trying to read his expression.
“me too” you replied without having second thoughts.
“but, I missed you more than this” he said landing his gaze on you.
Your heart momentarily stopped at his words, he was looking intensely at you.
“i-uh” you almost couldn’t form the right words to give him but you settled to what you think is the best word to express what you’re feeling.
“i never stopped missing you, and honestly I never really stopped loving you either” you mumbled fiddling with your fingers.
You expected him to stiffen at your words but, he just smiled.
“i’m glad we're on the same page” he uttered.
You can feel the butterflies in your stomach going wild at both of your confession.
You smiled looking down at your hands.
“Y/N”
You looked up when you heard him mumble your name.
He cupped your cheeks staring straight into your eyes and leaned in kissing you softly on the lips.
Your eyes went wide for a second not expecting such move from him before you kissed him back.
You felt him smile into the kiss before he pulled away and leaned his forehead with yours.
You giggled before completely pulling back.
“it’s already late, you should go now” you smiled at him while you unbuckled your seatbelt.
You were about to open the door to the passenger when he suddenly stopped you.
“wait, I have a question” he said
“what is it?”
“can.. you be my girlfriend...? Again?” he asked waiting patiently for your response.
“i think it was already settled when you kissed me” you smiled at him.
“so it’s a yes?”
You nodded. He nodded and you both nodded.
He grinned widely and gave you one last hug and a kiss on the forehead before letting you out of the car.
You stepped out of the car and turned back to knock on his window.
He rolled down the window and you ducked down.
“be careful when driving” you told him.
He smiled at you “i will, for you”
You bit back a smile and watch him drive off till he was out of your sight.
You ran towards your apartment.
You closed the door leaning on it while putting your hand on your heart and squealed loudly feeling like a school girl.
Moments later you received a text message.
Kihyun❤️: Goodnight Princess.
You threw your phone on your bed and buried your head in your pillow then screamed loud while kicking wildly in the air.
#Kihyun Scenarios#Kihyun Imagines#Kihyun Fluff#Kihyun Oneshots#Yoo Kihyun#Monsta X Imagines#Monsta X Scenarios#Monsta X Fluff#Shownu#Wonho#Minhyuk#Kihyun#Hyungwon#Jooheon#I.M
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I’ve been suffering from depression because of my no-future life and can’t help but project my feelings to Peter and life kicking him down.
HEAVY TRIGGER WARNINGS. Do not read this if you are faint of heart. Deals with suicide.
Imagine Peter doesn’t get into MIT. Tony was certain he was a shoe-in, no doubt, he had a recommendation letter and the grades. So when he finds out about the rejection, he makes a very heated call to the admission committee and demands to know the reason.
“Mr Stark, this year’s class is extremely talented. The competition was fiercer than ever. He can always reapply next year.”
Tony immediately withdraws his donation to his alma mater but it is no use.
As if rejection from MIT was not enough, Peter is also rejected from other schools he applied to. The boy is absolutely devastated, his social media is filled with his friends’ cheery posts and he falls into deep depression.
“I worked so hard.” The boy whispers, after another day of staring at a wall.
“I know you did, buddy.” Tony rubs his shoulder. He had taken time off work, he could not bear to leave Peter alone.
“I aced all exams, I crushed SATs, I did all the projects, homework and I patrolled. All my life I’ve focused on school, it’s the only thing I was good at.”
“You know that is not true.”
“I’m a failure. I’ve wasted my life.”
Ned, who got a full scholarship to Columbia, has to beg Peter to go to the prom with him, to make some memories. Four hours later, Tony gets a call from the same boy that Peter has passed out from drinking a bottle of vodka.
Peter doesn’t want a graduation party. He just gets his diploma, takes the obligatory pictures and then locks himself into his room for the rest of the day, neverminding the lavish buffet Pepper has set up to celebrate. Team has a silent lunch.
Peter sleeps a lot. He doesn’t go outside, doesn’t see his friends, stops patrolling and spends his days staring at a television. Tony calls his psychiatrist and Peter is called in for emergency evaluation and after two hours, he enters the Penthouse with a bottle of antidepressants.
“These might make you feel a bit yucky.” Tony gives him a glass of water to wash the pills down with. “But it will clear out in about a week.”
