“you’re working too hard, rem,” your soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, as he was practically passing out on the sofa. he’d been working all day on this chapter, balanced with the part time job he had in a bookstore.
“no i’m not, i’m almost done...” he whined almost, sighing as he watched you sit down next to him, the cushions dipping in your weight. his eyes were droopy, and lips parted as he tried to focus. the clock announced a quarter to midnight.
you had a bit of work too in the evening, and tried occupying yourself, knowing better than distract your boyfriend from the writing of his book.
“it’s late, babe... you’ll finish tomorrow. come to bed with me,” you said, resting your chin on his shoulder. you knew how to make him melt. your lashes fluttering up at him. your lips pressing on his cheek, then his jaw and then his mouth.
“alright, alright... i’ll go to bed,” he murmured between kisses against your lips that had definitely missed his.
“with me,” you added.
“yeah, with you.”
he left a peck on your nose and then put his writings down, the shuffled papers and messy notes now on the table. you’d deal with it later.
in the bedroom, he collapsed on the bed, eyes already closed. you helped him out of his clothes, leaving trails of kisses on various spots of skin – depending on what you were taking off. your lips brushed his shoulders once his jumper was off, then his neck and his jaw as you undid his belt. you’d leave a teasing kiss on his happy trail if you weren’t both so drained out.
once his jeans were kicked off, laying miserably on the edge of the bed, he pulled you into him and under the sheets.
“y’take care of me so good, dove...” remus whispered against your temple before falling into a deep sleep.
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹
wn: don’t hesitate to give me your opinion on this so i can improve my writing!
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ cw: slow burn, reader is anais’ friend (a bit older than her), fluff
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ note: i promise there will be a part 2 lmao. happy new year!! based on request.
masterlist part one -> part two
ᝰ 🎤・° ⊹
you’d heard his name plenty of times, usually tossed into conversation by anais with a casual eye-roll or a proud grin—depending on the day. “my dad’s on tour again,” or “yeah, he’s playing a gig tonight.” he’d always felt abstract to you. just your best friend’s dad.
so when anais dragged you along to the venue—come on, you’ll love it, it’s exactly your music style—you went without any nerves at all. you were just tagging along with your best friend.
it was louder than you expected, people were already drunk and spilling their drinks as they waited for him to make his appearance.
and then, he did.
people cheered, the screen filmed him closer. you had already seen his face, of course, but he looked even better than you remembered.
his dark hair turned into a salt and pepper kind of colour. his face was sharp but then he smiled and it softened, eyes crinkling as he walked towards the mic with his guitar. he wore a black button up, first buttons open to let show a glimpse of chest hair.
he definitely didn’t look like the kind of people you thought about as a best friend’s dad.
ᝰ 🎤・° ⊹
backstage smelled like sweat, smoke and beer. someone laughed down the hall. you were half-focused on a poster peeling off the wall and the way your glass was freezing in your hand when the door opened and he walked in with members of staff and the band.
“hi, dad,” she said as he walked to her.
you looked up.
closer, you could see more details about him; a little scruff along his jaw, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his forearms, still sweating from the performance. his eyes flicked to you, curious and warm—and something in his expression shifted, just slightly.
“hello, girls. i see you brought your friend...?” noel asked his daughter, which she nodded to and introduced you.
“hi,” you smiled warmly.
he looked at you up and down, not judgemental, but sizing you up like an x-ray.
“hey. liked our show?” he tilted his head, shoving his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
“yeah. i wasn’t expecting that.”
“what were you expecting, then?”
“i dunno. some,” you paused, smiling teasingly, “modern... rock typa music.”
“so you thought it was gonna be shite?”
you chuckled softly, and nodded, “basically, yeah.”
anais laughed beside you and walked away for more beer.
noel studied you again for a beat, before saying.
“you look like you’re about to tell me what i did wrong.”
“oh, i wouldn’t do that. i’m way too polite,” you answered and hid your grin behind the rim of your glass as you sipped the beer.
“so mercy critique, huh?”
you chuckled softly, low and amused.
“you don’t get that a lot do you?”
“especially not from someone like you.”
“oi. what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you’re young,” he stated like if he was the sharpest person in the room.
