#normalise not having to love your own fics

[otaku6337]

Okay but can we normalise not always liking your own fics? 

Sometimes a fic just doesn’t go how you wanted, or you look back and consider it a poor representation of your writing, or it just fell short of what you wanted it to be. That’s okay. Not fun, not ideal, but okay. It happens sometimes.

I’m not saying I want it to happen to people, because I think it’s a shame when it does on a personal level (and I feel qualified to say this as two of my most popular fics I have genuinely disliked for a long time), but equally it makes sense. A lot of artists dislike some of their pieces.

And yet I never see it talked about in writing circles, or at least not seriously. And some people, when you say you dislike a piece, assume you’re fishing for compliments or that you need reassurance and whilst the latter is well-intentioned it often, I find, doesn’t help, because those flaws or negative connotations are still there. Please note that I’m differentiating, here, between concern/not liking how it is or may be taken by your readers - that is always something that I believe most writers like reassurance on. But that is about the reader, the reception of the writing, not about the actual piece of writing as an entity, and it’s the latter that I’m talking about here. It’s how you personally feel about something that you have written.

So I would love it to be normalised that sometimes when you finish a fic, you just might not like it, and that is completely and utterly valid. I wish it was more openly and seriously discussed, and that there wasn’t any shame, accusations of compliment-fishing, or offence taken from that discussion.

A reader can still enjoy a fic that the writer does not like; by saying that I don’t like X Fic that I wrote, I’m not saying that readers shouldn’t have enjoyed it, it’s just me saying that I’m not personally pleased with how it went. And as lovely as being told that someone enjoyed it is, unfortunately it just doesn’t help, and there’s no way to fix that base issue without completely rewriting, and sometimes even re-plotting, fics, something that most of us don’t have the time or energy to do, particularly if it’s a fic that is negative to even just think about.

Oh, and I feel like I should say that if you’re disliking all of your fics, then it’s likely that you’re not satisfied with a wider element of your writing, be it that you haven’t settled into your style, or that you’re currently growing so much that every time you finish something it already feels poor-quality to you. This is unsolicited advice so feel free to ignore it if you want, but to my experience and what I know of at least a few others, the answer to that is just practice really, hopefully with a bit of experimentation mixed in. 

It’s natural, statistically, to dislike a fic or three once you’ve written a fair number of fics (I have two that I severely dislike out of my... 200+ for BNHA, and one of my ~12 HP fics, and a few more that I either dislike chunks of or am ambivalent towards across all fandoms, to put some example numbers on it), and there is nothing wrong with that. It’s a shame, on a level of wanting to be proud of your own works, but half the time it shows your own growth because your writing is now of higher quality, so try not to be too hard on yourself if you do find yourself feeling this way.

Remember, it is absolutely a-okay to not love all of your own fics, and you’re not the only person to feel that way.

#fic writing #writing advice #or writing rambles? #something along those lines #normalise not having to love your own fics #normalise not always liking your own fics #I personally leave my fics that I don't like up for the sake of reader enjoyment #all three of my least favourite fics are relatively popular/have done fairly well #but honestly I don't blame people who orphan them or delete them #tis your fic your choice #ao3 #fandom etiquette #please be considerate of writers who don't love one of their own fics #it really does just happen without our intention #and we're not normally looking for pity or compliments #we're just trying to share our experiences #also please no discourse of oh I love all my fics though #because that's genuinely wonderful and I'm pleased for you #but you won't have been my target audience in that case #and that fact may one day change though I hope in many ways that it doesn't #not being satisfied with your fic is valid

[amourcheol]

paris (teaser)

❝You and Jeonghan, jazz-filled corners, hidden history, and the city of love.❞

historical! au | exes to lovers! au | angst, fluff, smut | approx. 45k words (teaser wc. 1.4k words)

s u m m a r y : disgraced by hollywood for the last time, you, a once superstar-turned-alcoholic, escape to the city of love to seek sanctuary from the ruthless tabloids. your sanctuary comes in the form of film noir superstar yoon jeonghan, the enigmatic man who taught you the art of acting, lust and love before your fame. when he asks to meet you once, just like old times, you cannot refuse. what is meant to be a simple date turns into a path of passion, pain and everything that comes with fooling around with your ex in the jazz-filled corners of paris.

c o n t e n t s : actor! mc, actor! jeonghan, mc is incredibly bitter and makes bad decisions, agent! seungkwan who is tired of fixing them, jeonghan is the suavest, sultriest mf, mentions of parisian landmarks in this fic, also a bit of french peppered throughout, greek mythology art references, tons of fluff which is also layered with angst, this will be very hurt-comfort, hella ansgty but will have a happy ending mature warnings -> alcohol consumption and abuse, smoking, this is basically sexual tension with plot, slightly drunk making out, oral sex (f. receiving) unprotected sex (refer point to bad decisions), very soft angsty sex, body worshipping, petnames (chérie, mon ange, darling, angel), overall emotional rollercoaster, more tba!

p l a y l i s t : here!

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld​ @sysymei @alaypsy23 @belladaises @jjeongddol @sparklyshuji @forcoups @ilovesungjun @wonwoo24 @scandal-in-bohemia @hopefulchick @superbbananananana @onedumbho3 @fragmentof-indifference @cuntycheol @rubywonu @if-i-like-i-reblog @yoonzinoooo @jungwoos-luvr @crookedwolfruins @leclercloverbot​ @alexai (let me know if y’all want to be tagged!)

a u t h o r ’ s  n o t e : after three years ... four rewritings later... she may finally see the light ... i am releasing the teaser now but will post the fic when i’m back from holiday! i hope you all enjoy the lil extract <3

read this fic here!

SHIT. YOU COULD NOT DO THIS TODAY.

Suddenly, you wished he was a mere figment of your imagination, because then he would not have to see you in your drunken, disordered state, looking for art that was not there, looking for the past in the present.

But then he began to move.

This very real presence walked closer to you, and you felt your entire body constricting, because Yoon Jeonghan was in front of you, the greatest star in the world was approaching you, the man of your distant memories was coming too close.

“Wait,” he then said, and your throat was closing up, you were blinking rapidly, chest growing heavy, and you needed him to get away. He came closer, and you knew then and there you were going to die on the cold floor of the Louvre, marble eyes on you—

And then your own gaze was glistening, and when he noticed it became harder to contain yourself. “_____, are you all right?”

“Yes!” you got out, but then you proved yourself wrong when a few tears slipped out, staining your cheeks.

The man wasted no time, closing the last space between the two of you as he reached out. Instantly, you repelled from his touch, almost flinching from his surprise. “No!” you rasped out, bringing out your own hands to create distance, taking a step back. “No, you don’t need to do that…I’m fine.” 

You breathed sharply through your nose. “I am fine.”

Hastily you turned to the empty space where he last was, before you followed him like a madwoman around the hall. He watched you, your back almost to him. “What…what are you…” you paused, trying to normalise your shaking voice. “What are you doing here?”

You could feel his inquisitive stare upon you. “I could ask you the same thing.”

That question was not being answered. “I asked you first.”

Because you could not see him, you were not aware of his reaction. Still, it was enough for him to answer, “Well, in the Louvre, or in Paris?”

You gritted your teeth at that. “I think everyone knows why you’re in Paris at the moment.”

“Do they, now?”

You could not help it.

Casting a momentary glance at him, you were taken aback to find his gaze upon you. “Are you aware, at least?” he asked you.

Despite his simple questions, your impending headache, you had to clamp down on your remarks. “Of course I’m aware,” you muttered. “The papers are all over the press tours you’ve been doing.”

A perfectly groomed brow arched at your comment. “I’m surprised you follow the papers at the moment.” 

You knew exactly what he meant. “One must keep check of the stories they gossip about,” you only said, focusing back on the empty space. “Those journalists cannot be trusted.”

“Hmm…” you heard shuffling amongst his clothes—no doubt crossing his arms. “I have read the stories.”