It takes about two months until they see any kind of improvement and by that time his friends have left for college. Tony hires him as his personal assistant to build up his resume but most importantly, to give him a purpose in life. And maybe the boy needed a bit of downtime after the hectic couple of years being Spiderman proved to be.
Peter applies to MIT again. And is rejected. The shock is even greater this time.
“I don’t get it.” The boy hyperventilates. “What did I do wrong? What am I missing? What do I lack?”
MIT doesn’t have any more say in the matter, Tony can hear from their voice they are still irked of him withdrawing his money.
Peter starts studying at a community college. He hates it from the first day. It’s not his place. Work is not challenging enough and the courses interest him very little. He doesn’t connect with the faculty who are all perplexed why the protege of Tony Stark is there. He drops out after a few months and makes a return as Tony’s PA.
Third time’s the charm. Not this time, MIT is closed to him.
“I’m done.” Peter tears the rejection letter, there are no tears in his eyes, no panic in his voice. Just emptiness. “I’m not gonna do this anymore.”
“There are always other courses and schools.”
“I learn more from working with you-”
“You could at least get a diploma. It must be worth something.”
He never thinks about the option more than fleetingly and ends up floating.He tries several jobs but nothing seems right. As Morgan grows up, Pepper starts thinking about getting Peter in on SI. Tony and her had always had the idea of letting Peter lead the company and eventually share it with Morgan. But the board resists.
“He doesn’t have a college degree.”
“So?” Tony attacks, thinking back to the dark days when he had to practically bribe the boy to eat something. “Degree is just a fancy paper.”
“We can’t ensure someone like that to run this company.”
“Excuse me but last time I checked I own lion’s share of this place! I make these decisions.”
“You can’t walk over the board with this one, Stark. SI is a demanding company. Your father hired us to keep his legacy alive. I’m sure your boy is a nice young man, but he is not fit to run SI.”
Tony breaks the news to Peter gently and the boy, no, a man, shakes his head and takes a swig of his beer.
“I knew that- or- I guessed it would happen. Parker luck. This year has been a shit show anyway.”
Tony looks at his boy, thinking of the struggles Peter had faced during the last five months: May’s cancer diagnosis, Peter’s constant money problems, a patrol that had gone so bad the boy had spent two weeks at Medbay and still had to eat strong painkillers.
“Morgan is having a birthday party next week.”
“I don’t have money for a present.”
“You don’t need-”
“It’s her birthday, she deserves a present, okay.”
Peter was always defensive when it came to his finances. Tony was always ready to help but Peter rarely asked for it. Peter only gave him a chance when the man visited and saw the empty fridge, or the pile notices on his table.
“I’ve been reading a lot.”
“About?”
“Success stories. Some make it big without college degrees. Some don’t even graduate from high school. Why didn’t it happen to me? Why did I end up with a no-end job and still have count pennies? Is it a punishment for something I did?”
“No. Peter- your time will come.”
“When?” Peter asks, his eyes on his father-figure. “I’m done waiting.”
If Tony wasn’t worried yet, he was when it was time to pay for the food.
“I’ve got this.” Tony is ready to take out his walled.
“No, I’m good.”
“Kiddo, let me-”
“I’m 31 years old, I can pay for my own fucking meal!”
Peter slams the money on the table and gets up.
“I was just trying to help.” Tony tried to smooth things over.
“Well don’t! I don’t need your help! Go be with your daughter and leave me alone!”
“I’m thinking of mental institution.” Tony muttered to Rhodey, softly so the other guests would not pay them too much attention. “Kind of like a rehab center, where he can rest and get intensive therapy.”
“Sounds good. I remember it helped you a lot.”
“Yeah.” Tony nods, thinking of the few weeks he spent gathering his thoughts after Civil War. “Kind of wish I had started therapy earlier. But letter late than never, right?”
Rhodey looked around the room. “Wasn’t Peter supposed to come?”
“He must be running late.” Tony shrugged. “Traffic.”
Hours passed and still no Peter.
“Kiddo, I’m serious. Call me back.” Tony left fifth voice mail and checked Peter’s whatsapp status: online 10:11. Almost seven hours ago.
Dread filled his stomach. Something was wrong.
Steve offered to drive him to Peter’s apartment. Tony clutched his phone like a lifeline.He debated calling 911 but what could he say. Peter was an adult, had the right to not answer and he was not in immediate danger... right?
They walked to the fifth floor. Peter did not answer the doorbell.