“you’re sweaty,” a beat. you smiled at his raised brow. “i’m twenty-eight.”
“that’s young. you’re way too witty for someone barely older than my daughter.”
you both looked at each other for a second in a silence that was bordering on awkward, but then some staff member arrived to talk to noel.
ᝰ 🎤・° ⊹
someone introduced themselves to you, you talked a bit together and this went on with different people through the night. your now tipsy mind was coming back to noel—your brain daring yourself to look at him and wishing he’d look at you back.
the night was passing slowly, the adrenaline fading into something quieter, some people leaving. you had lost anais since around half an hour, but you knew you shouldn’t worry.
you were taking another beer when you felt a presence behind you and tugging a beer for themselves too.
“so? where were we before production kidnapped me?” he asked, his voice slightly raspy and thick with alcohol.
you turned around with a smile tugging at your lips.
“yeah, that seemed really serious.”
“yeah, life or death problem,” he fired back, mirroring your grin.
you laughed softly and ran a hand through your slightly messy hair, “...have you seen anais?”
“absolutely no fucking idea. but she wouldn’t have left without you,” he says and you nod, taking a sip of beer in unison.
“how many beers have you had, you look really flushed, love,” his blue gaze rakes over your slightly pink cheeks and glossy eyes.
“not too many. but this is my last, i was just leaving.”
“yeah. i—me too.”
you finish your beer with small banter, laughs and tension, before he walks you to the exit.
“did you have a good night, then? finally meeting the dad,” he asks with a small smirk, but softer at the edges, quieter.
“oh, the dad, huh?” you chuckle softly, hands settling in your pockets as you stop in the hallway of the exit. “...yeah, i had a good time. it was nice meeting you.”
he nods his head, observing you for what felt like the thousandth time of the night. the light of the hallway, visibly old, flickers to less intensity of brightness. the air shifts with even more tension and you realise you are standing quite close to him, you breath hitching in your throat.
he tilts his head, looking like he was fighting with himself. he looked a lot like he wanted to kiss you.
“oh, there you are!”
the blonde girl walks faster down the dim-lit hall, and reaches you both.
“are we going?” anais asks, which you hum to.
she squints, looking at noel and you interrogatively, like if she’s sensing all the tension here.
“yeah, yeah, we’re going,” you clarify your previous vague answer and look at noel one last time, saying a small goodbye.
“bye, dad,” she says, giving his cheek a kiss before walking away with me.
but you think, when you start to think about noel already again, that you are completely fucked.
PAIRING: lorenzo berkshire x fem!reader (she's also an implied slytherin but it's never once explixitly said, if I remember correctly)
GENRE: angst
TW: minor injury, swearing (brief)
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
A/N: part 2 of obsessed!!
SONGS: my way by Olivia Rodrigo
☆ MASTERLIST TAG LIST PART1
December passed by and turned into the new year before you had known and you came back to Hogwarts as almost an entirely new person with newfound security in yourself and your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t brought it up ever since but he, you had noticed, made it an extra step every day to reassure you one way or another that he only had eyes for you.
It was sometimes a single flower.
A letter.
Sweets when you were on your period.
You had seriously been living every girlfriend’s dream.
Your biggest concern was honestly not having enough time and patience to finish both your Potions and Transfiguration essays.
You were sitting by Enzo’s side at the Slytherin table during the feast the evening you had arrived back to the castle with the rest of the students who celebrated Christmas at home. You were lightheartedly taking jabs at Blaise and Theo, so just as usual, when Dumbledore stood and spoke up, "Before we begin the spring term, as Madam Pomfrey has agreed to take on a trainee this term, I'd like to welcome back one of Hogwarts' former students—”
You were in the middle of swallowing a snicker at Theo who had stuffed about six grapes in his mouth and looked ridiculous, like a squirrel.
“—Miss Florence Fawley.”
Clapping.
Your heart stopped.
Then you turned to look at Enzo who only sat there beside you with his fork lifted halfway to his mouth, looking confused at the girl next to Madam Pomfrey sitting with the teachers.
She was just there, smiling at a few people from the Ravenclaw table before her eyes started searching the Slytherins.
For Enzo, you assumed.