A scoff. “I suppose you believe them, don’t you?”

He noted the cruelty in your response. The actor did not take it to heart.

“I have always believed in the stories you told me, chérie.”

This time, curiosity controlled your movement.

Curiosity had you turning back, forcing you to observe his expression, catch his lie. 

But you found no deception.

No, there was only sincerity—pure as the moonlight shining on the two of you.

Chérie.

The last time someone had called you such a sweet name was too long ago.

How ironic, that it was the same man beside you who had bestowed you this very endearment.

A shuddered breath left you. 

You could not do this now.

You were going to say as much when Jeonghan interrupted you.

“Were you looking for something in here?”

Your furrowed brows had him humming. “I thought as much.” Gently, he jerked his head beyond your figure. “Strangely enough, I was looking for it as well.”

Confused, you glanced back at the empty space, where that certain, mysterious sculpture was supposed to be. “That is why I came to the Louvre,” you heard him say.

There was still suspicion laced in your features. “How do you know that we are thinking of the same piece?”

That ghost of a smile crept up again. “You act as if you don’t remember.”

Your sigh was a little sheepish. “I do,” you said, reminiscing on the memories. “But the name…”

No matter how hard you endeavoured, your memory of the sculpture was too hazy for your half-drunk mind. 

You searched him for an answer. “I’m sure you have not forgotten.”

“No…I have not.”

You waited. His silence had you insisting, “Well?”

When you saw a slight glimmer in his whimsical gaze, you knew that he had something else in mind. The implications had you biting your lower lip, anxiety blooming.

The nerves grew when Jeonghan spoke.

“I will tell you if you see me tomorrow.”

You blinked back.

“There’s an exhibition opening here tomorrow afternoon,” he continued, taking a step towards you, careful not to startle you again. “It’s centred on the sculpture we both wanted to see, but it’s been moved to another hall.”

He confused you a great amount. “How do you know that?”

His stare went beyond you, to the wall. “It says on the plaque.”

Sure enough—when you looked back, there was the notice. Because your French was adequate at best, you did not understand it fully. You simply had to trust his linguistic abilities.

That you could do—you were aware of Jeonghan’s fluency in the language of love. 

He cocked his head, a few strays cascading the side of his face. “You and I could see it there.”

The offer had shaken you. “Why?”

“Why?”

You knitted your brows suspiciously. “Why do you want to go with me?”

The film noir star watched you then, you shuffling uncomfortably under his scrutiny. God, you forgot how intense his eyes were—in fairness, you had not been the subject of his stares for a few years. 

He locked his gloved hands behind his back. “Because you need a break, _____. From everything.”

He offered you a smile. “Let me be the one to give you that. If only for the day.”

You could have crumbled before him.

It was at this stage you cursed yourself for being in such a state. Perhaps if you were sober, you would have carried on this conversation in a more respectable manner, taken more caution.

It was incredibly difficult, composing yourself around the man.

“I can’t…” you inhaled sharply, trying to form the words. “I cannot do midday…too many people, you know…staring, judging…”

“Ah.” He nodded, parting his mouth in thought. “Then tomorrow night?”

Stretching your mouth, unsure, he assured, “They will not follow you here at this hour.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

This time, he sighed, surprised at your anxiousness. “I see you’ve not changed, then.”

You narrowed your gaze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

But the actor did not seem like he was going to elaborate. 

He instead took another step towards you, a mere two feet left. 

“Do you trust me?”

You tilted your head back. 

What kind of question was that?

Do you trust me?

You did not trust anyone. Not after this whole debacle back home, when almost all your friends within the industry had contributed to your downfall. Hollywood was filled with traitors, the worst being the people who haunted the journey of your disgrace at every moment.

It was impossible to place any ounce of faith in another.

As you watched his eyes settle on you, you noticed an emotion you had not witnessed in forever.

Tenderness.

Tenderness with no ulterior motive—gentle acceptance, as if he recognised your position. As if he recognised your change, the apprehensive nature of your questions, your pauses. It physically hurt being stained with such compassion, when you had been begging for it from the world all those weeks ago.

It hurt, having someone who understood you.

You, however, should not have been surprised.

Yoon Jeonghan had always been like this. Especially when you both were together.

You could have smiled. 

What a time that was.

As if he could read your mind, the film noir star began, “You remember, don’t you? That I’ve never let you down?”

You decided to let yourself slip—you could always blame it on the alcohol. 

“What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #yoon jeonghan imagines #jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #jeonghan x reader #svt smut #svt imagines #yoon jeonghan x reader #seventeen hard hours #svt hard hours #yoon jeonghan #seventeen angst #jeonghan angst #yoon jeonghan angst

[thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai]

One of the many things I love about YOI is how it ignores gender norms. Like Viktor wearing androgynous costumes as a junior because it matched his looks? Lovely. Yuuri learning how to dance like a woman as he explores Eros? Great! Let this boy do whatever he needs to find his unique Eros expression. Mila practising lifts on Yurio? Please give me more.

None of these form a pattern that indicates anything about these characters' gender or, more generally their queerness (spoiler: these could apply to a number of labels or to none; gender is a societal construct and the reasons to not want to conform to it are various), the show is that vague and it seems a deliberate choice. Viktor eventually changed his style and image. Yuuri finds his unique, masculine expression of Eros in episode 6 when he seduces Viktor with his own charms (as conveyed through the use of the masculine pronoun "boku"). These characters live in a world where gender norms don't matter and where everyone can express themselves and explore certain aspects of their personality without anyone telling them that it's not "appropriate" for their gender.

And you can spin this further in your personal headcanon. If Viktor wants to wear a women's yukata because he loves the flower print, he can do that. If Yuuri wants to do ballet in pointé shoes because it challenges his sense of balance, no one can stop him. (In my fics, Viktor wears such shoes for that purpose and because he loves the laces.) If Chris wants to wear an evening gown and high heels because he loves how it emphasises his thighs and his bum, he can just go for it. If Yurio wants to wear a mini-skirt to ripped jeans, no one will bully him for it. If Mila wants to skate in black skates because it matches the colour of her costumes better than white skates, no one would care (same goes for white skates for any of the male characters). If Phichit wants to wear make-up, no one would give him strange looks.

The beauty of Yuri on Ice is that the characters are free to do these things without having to fear judgement or repercussions. They are free to choose how they want to express themselves, be it for image reasons, because of a character they portray in their figure skating routines, because it ties into a certain aspect of their queerness, or because they just prefer this over a traditional expression. In the world of YOI, it just doesn't matter. I would love to live in that world.

Edit: I wrote a meta analysis about Yuuri's exploration of Eros throughout the show that discusses things like the pronouns etc. in more detail here.

(You might notice that I don't count hair length as gender norm because for many people it's a stylistic choice. I'm thinking of all the metalheads and women with pixie haircuts, which have been normalised in most societies I know of.)

#yuri on ice #yoi #gender norms #anime #queer labels #lgbtq

[basicallyahedgehog]

Hi!

This is going to seem random but I promise it’s about your writing!! I’m pretty new to realizing I’m Ace (like very new) and I’m struggling with coming to terms with it, and with being really afraid of being alone my whole life, and like actually really grieving thinking I was just a picky bisexual (until listening to other people talk about attraction and realizing that is not my experience). And just generally having a pretty hard time.

But I just wanted to tell you that your fic ‘A Little Bit of You’ was so good. Like the beginning part of Harry not understanding that he’s flirting but just very casually affectionate is literally my life. (A part of my life that I have found baffling because doesn’t everyone want to hold their friends’ hands or play with their friends’ hair??? How is that flirting???) I literally started crying when I read that, I felt so seen and validated. Also just like the very real fear of never being loved, of being alone forever, of always being simultaneously too much and not enough. It’s like you took my whole entire heart and put it into a fic. And then you handed my fears the hope that for someone, doing life together is enough; making food together, snuggling on the sofa, getting to travel and adventure 🥹🥹😭😭😭

Anyway. Please pardon my rambling. It’s just that I’ve been really afraid and sad lately, and for a couple of minutes it felt like maybe everything will be okay. Thanks for sharing your writing. 💕

Hi Nonnie.