Please don’t be there, Tony was muttering under his breath and unlocked the door.
“Peter?” Him and Steve stepped in. “Kiddo?”
The apartment was silent. Tony looked around the kitchen. Table was filled with bills and a new letter. An eviction notice.
Tony turned white. Peter had not mentioned anything.
He turned around when Steve stepped back from Peter’s bedroom. His eyes were wide and teary.
“What is it?” Tony knew before the man had the chance to tell.
“Don’t go in there, Tony.”
“What do you mean? I have to find him.”
“We-” Steve stopped him. “We need to call someone. Peter’s-”
Eventhough Tony had known, maybe from the time Peter had failed to answer the first call, his heart refused to believe it.
“No.” He shook his head. “No...”
“Don’t-” He tore himself from Steve’s hold and opened the door to the bedroom.
The room was red. Peter laid on the bed, a gun in his hand and his head-
Tony screamed like he never had before. It was a guttural, raw sound. He sank to his knees, eyes locked on what was left of his child. Steve supported him, one hand rubbing his arm while with his other he called the proper authorities, Tony’s anguished cries making it almost impossible to make out any other words on the other end.
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Depraved Indifference
"I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn't lose any voters, OK? It's, like, incredible."
- Donald Trump, at a campaign stop at Dordt College, Sioux Center, Iowa, January 23, 2016
This quote didn’t find its way into the second impeachment trial of the now-former President, but it should have. In a better world it would have, but in that better world a man such Donald Trump would not ever have been elected to any office, let alone one as powerful as president. And yet, somehow he was.
Donald Trump is no longer president, something his defenders, standing before the Senate and sitting among the trial’s jury, have taken great pains to try to focus our attention on.
Note how they talk about the importance of “moving on” and getting over it, thereby distancing us and, far more importantly, themselves from what was done.
Note how they try to frame the charge against Trump - “inciting violence against the government of the United States” - as merely “partisan” and “political”, something devoid of any legal justification or standing, as if the crimes were not witnessed by billions around the world in real time.
Note how, when faced with having to face the morally depraved actions they either encouraged or enabled in Trump and those who followed him, and having to defend their own complicity in the indefensible result, they turn to not even a little bit thinly veiled threats against those daring to accuse. Any retribution, they do declare, any continuation of violence against Trump’s declared enemies, that will be on you.
This has all the subtlety and predictability of a trial in the Jim Crow South, and, given the number of Confederate flags waving inside the Capitol on January 6th, that really isn’t too strong a comparison.
Trump, as anyone anywhere in the world even casually paying attention should know, is entirely guilty of inciting that riot. He spent years cultivating doubt in the electoral system, months casting doubt on the 2020 mail-in voting results, and, finally, weeks spreading blatant lies about voting fraud, ones that he continues to tell to this day.
He did all of this while encouraging and enabling exactly the kind of violence done on his behalf that we all saw on the 6th and, as the House impeachment managers have helpfully shown at length, in the days, weeks, months, and years leading up to it.
“Stand back and stand by”, right? The Proud Boys stuck that on t-shirts.
If the videos the House managers have played have failed to persuade, we tell ourselves, perhaps the evidence of Trump’s Defense and Justice departments undermining the Capitol police and National Guard’s response will. How about a timeline of Trump’s fiddling while the Capitol burned and his own Vice President quite literally ran for his life? No? Really?
You don’t need a lot of time to prepare a case when the defendant has been caught, figuratively, thousands of times in the middle of Fifth Avenue with a smoking gun. Trump’s thumbs offered up hundreds of smoking guns to choose from. Videos of his post-election rallies do, too. The ones he posted that day, hours after the breach, calling the men and women hunting “traitors” of both parties and battering Capitol police with American flags “patriots”, well, that’s a prosecutor’s dream. Or should be.
So, yes, he is guilty. Very, very, very guilty.
Ah, but so are at least three of his jury members: Josh Hawley, James Lankford, and Ted Cruz. They all gave credence to Trump’s lies, they all gave weight to those lies by demanding that the Senate investigate them once more and yet again before confirming the election, and that day they all cynically and repeatedly called for the rejection of President-elect Joe Biden’s victory. Well, Hawley and Cruz did; Lankford was trying to when he was evacuated.