Then she found him, and you felt small — until his hand found your waist, and you sagged against him, leaning your head on his shoulder.
It was a statement. Quiet, but definitely one that put your mind at ease.
“Ow, shit, Pansy, that hurt,” you cursed at your friend as she walked you to the infirmary a few days later.
You took a wild Bludger — better said, the Bludger took you, straight off your broom, and caused a dislocated shoulder during Quidditch practice.
“Shall I go in with you?” she asked, an apologetic smile on her lips.
“No, no, I’ll be fine. See ya at dinner, I guess,” you sighed before pushing the heavy wooden door open in the Hospital Wing.
You knew how it went by now — go in, sit on an empty bed, and eventually, when the matron had time she would come to check and treat you. You were an expert, to say the least, at getting injured.
The weirdest thing about always having some sort of bruise or cut wasn’t even the way you got them — but how Enzo had always made sure to take care of you, even after Madam Pomfrey checked on you. Even if it was only the side of a fingernail. He was just genuinely that kind and loving when it came to something as real as your relationship was.
You sat on the bed, deep in your own thoughts when a pair of legs appeared in your vision.
“Hi,” her voice was soft, you could only compare it to honey. Then you looked up to be met by the girl from the pictures. The girl whose ghost had been haunting you. “Madam Pomfrey is busy so I’ll be checking on you,” she smiled, and you could only think it was a trap.
“Uh, thanks,” you murmured. She wasn’t as tall as you thought. “Ouch,” you hissed when she touched your shoulder.
“Quidditch?” was all she asked.
You nodded, “Yeah. I’m a Chaser. Bloody Goyle confused me for a Ravenclaw at practice and his Bludger hit my shoulder.”
She let out a soft huff and shook her head with a small smile. “I saw you fly yesterday. You seemed unstoppable out there — I get why Lorenzo must like to watch you at matches.”
Huh. Was that… a compliment?
But your ears focused more at how she said his full name. You only called him Lorenzo when you were mad at him — or when he tickled you so hard your belly hurt from laughing too much.
You almost asked her something that was definitely not something you should ask when you first meet your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, so you stayed silent instead.
You almost forgot about your dislocated shoulder until she put it back into place and you winced in pain with a hiss.
“I know, I’m sorry,” was all she whispered.
And then all you told Pansy and Daphne at dinner was “Well, she’s more human than I thought.”
You couldn’t believe how much time you spent being jealous of this girl. Looking back at it now, it seemed so immature and unfounded.
A few more visits to the infirmary made you realise Florence Fawley was more introverted than you thought at first — when you still hadn’t met her.
She asked you about Quidditch. Told you she had wished to be better at flying so she could have played while at Hogwarts.
She became less and less like the expectations you had set for her judged by her accomplishments, and more human by every sentence that left her mouth.
She gave you medicine for period cramps, but more like a friend and not as a Healer.
However, that friendliness lasted for about two weeks.
“Hi, Enz,” you entered his dorm with fresh gossip to tell him about a Hufflepuff in your year, and you found him reading something that looked like a letter. “Your mother sent that?” you asked while crossing the room, ready to get comfy with him on his bed.
“No.”
“Oh?”
“Can I see?” you peeked over to see the parchment. It was a poem in neat handwriting that made you frown. “Who?”
“No,” his face darkened in disappointment and a hint of anger.
“No?”
“Florence sent it.”
Your stomach dropped.
The room went silent. Not the peaceful kind of quiet you usually shared with him. The kind where every thought in your head suddenly became too loud.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
You were speechless. Why would she send him a poem?
He set it aside on the bed and shook his head.
Your blood boiled, and it was only for a second that you thought he’d give up on you. Because the way he looked at you, and how he pulled you in told you everything you needed to know — he needed this poem just as much as he needed a Bludger to the face.
“Why would she send you that?”
Enzo sighed, running a hand over his face.
“I don’t know.”
And that answer somehow made it worse.
“You don’t know?”
“No.” His voice softened, but there was still something frustrated underneath it. “Because I don’t know what she expected me to do with it.”
You looked down at the parchment.
“Maybe she expected you to remember.”
A pause. Not a guilty pause. A sad one.