First off, congratulations on discovering this part of yourself! I know it feels huge and scary but I'm so so happy that you know yourself a little bit better now.

I'm so, so, so glad that my fic helped you, even just a little bit. Fanfic - specifically drarry fanfic - is where I first came across asexuality as a concept, let alone realising that I'm ace. So this feels full circle in a really beautiful way. If you haven't already, I'd encourage you to check out the fics linked in these lists. So many of them were instrumental to me discovering, accepting and feeling comfortable in my own aceness, and any I've read more recently always feel like a warm, affirming hug.

Harry in this is fairly heavily based on my own experiences. The amount of times I've been accused of flirting - and also was apparently being flirted with! (Can we normalise physical affection between platonic friends? Please???).

I promise, that someday, everything will be okay. I can't tell you what that is going to look like, but I truly believe that one day you will look back on this time and smile knowing just how far you've come. Whether that future includes a partner or not, you will be happy and have fulfilling relationships. Because being ace does not take away our capacity to love or be loved - it just looks different.

I didn't know I was ace until more than four years into my marriage. I figured out my demiromanticism even later than that. But those two facts about me don't change the fact that I have a husband whom I love - in my own, Rowan way - and who buys me light up keyboards and makes sure I have enough blankets and huffs when I hog the sheets.

Anyway, this has been a ramble of my own! But thank you so so much for reading my little fic, and for reaching out (I will treasure your words forever). If you ever feel comfortable, my DMs are always open (to you, and to everyone else).

But more than anything, Nonnie, I want you to know that you are valid and loved exactly as you are.

#no matter who you are and how you identify you are loved and welcome here #that feeling of seeing yourself in a fic #asexuality #ace pride #acespec #asked and answered #lovely anons

[collinnmckinley]

(TW: discussion of kink)

Man that was uh...wtf was that anon.

I think when it comes down to the bottom line regardless of how anyone feels about what your saying (I agree with you) you allowed to say your opinion.

I'm a firm believer of 'dont like don't read' and that you shouldn't comment negatively on someones work unless they ask for it. For fanfiction online is supposed to be simply shared. You haven't tagged (from what I've seen) anything in any of the x reader tags, you haven't gone on to other people's posts and complained, you havent blazed anything, you haven't named/shamed any blogs by name. None of what your saying is truly oppressive or bigotry. You have simply vented in the safety of your own posts. For someone to get mad about that? They have no real right. It's not fair. It's so entitled, if you can't vent here then where can you?

In terms of your argument, as someone who is more into kinks, even enjoying the odd CNC piece, I believe your totally right in what you say and the way your feeling is so reasonable.

The COD fandom wouldn't last a day in the real world. What fustrates me with all this fanficiton is not only is it out of character but everything's written and encouraging bad BDSM behaviour. Like NO ONE does BDSM like this.

There's no discussion of boundaries, theres no aftercare description, there's no love and care in these fics. BDSM is supposed to be a performance, it's ultimately light hearted and supposed to be enjoyable to both parties. It's playing around with your partner because that's what sex is supposed to be, fun.

The shit these people right is so obviously not right. It's directly the shit you see in high production porn, something that is always made to look good. Not to feel good. This stuff is all just normalised toxic and unhealthy relationships. What concerns me is with the forever younger generations, if this is the normality then what will they be like in an actual relationship? It effects their every day interactions too! Blatenly calling people daddy / mommy in mid day- that whole 'mommy- sorry- mommy- sorry...' tiktok trend is a perfect example of it. That shits embarrassing! It's uncomfortable and removes the whole part of 'concent' in the entirety of kink.

Forgive me that I go a little off topic but I firmly believe that this behaviour is part of a bigger picture. It shows the fandom interactions that dictate day to day life. The way that people talk to the actors, interact with the actors and voice actors in the game shows how fucked up this all is. There's no line between fan and artist. When it came to fanfiction in history there's always been that line. The shame, fear even, that always kept fandom seperate. Sure sometimes people would say what pairing or sexuality to the creator but nothing like we have today. For them to literally have to turn off chat because of what people are saying in a live stream is terrible! And I think it is directly linked to how normal and casual people online have become about these sort of things.

In terms of wanting to be degraded and CNC the entire thing is supposed to fantasy created in a safe environment. Sometimes it's not exactly something that someone can explain why, or go into the whole situation of mixing pain / pleasure. Yet people have lost that integral piece of the puzzle. It's fustrating and you don't have sex like that every single time?? They treat the most hardcore shit as your average Tuesday missing the preparation and communication that goes on.

To be honest, I'm probably one of the writers in the r6s that you dislike, I can't say I believe that I write either COD or R6S fully in character, even so, I can't imagie looking at COD characters and reducing them to this lack of safety careless playthings. People look a Price and, well, you can never tell someone sexual preferences but, they look at him and are like 'ah yes this man would have no regards to ones sexual safety' like ?????

When hes about to torture the butcher he makes is to clear for not only Gaz's boundaries but for Nik's aswell. No strings attached, their word is final and it's something I really appreciated as a player as well.

This man is constantly in danger having to deal with violence and torture and then people exspect him to come home and do what? The same thing on his partner? I can't imagine it, I genuinely don't think this man could stomach hurting his partner even in a safe BDSM way. It's the same with all these men in the military, why would they want to bring that home?

I'm not into König but I have played as him on the odd occasion in game and you can sort of get a feel for his personality. The shit people write about him is so incredibly out of character even with how little is defined by him. This man is the most nerdy character in the game. He so gives off the vibes that he's a massive gremlin with his voice lines and people look at that and are like 'ah yes he would treat me bad' Pardon me? He would have a fucking mental breakdown if he hurt his s/o.

Even Graves, the bastard he is, wouldn't do any of this shit. Sure he betrayed 141 but you can still tell he cares about his team, one of the things that makes him and the shadows such a compelling and enjoyable antagonist, is that he feels so human and realistic. When he starts to lose it and shout at them in Las Almas, you can tell he regrets it. You can tell in his voice that he's trying to keep it together and stay as that fun casual commander thing he has going on.

Admittedly I've used him for plot before but the people who hardcore simp for this man, how could you look at someone like that and thing he would rule the bedroom with an iron fist? The man who gets his employees to say 'yup-yup' instead of affirmative.

As someone who does write and does strive to make people as in character as possible, (admittedly with varing results) I just don't understand how people can go so far fetched. Whenever I've been given an prompt or whatever I'm constantly looking at intrections and lore that back up characters. A lot of stuff so many characters just wouldn't do. Daddy kink is the bane of my existence. Not because I don't enjoy it but because people assign it to everyone and in all honesty? Ive literally never met a man who's into it. Same with mommy.

In terms of characters across all the games I've played I think there's like maybe one character who I genuinely thought might be into it and that was Pagan Min from Farcry 4. Maybe Damon Salvatore from the Vampire Diaries.

Yeah you can never tell someones sexual preferences or what they do in the bedroom but you can at least try. Have lore or reasoning to back up your reasoning. Not this cluster fuck of general unhealthy, unrealistic glorified BDSM. It baffles me that people think that these characters would be even remotely comfortable with some of the stuff people wrote them to do.

What's the point of simping over a character if you're not actually wanting to be with the character?

At the bottom line, tiktok (and modern internet in general (it wasn't this bad until tiktok but it has been getting worse over the years)) has shown a bunch of adolescent people pictures of the COD characters. With the easy access and desensitization of kink this has created the effect we have today. I don't actually think any of the people who write this shit actually care about the characters. Their playing with the characters like dolls. A name and a face to an oc personality they have created in their head. Or even just taking tropes of people and applying them.