They were no less guilty of trying to profit from the misplaced and misguided rage of those storming the Senate chamber than Trump, and, if the rioters’ own social media accounts are to be believed, Hawley and Cruz at the very least were no less accountable for them being there. Lankford, it seems, needs to up his social media game.
Those three senators, of course, are not on trial. They are merely jurors charged with deciding the guilt or innocence of Donald Trump for doing what they did themselves. They will be joined in their guaranteed “No” votes by at least 41 other Republican senators who, like them, once again voted to claim that, despite over 200 years of clear legal precedent, this impeachment trial is “unconstitutional”.
It’s no shock that the House managers’ detailed legal history lesson fell on deaf ears, nor is it that those three and other Trump Republicans were caught “reading” during the presentation of evidence. Rand Paul, whose own ridiculous claims about the election and trial have been followed by threats of retaliation, was caught doodling like teen stuck in detention.
This, not anything said by Trump’s crack legal team, is the argument for the defense: they know what Trump did, they know it was wrong, they know what they’re doing, and they know that’s wrong, too. And they do not care. They do not care.
These aren’t stupid people, they’re just dishonest. More specifically, they’re corrupt. What they believe, what they take as a matter of faith, is that they’ll face no real consequences for anything they’re doing or anything they’ve done.
And who’s to tell them they’re wrong? What’s the worse Hawley or Cruz will face? Censure? You can’t shame the shameless. They’ll wear their censures the same way Trump would, as a badge of courage on which they can raise campaign money and, they hope, draw out votes from Trump’s millions of rabidly loyal supporters.
For Hawley, Cruz, and others already campaigning for 2024, that’s all that matters. For them, this is just an opportunity, a means to an end, as they pursue their highly profitable careers in politics. It’s just business. For them, Trump, and every other one in Congress, on TV, and on social media who chose to ignore what people might do if they lied to them and wound them up, and for all of those choosing to ignore the consequences of it now, that’s all this is: just business.
And that’s the problem.
Politics shouldn’t be a business. We know that without even having to be told. When we talk about it, we do so in terms of “service” and “doing one’s duty”, words and phrases that romanticize the selfless nature we want to see in our politics and our politicians. We don’t just do that because that’s how we’ve always heard it spoken of, we do that because we know that the ones who embody that ideal are rare. There’s just too much evidence to deny it.
Go back far as you want, there have been men and women seeking power for the purpose of defending themselves and their friends from accountability. Back in the day, they sought appointments through connections or simply joined the clergy. These days, they run for office.
The political party in this country that currently stands against accountability is the Republican Party. Sure, the Democratic Party has its own sizable share of complicity for allowing the country’s drift into right-wing aggressive selfishness, but, lucky for us, it hasn’t been able to rid itself of its accountable members the way the Republican Party has. Of course, that’s only natural, given the importance of accountability to the political Left.
The last two Republican presidents were elected in no small part because they had a background in business. Yes, they each ran their businesses into the ground, but they ran them.
George W. Bush came into office as a “corporate” president, one who would, we were assured, delegate to those more experienced and skilled in areas where he was…lacking. We waved away his inadequacies and were somehow shocked when he failed in exactly every one of those areas. Still, he and his friends made money hand over fist, so the corporate presidency was good for business, big business, in particular, which got a big bailout.
Donald Trump should have inspired even less confidence, but confidence man that he is, he played enough suckers to get him in the White House. As much pain, suffering, and death as he has caused in four excruciatingly long years, he and his cronies have made out like gangbusters, too. The government they were hired to manage, not so much.
From the start, he and his cabinet secretaries lived by the old rule, “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission”. Not that they asked for forgiveness. That’s for losers. They broke laws, fleeced taxpayers, and resigned knowing that whatever penalty they might face would pale compared to the profits they took with them.
This is the mentality that drives corporate decision making around the world. For them, the adage is a bit more like, “better to settle a lawsuit than risk profits”. They, too, avoid apologies whenever possible. That keeps the damages paid to to victims and their families lower.
Currently, there are companies selling cars, drugs, baby food, and other products that they know are defective and a threat to the people using them. They know this. They know there’s a high risk that people will die, and they do it anyway. Instead of recognizing the threat and stopping, they do cost-benefit analyses to determine the number of deaths from their products they can afford.
This, it’s worth stating, is not capitalism. We may tell ourselves that it is, but that’s just us looking for an easy answer, a scapegoat for our own failures. In fact, this pattern was just as common under communism, too; just ask anybody who used to live near Chernobyl. Mistakes are hidden, a given number of deaths are accepted, and the perception of success and prestige is maintained.