“I do remember, Y/N.”
Your chest tightened. Because that was the one thing you hated admitting. Florence wasn't some random girl. She had been part of his life.
“But remembering someone doesn't mean wanting them back.”
You pulled back to look at him, “She knew about me.”
And then all you could read off of his face was anger.
“She knew we were together.”
“Yeah.”
“And she still sent it.”
“Yeah.”
Then he paused before cupping your cheeks between his hands, “Before you start overthinking, I need you to understand something. Florence was important to me. She was my girlfriend. I’m not going to pretend she wasn't. But she doesn't get to walk back into my life and act like nothing changed. Because I’m with you and I love you, Y/N.”
You nodded but you could feel the insecurity creeping up your spine. And before you could have stopped, you asked, “Do you ever miss her?”
He didn’t even think before answering, “No.”
It was simple as that.
“I miss being that age sometimes because last year, the NEWTs were something the teachers liked to scare us with, and I had more time to do things other than studying. But Flo?” He shook his head. “No. Because I don’t want the life I had back.”
He then took a short pause and rested his forehead against yours, “I want this one.”
She sent a few more poems, and letters too, like the first one, but Enzo didn’t even bother to read them. Then she went silent for a few days. You couldn’t make peace with the thought that she thought she could come and take him just like that and how she played you. You found it vile and disgusting.
And if she had kept it up, you wouldn’t just stand and watch her immature moves at trying to take your boyfriend.
Then she dropped the next bomb.
Her, tending to the cart in the infirmary, in a sweater that was definitely not hers. Not hers but your boyfriend’s.
You froze in the doorway.
It was navy. A little too big on her shoulders, the sleeves rolled twice over her wrists. The left cuff had begun to fray where Enzo always absent-mindedly tugged at it while studying.
There wasn't a chance you were mistaken.
Your stomach twisted.
Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe he'd lent it to her years ago and she'd simply never returned it. Maybe she'd found it tucked away in an old trunk. Maybe—
No.
She knew exactly whose jumper it was.
"Morning," Florence greeted warmly when she noticed you. "Shoulder again?"
You forced your face into something resembling a smile.
"Sprained wrist this time."
Her eyes flickered to the bandage wrapped around your hand before she nodded sympathetically.
"Sit down. I'll get some dittany."
Does it still smell like him?
The thought made you feel sick.
Maybe she was just trying to rile you up now.
And she was getting to you. Embarassingly so.
You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, though.
“Nice jumper.”
She looked down “Oh,” then smiled, “It is.”
Then silence. You were waiting for her to maybe say something about it. She didn’t. So you asked, “Where’d you get it?”
“Lorenzo gave it to me years ago.” Then, after a brief pause, “I never gave it back.”
You searched her face for something.
Guilt.
Embarrassment.
A sheepish laugh followed by, I really should return it.
Anything.
But Florence only busied herself with arranging bottles on the trolley as though she'd merely commented on the weather.
Now your blood did boil. Not because of the jumper itself. Because she knew Lorenzo Berkshire had a girlfriend and that said girlfriend was standing right in front of her.
And yet she kept choosing reminders.
Poems.
Letters.
Now this.
Maybe each thing on its own meant nothing.
Together, they painted a picture you were no longer willing to ignore.
Now you couldn't tell whether she'd changed, or whether she'd simply started showing you who she really was.
This was a battle now. Of which you decided to be the winner.
That same afternoon, you were walking past the Greeenhouses when you spotted Florence Fawley inside.
With your boyfriend. Her head was bowed, tears slipping down her cheeks, and both of her hands wrapped around his.
Now she was properly standing in your way. You almost stormed inside, but decided against it because if you had, you would have probably hexed someone.
But the picture of them holding hands?
It remained in the foreground of your mind as you walked away.
You didn’t give up, though. But you needed time to think it through.
“Baby, please open the door,” you heard Enzo’s voice through your door, and when he didn’t stop trying with the doorknob, you flicked your wand with a sigh and a quiet ”Alohomora.’
It swung open and he stepped inside, already opening his mouth to tell you something important. “I talked to her.”
“I know.”
“What?” he stopped, just standing there, watching you and trying to read your facial expression.