Your fustration is responsible and the way your expressing it is responsible aswell. This is your space. Your not hurting anyone, in fact your ability to recognise and create commentary on today's fandom scene is a positive rather than a negative.

Welp, there it is. You read it again. I dont think I actually need to say anything or reply to it. Everything has already been said in this ask can actually convey what I have been trying to say the past two days, what we have been trying to discuss the past two days. detailed and well put like a thread. I'm gonna tag COD so people can actually read and educate themselves about this matter and that it should not be taken lightly.

#jay answers #anonymous #call of duty #cod #i dont know why people are so stubborn on trying to be so right about this matter #just take the L and move on

[willalove75]

Do you think it’s interesting that almost every lady d fic, Infact almost all fic ever tbh but with most lady D fic… the amount of kink and fetish that occurs is just so normal? Like reader can’t get off unless the word mommy is present, orgasm can’t be achieved unless some kind of kink exists, almost never actually spoken about before it occurs and most of the time it’s first time bumping uglies that randomly y/n is calling Alcina mommy, no questioning it or wtf moments just very natural ‘yes I will say mommy now’

This comes after your recent request of course and is in no way me saying ‘sToP iT 😖’ because it’s not that serious, it’s just an observation is all.

I don’t think I know of any fics that Alcina’s perspective of sex fits her age or the time period she’s seemingly stuck in, the same goes for spanking, degradation, or even edging… it’s very curious seeing it normalised as if every adult sexual relationship consists of atleast 1 kink/fetish. I guess both Alcina and r is very informed about these things and quite often seemingly really enjoy breath play despite having zero experience with it

Very interesting 🤔

First off, I want to say thank you for the insight and for being respectful with your opinion! I actually do love having these kinds of conversations with people who are willing to not be a dick about it😂

This might be a bit of longer answer bc I want to try to answer as thoroughly and honestly as I can!

I do absolutely know what you mean when most fics (especially Lady D fics haha) have a TON of kinks/fetishes in them, because a LOT of them definitely do!

But I think that kinks and fetishes are normal. I think most people (at least most of the people I know) don't just have exclusively vanilla sex, there's always something added (praising, mommy/daddy, toys, blindfolds, ties, hands around someone's throat, etc.)

Of course not every single time someone has sex there's a kink involved, but most times there's at least one.

I also think it's important to note that a lot of authors are able to explore their own kinks & fetishes through writing fics when they can't/aren't able to/whatever other reason in real life.

I'll use myself for example. I'm bi but am married to a cishet man. I mainly write lesbian fics because I'm able to explore that side of myself without putting my relationship with my husband at risk. (He knows about my blog & fics and he's 100% supportive of it!) I get to explore all of the wonderful things about being with another woman without actually having to do it so it sates that curiosity/need for me.

Also I don't necessarily think that the reader can't get off without calling someone "mommy," at least in my fics, yes the reader can get pleasure from calling someone that, but it's also for the benefit of the person having sex with the reader.

Like with my latest Lady D fic, Lady D refers to herself as "mommy" and then reader calls her that. It's more of a power dynamic than it is reader getting off on it. Sure, it can definitely be a turn on for reader (and it is), but I think it's playing towards that power dynamic and acknowledging the person in control (in this case Lady D) and giving her what she wants (submission) so reader can get what they want (an orgasm).

I think more often than not (now I absolutely understand that this is not the case with more dangerous/extreme kinks/fetishes but that's not what I'm talking about right now) there isn't a whole lot of conversation about certain kinks, they just kind of show up during sex.

Like for example, (also keep in mind this also very much depends on the amount of trust built in a relationship in real life, fics are a little different because it's not real life so these lines get blurred/don't always exist) during sex, someone can just call the other person mommy or daddy in bed and you either like it or you don't, but there's not always a conversation about it beforehand.

Same can go for putting your hand around someone's neck (NOT breath play/cutting off airflow, that's one of the more dangerous/extreme ones I was talking about) and with the level of trust built, the person who has a hand around their throat can let the person whos hand is around their throat to loosen their grip, tighten it a little or to let go completely and trust that they will listen.

With that being said, if kinks/fetishes do come into play, even for the less dangerous ones, I think a safe word should always be established at some point.

In terms of the first time having sex with someone, all of that is absolutely possible.

And there can be times where someone calls the other person mommy or daddy and the other person is like "um, nah." and you move on and keep doin' the nasty.

I also feel like if there's something that's triggering or something that makes someone SO wildly uncomfortable that it would make them not want to continue having sex, it should be made known before. Like "hey, because of x y and z I don't like hands around my throat/being called mommy or daddy/etc."

There are also times during sex where a kink/fetish will make itself known and that's how the person on the receiving end realizes they enjoy it.

Sometimes (and this is very well does not work this way for everyone) the thought of something may be a turn off but when it happens in bed, you realize you like it much more than you would have thought.

Also I absolutely appreciate you not being like "sToPp" because it's fucking fanfiction and you're right, it's not that serious😂

In terms of Alcina's perspective of sex, it really depends. If we're going off of exclusively canon, it might not be out of the realm of possibility.

It's important to consider the fact that she never truly fit in her "time period" sexually.

The 30s, 40s and 50s (which would be her prime sexual age before the mutation) she was canonically a lesbian and back then it was frowned upon, widely unaccepted and illegal.

Even in the US (where I'm from) as recently as 2003, literally only twenty years ago, 14 states had "sodomy laws" that made same-sex sexual activity illegal.

The Supreme Court ruled in 2003 Lawrence v. Texas that "intimate consensual sexual conduct is part of the liberty protected by substantive due process under the Fourteenth Amendment" (right to privacy).

So she didn't fit in sexually with her time period as it was so it's not too out there to consider the fact that she did have kinks and fetishes before.

To add another small history lesson (that I looked up for the purpose of trying to give the most historically accurate response) sex toys have been around as far back as the ancient Greeks. Although in the 18th century, use of sex toys was punishable by death in Europe (fuckin' prudes LOL).

Also I learned that when rubber was invented in the 50s, the production of lesbian sex toys exploded which fits perfectly into the timeline because she was infected by the cadou in 1958 so there's a very good chance she had been exposed to them before her mutation.

Regarding her perspective of sex fitting her age, yes, technically she's about 100 years old. But, she never aged past 44, so for argument sake we'll say she's 44 years old.

44 year old's still have great sex, it's not that old.

It's not like she was mutated when she was in her 80s or 90s and hadn't had sex for years or decades.

When you're 44, you're still in your sexual prime. Most women at that age haven't even gone through menopause yet. So they're still out there, having great sex.

Were people more prudish back in the 50s? Oh absolutely. There's no doubt about it and no arguing otherwise.

But I'm inclined to think that it's very possible she had kinks/fetishes because she already didn't fit into the box of what was "acceptable" sexually back in the day.

I think that even before her mutation, home girl was a little bit of a sadist to begin with. Once she got eternal beauty, immortality, power and everything else I think that only grew.

I also have a theory that when she grew, so did her personality traits. Everything was enhanced, so she was meaner, more of a sadist, loved harder (the way she loves her daughters goes without saying) and even before her mutation, there's not a doubt in my mind that she was a fucking spoiled brat😂 So that only got worse too.

So it wouldn't shock me if even before her mutation she was the dominant one in bed and enjoyed punishing her bratty lovers.

Also I think literally needing to consume the flesh and blood of other humans in order to survive desensitized her to inflicting pain on others and could even add to her sex drive in a super fucked up way.

Because lets be honest, we all love our hot 9ft tall lesbian vampire goddess but she's a literal serial killer and is fucking psychotic.

I also think that the mutation fucked with her mental state in a multitude of ways.

I wish we knew more of her backstory, like where she's from, how she grew up (aside from being noble, that much we do know) because she would be SUCH an interesting person to do a character study on.