This is corruption, and deaths and suffering caused by a lack of accountability are what corruption does. A death is a symptom, a great, big red flag, something to tell you that something is very, very, very wrong, but how many of those red flags do we see and ignore before we finally stop to ask what it is we’ve been seeing?
How many smaller red flags, such as poverty, racism, anti-semitism, police brutality, injustice, and sexual abuse, do we pass because we’ve just become so used to seeing them? Do we tell ourselves that there is nothing we can do? Do we even ask if there is anything we can do? Or do we, as so many senators are now preparing to do, instead embrace corruption as a virtue.
This is the real threat, a system that accepts this and holds no one accountable, and a culture that pushes back against demands for accountability, embracing the very worst of who we are and what we can do to others just to prove that we can. The result is a flood of childish acting out and a loss of trust in products and services that we must be able to trust because they are supposed to keep us safe.
Is this as great a threat to our society as the January 6th attack on the Capitol? This is that attack. The product failures that led to the attack were political. We have watched as our political and government institutions have failed. We have watched as those entrusted to deliver a product that works and keeps us safe have, again and again, deliberately or not, betrayed that trust. As with any other product sold, each breach of trust carries over into the next, accumulating and compounding, eroding not just our ability to trust those products but all products like them.
Think of the doubts Americans have about the safety of vaccines? Sure, we can chalk that down to internet conspiracy theories and echo chambers if we like, but would they have gained the traction they have in a world in which we weren’t inundated with ads featuring paid-non-attorney-spokespersons asking us if we or a loved one took this drug or that and had experienced one or more life threatening side effects? How many of us heard about the Covid-19 vaccines and asked, How long before we see the ads for that?
For decades, we have allowed ourselves to become a nation of beta-testers, taking on the cost and burden of quality control that the companies releasing and profiting from these products, and these class action lawsuits have become big business as a result. Every new pharmaceutical product that hits the shelves, part of us is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Time and the success of these vaccines should put an end to that, at least for this pandemic, but that we have to do so should tell us about the work we have to do to repair our society, or to build one that can exist without absolving us from being accountable to each other.
Until then, we have other kinds of corruption to face, including one that may be more destructive than anything we’re seeing in the Senate this week.
The Reddit-GameStop insurrection might have been fun to watch from the sidelines, a bit of schadenfreude for those of us on the outside of Wall Street, looking in, but the truth is the hedge fund villains still made their money, and the systemic fault lines this episode exposed should have us all scared and paying attention.
Our economy is overly concentrated in Wall Street’s product and therefore overly dependent on its success and stability. A loss of faith in its product has been underway for years. That’s how you get to day traders trying to take on hedge funds the way they did. This wasn’t David vs Goliath, this was guerrilla warfare over who gets to make the quick and easy profits.
The upside of that is that some of the “little guys” seem to win something; the downside of that is that it does nothing to fix the problems we have with Wall Street. Rather, it only makes them worse, by highlighting how easy it is to manipulate stocks and commodities and how few get to do it and get away with it.
What happens, then, when no one has any faith left in Wall Street? What happens when everyone believes it is nothing more than a casino designed to take money rather than make it?
Well, we’re almost there. We have a massive, growing online gambling industry, and with it an online gambling problem. Sports leagues, some with their own recent histories of cheaters (and worse) getting away with it, have turned their own fans onto gambling as part of the sport. How many of these people, blowing their money on bad beats, think of it as no different than investing on Wall Street stocks?
A better question: What happens to all of those stock prices when everyone, including the crooks on Wall Street, lose faith in that system, take their profits, and leave? An even better question: What happens if they do that all at once?
The answer is: Lost jobs, pensions, food and housing security, and hope.
In other words, 2020 on steroids. That’s what you get with corruption, an environment in which politicians like Donald Trump, companies willing to harm consumers, and right wing domestic terrorists thrive. As long as they aren’t held accountable, they will.
“Bad for the country”, indeed.
- Daniel Ward
#impeachment#corruption#politics#depraved indifference#aggressive selfishness#Donald Trump#josh hawley#ted cruz#james lankford#mitch mcconnell#lindsey graham#republicans#democrats#january 6th#insurrection#long reads#long read
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