“I spent weeks believing I was crazy,” you stood up. “I felt so bad for judging her for so long when he turned out to be actually kind. And then she sent you poems and letters and wore your jumper, and I saw you talking to her today and felt like I had to compete with somebody else to win my own boyfriend. How is that fair? How is it fair to me to hold herhand, Lorenzo.”
He winced at hearing his full name.
”He hates when people call him Lorenzo,” Florence told you the other day, “Except when I did.”
“No,” he shook his head then.
“Don’t.”
“But I wasn’t,” he shook his head, then continues, “She grabbed my hands.”
You stayed silent then, because, that made more sense than any conspiracy in your head.
“You know what I told her?” he continued, taking a measured step closer to you. You let him. “I told her I hoped she became an amazing Healer.”
Another few seconds of silence before he continued. He was now standing right in front of you, his hands reaching for your face. “And that I already have someone in my life that I love. “She keeps trying to remind me of my past. But every time she does, all it reminds me of is how sure I am about my future.”
You let him pull you in, and your head, clearer than anytime during the past weeks, rested against his chest as he just held you.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Florence Fawley was still a lily. But one that belonged in someone else’s garden.
Katsuki who forces you to look at him when he’s balls deep inside you.
Your legs are thrown over his shoulder and his pace is rough. The bed frame creeks under his movements. Your voice singing out and the sound of heavy balls slapping against your weeping cunt echo off the walls of your charred bedroom.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight.” His voice comes out strained and the feeling of you clenching around his words throws him into a crazed daze.
You mumble out a response but his cock hitting your sweet spot makes you squeal. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as his strong hand wraps around your throat. His length drags against your walls with such force, you feel like you’re going to split in two.
“Open your eyes and look at me when I fuck you.” His hand moves up to grab at your chin, instinctively your eyes shoot up and you gasp when you feel him stop.
He pulls out slowly, antagonizing you with every once of him that leaves your needy hole. You bite your lip to stifle a groan.
“You’re so pretty when yer’ like this. A fucking whore for my cock.” Your head hits the pillow when feel him shove himself deep inside you. It was quick and fast but it doesn’t stop you from fluttering around him. And the electricity pulsing through your body makes it hard to think straight.
“‘Wanna stay inside you forever. You feel too good.” Katsuki growls out as he palms your chest, pulling at your sensitive nub in his calloused hands. His mouth moves towards your thigh, biting your inner flesh and peppering it with kisses.
“T-too much katsuki!” You thrash against his touch, back arching off the mattress as you feel your stomach tighten.
But to your disappointment his movement slow down, and you feel the frustration peaking out of your eyelids. Tears hot and ready to spill down your face.
fandom: shakespeare's code
pairing: roxanne montgomery / edward pembroke
rating: m
word count: 1192 words.
tw: mentions of nudity, mentions of suicide
mc: mariana, curse + sin
notes: this is part one of my four-part series on my sc mcs in a modern au ! i was thinking about posting it all in one go but i think it'd feel nicer for me to post them one by one. i hope you all enjoy ❤️ part 2 here !
tagging: @rc-catalog, @juicyrottenapple
he's pointing at stars in the sky that have already died.
🎵 sun has set — beabadoobee.
"Well. "
Mariana slowly got out of bed, her movements followed by the groans of a somnolent Edward, wrapped in the dark bedsheets of his bedroom. His hands reached for her, but as usual, she fled through his fingers like a dream five minutes before waking up. A dream so good he wished he could hold onto and sleep forever with.
"Do you have to leave... ?"
He asked, as she stood in the mirror, bare for his walls to look at. Memorizing every detail of her skin as she brushed through her long, dark brown hair – the shade of it reminded him of a wilted tree in winter, and he couldn’t help but wonder if bringing her happiness would make her hair turn a more golden brown, like a tree reborn in spring.
His question was met with a heavy silence, before she opened the closet, reaching for some clothing items she had left in there ; grabbing her underwear.
"Yes. I do. I have that audition..."