Regarding your statement of "it’s very curious seeing it normalized as if every adult sexual relationship consists of at least 1 kink/fetish" I think most adult sexual relationships do.

Whether they realize it's a kink or fetish or not is one thing, but I truly believe it is normal for most adult sexual relationships to have at least one kink or fetish.

They don't all always have to be extreme ones either, hell, even talking dirty can be a kink or fetish and I feel like a lot of people talk dirty during sex.

Kinks and fetishes are very normal and it's not "normalizing" it as if we're normalizing something that can be harmful or dangerous (save for the more dangerous kinks/fetishes but I don't think that's what we're talking about right this second). I think we're just talking about it in a way that naturally occurs.

I'm sure Alcina is very well informed about her kinks & fetishes, she has been alive for about 100 years and has been stuck at age 44 for 63-65 years (63 years in 2021, when the game came out/when she was killed, 65 years if we stray from canon and if she was still alive today).

60+ years is a long time to figure out what you like and to learn more about your kinks. Plus, I don't doubt that she's pushed the limits with her maidens and learned from experience (i.e., killing them on accident) and learned the boundaries of her kinks and fetishes.

Plus, she's been cooped up in that castle for 60 years and almost never leaves, it's not outside the realm of possibility that her sex life is thriving because there really isn't much else for her to do.

Reader's experience on the other hand really depends on the author and how experienced they want them to be.

In some fics, reader is familiar with some but not a lot. In others, reader is experienced and in other fics (like mine) reader very inexperienced and Alcina is teaching them. Which also plays into the dominant role Alcina naturally has. Showing her lover the ropes, being in control, giving pleasure and taking it away as she pleases.

Just from the one cut scene in the church when Miranda gives Ethan to Heisenberg you can tell that Alcina is dominant. She speaks her mind and isn't even afraid to disagree with Mother Miranda when she doesn't like her decision (also this is where her being a spoiled brat comes in, arguing with Miranda and Heisenberg when she doesn't get what she wants).

In terms of Alcina enjoying breath play, this is where I also think her being a serial killer and a literal fucking psyho comes into play.

It's not that she enjoys "breath play" per se, I think she enjoys watching the fear in the eyes of whoever she has by the throat. The realization that they are powerless and are at the mercy of this woman. She literally has their life in her hands and she thrives off of the thrill of it.

I'm also sure that in tandem, she's learned a lot about breath play from just choking the shit out of people who are disobedient or those who challenge her. And maybe that thrill eventually became a sexual turn-on as well.

That's one of the things where I think she realized it was a kink after doing it in a threatening, "I'm going to kill you," non-sexual way honestly.

So through doing it to actually hurt people, I'm sure she's learned a little about it that way and then once she started doing it for sexual pleasure, learned more in a "trial by fire" way.

Which is NOT how you learn the limits/boundaries of kinks, like at fucking all. But again, we're talking about a 9ft tall lesbian vampire so in the world of re8, you do you girlypop.

In all honesty, if I was that large and could pick up whole humans like they weighed nothing, and if I were a psychopath who wanted to show their dominance in any way possible, I'm sure I'd pick everyone up by their throats. It's a wonderful way to exude power honestly. It's also a good way for her to instill fear in the rest of her staff. If I saw my boss pick up someone by the throat and choke them out with one hand, you bet your ass I'd never step a hair out of line😂

But you are right, all of it is very interesting!

I'd love to hear yours (and anyone else's) feedback or thoughts on this!

Just be respectful bc if you're not I'm deleting your comments/asks💕

#willalove75 #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #re8 lady dimitrescu #lady alcina

[userlando]

hi lovely! i hope you’re doing well and having a good day ♡

i saw on your guidelines that you don't write extreme age gaps, position of power tropes etc and i just wanted to say thank you. i didn't realise how much damage the kinda fics can cause - the ones that romanticised the extreme age gaps 😬 i'm 21, so i'm not a minor but im inexperienced so i guess i was still naive and i internalised everything i read. i didn't know any better and it just idk... over time they convinced me that those relationships were acceptable which can be so dangerous yk. nothing happened thankfully but those fics changed my mindset and made me more vulnerable to being groomed irl.

anyways i just wanted to say it’s refreshing to see a blog that doesn’t glorify extreme age gaps bc i see it everywhere and it’s just not great djdjd

anyways ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ that’s all. i hope you have a great day! xx thanks for reading

hi baby!! you don’t have to thank me, honestly. I felt everything you wrote in my core because I’ve been there before when I was younger, and it’s so easy when you’re young and vulnerable but it absolutely does not mean that it’s your fault. I’m thankful nothing happened to you and that you’ve grown to see it more clearly.

I’m a strong believer when it comes to the readers being responsible for their own consumption, because that’s absolutely not on the writers and I do believe in writers freedom to write exactly anything they’d like. but as long as they attach warnings to what they write, along with some sort of disclaimer. (and it’s up to readers to respect writers warnings and age restrictions) but it’s still a fine line to toe because (young) people are super impressionable and it’s so easy to fall into the trap of normalising what is potentially dangerous in real life, but fun to read fictionally, you know? age gaps fall into that category.

being a victim to grooming is devastating and it can hurt even more when you grow and learn that what you went through wasn’t right. I’m sorry that you experienced it, no one should ever have to go through it but I’m happy that you’ve come out on the other side <3

sorry this turned rambly but I do appreciate your ask!! thank you for sharing your experience with me and for being so sweet. I hope you have a good day babe 🤍

#zee’s asks 💌

[missyourflight]

would love director’s commentary on the part of “all creatures wild and tame” where Daniel comes up to Max on the truck to ask if he’s done sex stuff —> their first hook up!!!! I love that fic sooooooo much 🥰🦑

ty liza!! 🦑🦑🦑

On the drivers parade truck in Jeddah, Daniel comes to stand next to Max and says, “So have you done, like, sex stuff?” the people need to know!

Max looks around quickly, but there’s nobody near them.

“Mate, shut up,” he says anyway. i don't love the dialogue in this little section but like, Mate as like an assertion of how totally platonic he's feeling etc

“I don’t mean, like, ever,” Daniel goes on, “I know you’re a man of the world, I just –”

He wafts his arms like he’s a jellyfish or something; he’s holding a GoPro that Max really hopes is not turned on. “Do they jizz?” really important to establish a) do they jizz b) what's the slick situation

“I don’t know,” Max hisses.

“But you’ve seen porn.”

“Of course not with real –”

Max cuts himself off, frustrated, and Daniel leans in, says, “Don’t you want to find out?” BRING BACK THE PARADE TRUCK

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Daniel says when he comes to Max’s hotel room after the race.

Max is playing COD, two-player, two of the tentacles holding a controller between them. max gaming with the tentacles is one of the first images i thought about for this fic, along with the tentacles reaching up to the flush the toilet and opening the hotel room door to let daniel in. i think it's funny and also gestures to the kind of matter-of-fact acceptance he has in dealing with them, while at the same time not really Thinking about them/why they're there at all

“They are actually pretty good,” he says.

“Well yeah,” says Daniel. “They’re you.” daniel said max is max!

Max isn’t sure he likes that. max meanwhile is Not ready to acknowledge the way in which the tentacles are an extension of his own desires lol. He pauses the game, sets the controllers on the coffee table.

“Be honest,” he says, twisting to look up at Daniel. “Do you think I’m a freak?”

Daniel grins at him. “Not any more than I did before.”

He sits on the couch beside Max and the nearest tentacle immediately unfolds itself across his lap. very obvious!!

Daniel laughs. “Okay, maybe a little more than before.”

He runs his finger down a row of suckers; they shiver and flex in the wake of his touch. i like shiver and flex

“Freaky,” he says, smiling sideways at Max. Max is afraid to move, to breathe, in case Daniel stops touching him.

Daniel presses his finger to one of the suckers and Max can feel it, the way it wants to cling to him.

“Is this okay?”

Max nods, his fingers digging into the couch cushions. a little thing from this fic which i'm not sure really works/comes across is that max doesn't reach for/kiss daniel himself (i.e. with his arms not his tentacles) until almost the end when he fucks daniel with a tentacle and holds onto him etc - at which point the tentacles disappear bc they've served their purpose

Daniel takes a breath. “What’s it feel like,” he says. “On your dick.”

Max’s brain freezes for a moment. He looks at Daniel, uncertain, and Daniel looks right back at him, intent, a little challenging – not a joke. up to this point daniel's kind of been normalising the tentacle stuff with humour - i'm not sure the way they tip over the line here entirely works but oh well!

“I haven’t tried –” he says, and Daniel says, “I don’t believe you.” i like this beat better lol

Daniel is right, obviously.

Of course Max has thought, in bed, what it would be like. The sheets thrown back, Max’s hand on his dick, one tentacle sliding in and out of his mouth, What if it was –

“You’re hard,” Daniel says. He moves his hand as if he’s going to touch Max, then puts it back on his own thigh. even though daniel's taking the lead here there's still an element of the tentacles as excuse “You should get it out. Go on, Max.”

Max lifts his hips, scrambling to shove his pants down. He takes hold of his dick, which is hard, like Daniel said, aching.

“That’s it,” Daniel says, and Max gasps as a tentacle wraps around him, teasing at the tip where it’s already wet.

The tentacle is thicker than his dick, which is embarrassing, 🤐 but it feels so good: the suckers; the way it twists around him, tightens.

Daniel’s staring; when he reaches out to touch just the promise of it sends Max over the edge.

Covered in Max’s come, the tentacle lifts its tip to Daniel’s mouth.

Max moans with shame, watching helplessly as Daniel opens up for it, sucks it clean, the inside of his mouth so pink and wet. the tentacles doing all the hot awful things he wants to do all the time!!

He meets Max’s eyes and Max feels the pull of it everywhere, shuddering, dick twitching like he’s going to come again.

#commentary #asks #tentacle fic

[flowerwrites06]

AHHHHHHHHH I just read Portrait of a Prince and I've been meaning to read it for the longest time but you know when something looks good and you want to give yourself time to savour it... that's what this fic needed AND WJAJAJAJA WOW

Somehow I wasn't expecting that ending but somehow it also fits... when we first meet Angel and realise she knew Taehyung that a lot of their past was spent growing up together but also that they had been something, they'd shared love and intimacy and that had all deteriorated and then when they meet their lives are entirely different...

Angel's pain was so visceral, so real because despite losing touch somehow the man she sees he's become isn't what she imagined he'd be... the first sight of the Prince she sees is someone bored and debauched, so lost in opium and pleasure and sex that it's sort of second nature and one that's so normalised that he's bored by it, simply going through the motions, but also someone bored with trying to be anything but someone who surrenders to the vices around him...

What hurts and made me ACHE is that somewhere under it all Tae recognises it... he knows the life he's living and the person he's become is not him... he KNOWS it because he feels shame when he realises it was Angel, he feels shame when he realises someone he loves is seeing him at his worst

It also hurts because I genuinely (like Angel) thought there was hope and redemption for him trying to change, that maybe she'd be that person who sees HIM trapped underneath this cycle of drugs and drinking, that she sees HIM and knows somewhere... he's still there

But the way things play out afterwards and she sees him with someone else when it was all so REAL to her, she's just someone he'll keep around, someone in his heart he DOES TRULY love but he's so stuck in this pattern of living that he ends up hurting her

AND THE PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE... THAT TITLE becomes so POWERFUL when you see that she burns the first portrait of what the world is being shown to the portrait of what the world SHOULD see... they should see his reality and it's ugly and honest and painful that even he can't confront it...

But even then... even then he can't sentence her for a truth she painted and that it all stemmed from HIM hurting her, from him not trying...

So it's EXILE 😭😭😭😭

And I don't know how things end between them but I'm choosing to wish and hope that years down the line slowly slowly... Taehyung begins to change... he might've been too far gone at the present but being confronted with the portrait and her words that she'd choose death or execution than live a false life or be in his bed again... I have hope it begins to change him

And maybe years down the line he visits her where she's been exiled

And on first sight

She knows this is the Taehyung she FIRST lost

And somehow... he's making his way back

JGJFDGNJDFG THIS IS SO AMAZING THANK YOU SO MUCH!! Portrait of a Prince was so much fun to write since I hadn't done that kind of plotline before especially with THAT kind of ending. Honestly, no other ending seemed to work for this because Taehyung hadn't reached a good enough point in character to be 'redeemed'. Like you said, he's so used to all this behaviour and there was no way a few interactions between them was going to change him.

I love your interpretation of the ending, having that extra time for Taehyung to turn over a new leaf while she's off rebuilding her life in a farm of her own. But AHHHH i loved reading this, thank you for the support!!

#replies

[cambion-companion]

What is wrong with THAT anon who wrote that just because content is free, we are to praise authors to the sky even if they 1) propagate toxic behaviours while claiming it is great love story; go watch 365 days on Netflix, you can picture Aemond as main male character kidnapping a woman, if that is your favourite content, that story has 3 parts, maybe you won't want to throw up until the last one, so good luck 2) make Aemond another Daemon, behaving like a monster towards his loved ones while saying this is love, clearly not understanding that Aemond is nothing like his uncle, showing only how you are unable to basically grasp the concept that this 2 people aren't one human being put in 2 bodies, who sided with Rhaenyra, one true girl boss while Alicent is evil and Aemond runs from her and his siblings at first opportunity 3) make Aemond change sides, showing your total lack of understanding towards not only him as a character but to readers who went through bullying and reading something like this might be triggering. Just shut up, you know nothing of effects bullying has on people and don't use Aemond as your own stupid way to normalise such thing just because you are Black stan who projects in mind that it would be so great for Aemond to change sides, belittling his trauma and ignoring how his trauma shaped him as a person. If you truly understand Aemond, you give him woman who supports Greens, who would not want him to change himself (aka turn his back on his mother, his one defender and supporter) and accepting him for he is and only this way he could begin to heal from his traumatic past. If you truly believe that ff where Aemond switches sides, befriends Luke or Daemon, save your so called wisdom to yourself and don't whine about not being praised. Mark my words, no one who experienced bullying would ever support this kind of content, hiding behind cloak of true love while being nothing but toxic and traumatic. Just because something is written, doesn't mean readers should be grateful whatsoever, just because dear author graced us with horrible writing, writing about Aemond but not paying attention to what he stands for, what kind of person he is and instead focusing on their own fantasies. So yeah, people should expect something better than Aemond switching sides, because what Aemond is, is a man loyal to people he loves and he would never betray his mother or siblings and if you can't see that, stuck in your way of thinking that everyone is supposed to love Rhaenyra, leave writing fics about Aemond to Green stans, at least Green stans appreciate quality over quantity

As for ff being accurate, sure, you can write about Aemond while having Voldemort or Thor in your mind, you can project on Aemond even things he is not, name his brother Loki instead of Aegon and name his dragon Nagini instead of Vhagar, how creative of you, maybe contact George R.R.Martin and try to write a script for 2 season so everyone could magically become Rhaenyra supporter?

Le sigh. I might have to start tagging these #Anon wars 😄 but I think both you guys have good points. Yes, it's certainly disturbing to see that kind of content for a character we love so much right? And of course we aren't obligated to love someone's work just because it's free. But we can also choose to not read it, and let it go. People are always going to produce media, whether it be fanfiction or not, that we don't agree with and that may even disturb us. It does fall to us to make the decision not to engage with it since, sadly, it's not going anywhere.

Some people in this Fandom definitely enjoy portraying Aemond out of character, and maybe they are even aware of it in some cases.

Myself, I try painstakingly to keep him in character in my fics. Mostly because I respect and am fascinated by him and want to expand on what the show has already created.

Hang in there, Anon. I know that on Tumblr you can also block tags you find upsetting.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #answered ask #aemond one eye #aemond stannies #aemond fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #game of thrones #hotd

[pokimoko]

🍒 🍊 🍍 n 🥝!

Thank you for the fruit, my fruit. 💜

🍒 What’s your favorite character dynamic to write? (Can be romantic or platonic, specific or general!)

Platonic for sure! Anything found family is my jam, and I particularly love writing sibling dynamics, blood-related or otherwise. I also like writing F/M friendships because I enjoy them and I think they should be normalised more, honestly (though, truthfully, those always end up falling in the sibling dynamic category as well). I also like writing QPRs, though I haven't really had the opportunity to write many, but they hold a special place in my heart.

🍊 Who’s a character you don’t write for that often, but keep meaning to write for more?

Bucky Barnes, definitely; sure, I wrote one fairly long fic about him, but that was one fic; I was obsessed with the guy long and hard enough that there should be at least a few more. But nope. I did plan out a whole sequel to said long fic as well as prequels but those never really came into fruition unfortunately. Not sure if I'll write for him anyone soon but god I've had so many plot ideas about the guy over the years that I just never wrote. Still fond of the 'Bucky bonds with Cosmo the Space Dog' idea I came up with back in 2021. I wrote a post it note but nothing more. Ah. Maybe one day.

Aside from him, I'd say Jake Lockley. I definitely need to write more of him and I want to. He can be a bit hard to pin down character-wise because we were given nothing more than crumbs, but I also enjoy the freedom that offers too. He definitively hasn't been getting enough love from me. But hopefully that will change soon.

🍍 What kind of AUs do you like? Are there any AUs you hate or just generally have beef with?

I generally avoid AUs; in fact, I exclude most of the more popular ones (Collage, High School, Coffee Shop, etc) from my searches because I'm really not fussed about reading them. I just find writers often strip the characters of any distinguishabilty to the point of them being basically a different character (not their fault, really; changing the setting and origin changes the character's experiences and dynamics, which fundamentally changes them, and that can be a difficult thing to wrangle). Some people, though, absolutely excel at using the AU and the worldbuilding therein to explore deeper into the character, their dynamics and motivations from a viewpoint that is different yet still feels like it aligns with what's been established in canon, and I love when it's done right. So I don't avoid AUs completely. Just really picky about them.

As for the ones I like, I like Alternative Universes in the most classic sense of term, where universes are defined by a path not chosen, a mistake not made. That is to say, I really like Canon Divergence and What If? scenarios. Anything that keeps the characters and world somewhat familiar but their dynamics and/or motivations altered. (Also love when alternate selves—or even selves from different points of the same timeline—meet and get to see the verion of themself they could have been if things had been different and/or interact with who they were before that Great Terrible Thing changed them.) For more extreme alterations, I'm not against a well written Fantasy/Sci-fi AU or Fusion AUs (so long as it's not an all-out crossover and the fusion is not all-consuming).

I am not a fan of No Powers/No Magic/Human AUs (or Modern Setting AUs if the original setting isn't modern). That's Just Some Guy in a Just Some Guy world now (which always looks suspiciously like our own). And powers/non-humaness is generally tied up a lot with the character themself, so stripping that from them removes a lot of who they are, in my opinion. And as we established, I'm really picky about characterisation. I don't much care for Soulmate AUs either, but that's a whole amatonormativity essay I won't get into.

Also I wouldn't say I have beef with Coffee Shop AUs, I just will never understand them, and I don't mean in a "urgh why is this so popular" kind of way, I mean I literally don't understand. I don't drink coffee and I've been inside Starbucks maybe once (mostly to gawk because I rarely come across them, even in the city), so words like venti and frappe and just coffee culture in general flies over my head, and I do not care enough about coffee to learn. It is simply a fic space I am not meant to inhabit. I have made my peace with that.

🥝 What’s your favorite trope/AO3 tag to write?

Character Studies are my happy place, my life blood if you will. Is it obvious yet I'm obsessed with exploring characters and their dynamics with others? Because I am. I am nothing more than a clockmaker taking these characters apart to see what makes them tick, and how the gears of the world and those around them fit into it all. Other tags and tropes I'm fond of are and that show up a lot in my writing include: angst (duh), unreliable narrators, memory loss/amnesia (guilty pleasure), dream sequences/unreality, hey! let me patch up your wounded hand, forehead kisses, extended metaphors, horror as a metaphor because I'm pretentious and was fundamentally changed as a person by being taught Gothic and Romantic Literature in my senior school years, and finally mind control/posession (guiltier pleasure).

---

Always a blast getting to answer questions like these, thank you! :D. There's more fruits/questions here if anyone else wants to send some in.

#ask game #my stuff #fanfic stuff #fic stuff #personal #tip 🤝 me: having basically the same opinions on AUs to the point my answer seems lke a way more complicated version of your own #i'm sorry writers but no power aus are just...so boring to me. put them in a normal setting but keep the powers! that's fun #and if the character shares nothing with the og beyond a name then i'm outta there #living vicariously through the sibling dynamics i write because i'm not really close to any of my own (except one but he's very annoying) #(which i guess...is a well established sibling dynamic...well damn)

[ignitesthestxrs]

for the trope thing, omegaverse...?

B: Like it. Not one of my bigger cravings, but it can scratch a certain itch if I’m in the right mood.

god my position on omegaverse has really changed over the year. the truth is that like, uh when the mood hits there is a Particular Kind of omegaverse shit that i definitely will scour Ao3 for, but there's also the vast mjority of omegaverse content that i: fucking hate.

i wrote on tor dot com about this a bit! the resulting twitter response was so terrifying that i turned all my notifs off and locked my account for a bit and spent a week walking mental circles around my brain alternately going 'oh god i should never write an essay ever again' and 'no, it's the PEOPLE who are wrong'.

anyway i do think i could have articulated myself better, but also the people are still wrong because the amount of people who were getting mad at me for a) things i didn't say or b) things that were covered in like, the next paragraph of the essay was fucking wild.

all this to say i'm using this tumblr meme as an opportunity to excise my internet trauma, as god intended.

omegaverse comes from a fucked up history of fetishisation and the cis womanification of gay men. that's just uuuh the truth. it's a series of tropes that posits that sex and true love have biological imperatives, that the truest expression of attraction and/or romance revolves around pregnancy and uh Breeding, and in its original conception it imposes a very strict binary and structure on the concept of sex AND gender. the overall effect is to heterosexify gay men and like, phew, tiresome.

the thing is - the tHING IS :

a) if that's what gets you off, whatever lmfao. go for it. just like, admit that that's what you're doing? i do not have an issue with whatever kinks, i have an issue with people playing out something extremely fucked up and then calling it romance. love your extremely fucked up thing! do whatever you want! but admit to yourself (and your fic tags) what you are doing .

b) things can be fine on an individual level and weird on a group level. if someone says yeah wet buttholes are my thing then chase your bliss. if there is a Greater Fandom Trend of people liking a particular collection of tropes that all reflect a particular way of viewing queerness and queer behaviour, that speaks to a way in which queerness as a topic is thought about, written about, desired, expected. it's worthy of comment! it's interesting! if it's something you do, it is perhaps worth examining your own choices and behaviours to see where they are coming from and why you like them so much.

All That Being Said: there is some extremely fucking cool shit happening in the omegaverse space, driven by queer people in general and gender diverse people in particular. any time hard rules and structures exist around gender and sex, some enterprising queer is going to come along and tear that shit down and use the pieces to make something new. and that's so cool! i fucking love that shit! i love alpha lesbians with retractable cocks! i love omegas figuring out how to fuck without an alpha at all! i love the mixing and matching of anatomy, i love the trying different aspects of the collected omegaverse tropes out in new ways, i love people creating interesting new lore for betas, i love to have an oppressive omegaverse world in which all the worst parts of the tropes are normalised but your protagonists exist out side of that strict biosocial structure.

i love the unbound nature of sex and gender that is happening in this space, people are so clever and cool and creative and Queer. literally the piece of writing that has hit me in the bones re: my own sexuality and what i find arousing in a woman and the interplay of sex and gender and Sexual Roles was an omegaverse fic, i have never felt so Seen in my whole life.

in summary: as with every answer i've given to this meme lol It Depends

#hannah answers asks #fandom: meta #i'm gonna have to either remember my old tagging system or create a new one huh #hannah answers memes

[ofmermaidstories]

Hi Mermie! I’m a longtime lurker, and I finally gathered the courage to let you know how much I love your writing! Thank you for sharing all your stories with us :)

If I may, can I ask your thoughts on something? I’ve been wanting to start my own writing blog for years now, but I also one day want to traditionally publish an original novel of my own. Do you think the risk of being found out as a “fanfic writer” is worth? A lot of popular authors these days got their start writing fanfic, but I’m curious what your think.

Thank you again! <3

This was the first of two asks I got within a day asking about the fanfic-writer-to-traditionally-published-author pipeline, lmfao, so I’m gonna answer them back-to-back! Like neat lil bookends. 📚

I think it can be! Are you embarrassed by the idea of your fics and your original writing being connected? 🥺 I know people like to weaponise the idea of the fanfic-to-pubbed-author pipeline against writers and books they don’t like, but to be honest I always see it as an inevitable next step for a lot of people LOL. People love the idea of telling stories! I have friends who aren’t writers naturally, that pine about wanting to publish a book—so the fact that so many fic writers find their way into publishing original content doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. I do have mixed feelings about filing the serial numbers off of a fic, LOL, but I don’t think there’s any real risk to being discovered as a fic writer these days (unless someone is a plagiarist, of course, which case there is a very big risk and maybe that plan should then be reassessed LOL). It’s so popular! It’s getting normalised, or at least is taking up enough space that involvement in it doesn’t have to be career-ending. There might be legality problems, maybe, but I don’t have the qualifications to comment on that because I honestly have no idea about it. 😭

It just depends, I reckon! On several things! How comfortable you are with your fics and original writing being associated with each other. What genres you’re writing them in. How you write them. How you act on your fanfic blog, vs. how you eventually act online as a traditionally published writer. Like, if you wrote anime boyfriend smut and then write non-anime boyfriend smut, and acted the same on your tradpubbed accounts as you did your fic ones, I don’t see how being pinged for writing fanfic could be that bad. It’s more about consistency, I reckon, than what you’re doing. People love the excuse to be a hater, and under that mentality everything is fair game, so sure, maybe one day someone will try to use your fanfic against you—if you’ve been consistent with how kindly you treat people and the things you like to write, the most it will be is annoying.

And honestly? Unless you are absolutely zealous about keeping your identity private, you should always just assume that someone out there will eventually connect you and your fanfic account!! People are nosy and the internet is surprisingly shallow; it holds everything, just under the surface. You either have to make peace with the idea that your writing will be compared (and maybe used against you, because people can be jerks!), or you protect yourself and your future stories and keep a sparse presence, or go ao3 only. 🥺

Ultimately though?? I think it’s worth writing fanfic anyway. Even if you have to take a few extra, cautionary steps—being part of a healthy community is fun!! Especially a writing community. Being traditionally published seems like it can be quite lonely, really; it doesn’t seem to have the same kind of interaction, especially if you start off as a smaller author. In fandom we’re all apart of the same space—we exist as readers and writers together, and we talk to each other fittingly. In the published world that real-time feedback is limited. The spaces readers can gush about a book are reader-only spaces—they’re not for you, as a writer, because now you are separated from them (and rightfully so, tbh, so many authors are proving why the distance is necessary). I know social media now means that publishers like (and expect) their writers to be online and gather and maintain an audience, but that can backfire so easily. Look at how authors shoot themselves in the foot by lashing out a bad review on goodreads! There’s worse things to happen to a writing career than being outed for writing fanfic. As you said, so many popular authors got their start with fanfic! I mean, the Reylo community is thriving, for instance—and the Dramione kiddos are beginning their trickle over, with writers like Olivie Blake.

Even if you have to be vicious about protecting your identity, I reckon fanfic can teach you a lot. Like how to handle (or not, lmao) the rudes; how to refine what you’re writing, and what you’re good at—and what people will respond to, in your stories. The hard part for all writing, fic or original, is finding your people—your audience! Because they need time to learn to trust you and trust the stories you tell, and that can be hard when you’re trying to do it with the weight of a publisher’s expectations behind you, making you do little tiktok dances—or whatever—for attention. 🥺 If you start a fanfic blog and you get popular enough, you’re at the very least giving yourself options, because you’ll have people there that already like your writing, and you. People who might be interested in reading whatever original material you publish, beyond fic (people who might like watching the tiktok dances!!!).

I’m (very clearly lmao) not an expert in the publishing industry, or the general attitude to fanfic-writers-turned-authors. There very well might be an unspoken convention that means they’re more likely to be distrustful of a fanfic writer. Maybe there’s some really severe expectations in monetising that pre-existing readership that was originally there for the love of the story, and the fandom it came from. All this casual gluttony, when it comes to fanfic, might already be effecting (affecting? I can never remember) the industry, as more and more fanfic readers and writers hit adulthood and get Big People Jobs in imprints and as editors or agents.

The only thing you can do, Anon, is a) decide what you’re comfortable with, and b) how best to tell the stories you wanna tell. Whether that’s on AO3 or tumblr or a manuscript in an submissions inbox. I hope you get to write lots of stories, Anon—and that they find their people, no matter where or how you’re telling them. 💕

#ofmermaidstories-asks #i hope you’re having a good weekend anon 🥺💕

[readyplayerhobi]

BILY makes my heart full. As someone who has been fat and fat shamed all her life, I find this series really comforting even though I’m older and haven’t done the do yet lol. I know there are people out there who will love you no matter your size, ethnicity, gender, or sexual orientation but it’s comforting to read pieces like this too. In a way, it’s also refreshing bc I haven’t read many pieces that have been written like yours. Idk how to really describe it but all I know is that this whole series so far is really comforting so thank you 💜

Aww, I'm so glad! That's what this series is meant to be...not only for the girls who often get represented in fics (skinny or in shape), but also for the girls who don't (fat and tall). Obviously I don't want to exclude anyone, but as a large and tall woman myself...theres something lovely about seeing body types that match your own being mentioned.

Fat rolls, jiggly thighs, cellulite, stretch marks, etc. Everyone has them to some extent, but this is just...to normalise it a little. And before anyone says, no...I'm not glorifying obesity.

Our MC in BILY is older, overweight (to whatever you want to imagine, or not imagine too), tall and yet confident in her life. She feels some insecurity given Jungkook's beauty and fitness, but she also acknowledges that she's pretty happy with her life!

[gallavichy]

Hey Gray, haven’t messaged in a while but still reading - absolutely loved the end of CG and really enjoying TBM so far! What’s your schedule for this one looking like? Just wanted to say I saw your message answering why they are a bit older in this fic, and as someone who has yet to find love in their thirties I really appreciate you normalising that! 🥰

♥️♥️♥️ tbh for this one i think i’m just updating it whenever i have the chapter written rather doing it on any type of schedule. i have been snowed in all week and ended up writing chapter 3, and it’s the 3rd time i’ll be updating in the span of a month. 😬 hope that answers your question lol

tbm mickey is going to be a whole 35 years old before he ever kisses someone he loves, and that’s okay because that’s his own personal journey. 🥰

#ask gray #tbm

[beautifulletdownfics]

Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

+

MY MASTERLIST.

+

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but … I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

+

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

+

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

+

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

+

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

+

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?��� you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

+

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