Of course an actress like her wouldn’t escape the chance – Edward had put the stage days behind him, but she had not given up ; matter of fact, it was as if their separation motivated her to pursue this dream even more. A separation Edward regretted every day – the parting of Romeo and Juliet. He wished his limbs could extend to reach for her, maybe convince her to stay in bed – but he is only one man. And sometimes, one man is not enough.
And no man would ever be enough to contain Mariana Norfolk. That is the vow she had made herself.
"You’ve never changed, huh, Roxanne ?"
He smirked, but did not receive the reaction he’d hoped for – instead of smiling, she stiffened and stared at him. "I’ve told you not to call me that."
Edward was aware that her stage name, Mariana, meant more to her than a simple stage name, but –
"Roxanne is gone." She said, getting dressed. Looking at herself in the mirror as if to confirm her own words, green eyes shining with intent. Hands brushing through her own hair as she adjusted her costumey dress, the dark red sleeves swooshing around her elbows. The role of the witch is going to be hers. And no one will stop her.
"She isn’t." He spoke, causing her to turn around. If she could cast a spell to reduce him to silence, or feed him a potion to make him forget their past together, she would’ve without a single hesitation. Edward had, by now, gotten up, just as bare as she was earlier. Her eyes, of course, drifted down and smirked, though nothing in this situation called for her to make an attempt at humor. It’s almost as if she did it on purpose – not defusing the situation, but worsening it the best way she knew how.
Maybe if she destroyed enough situations, he wouldn’t want to see her again. Maybe, he would fall in her trap ; he would take her at face value, as a dumb, unserious woman who didn’t care about anything other than herself. That she was shallow, and selfish, and he would leave and focus on someone else.
"That girl is long gone."
Mariana said, reiterating her point, her voice lacking emotion. She wasn’t trying to convince him or herself – she knew Roxanne Montgomery was dead and buried, and all Edward’s insistence did was annoy her ; and she angered quick.
"She died when she left the troupe."
"Mariana –" Edward began, but felt his own blood boil. This was why they went together so well ; and was also the source of their downfall. The two of them angered quick – wrath had always been their fatal flaw. Their sin, if you will.
"Why do you so insist in drowning yourself in this image ?"
"Interesting choice of words." She remarked, a cruel grin on her face. "I wonder what little ‘Felia would think." Going in for the kill. Use it as a weapon before he can, before he can try and hold it against her, over her head like a sword of Damocles.
Cruelty had always been her weapon— and now, it was her nature. She was cruel. It was who she was.
Her words worked in her favor — provoking Edward, so at least one of them was winning. He stared at her as she smugly put her headband on, smiling in the mirror.
"Who are you, Roxanne ?"
He said, his eyes feeling tears form in them. Yet Mariana didn't turn to look at him. She wasn't Roxanne anymore. Roxanne might have turned and looked— apologized— hell, Roxanne would never have said that.
But she wasn't Roxanne anymore.
"Try again."
"Roxanne—"
"And please don't paint yourself like the victim." She interrupted, her gaze moving to look at him, though she looked into his eyes through the mirror. Reducing him to silence, just as she thought.
"When your uncle accused me of provoking Ophelia's suicide, you didn't speak once. You let it happen. You let him have it." Now her tone had shifted, more accusatory.
Roxanne, unlike poor old 'Felia, had not killed herself. She was murdered— persecuted, driven to isolation and darkness.
And the dead can't come back. Nothing goes right when they do, anyway. It's better if what is dead stays dead.
"Don't pretend like you don't understand me, Romeo. You do. But Juliet has found new partners. Mariana prospers, and Roxanne is gone. That lost little girl you once knew died that night she ran from the troupe."
Silence reigned over the bedroom, as she made her way to the door, before Edward felt something within him ignite— an urge to make her stay. To not let her leave— to ask, to beg, to accuse, to blame, to cry, to laugh. Anything that would forbid her from leaving this room. It was as if closing the door would make her leave for good.
Unfortunately, he and her were cut from the same cloth. His tone replicating her accusations.
"And that new partner is Professor Dudley, huh ?" He bitterly spoke, Mariana turning to look at him— finally. At least he got part of what he wanted.
"I've seen the way he looks at you. The things his eyes say. You've given to him, haven't you ?"
But Mariana wasn't the woman he knew. She laughed, her green eyes shining with success. As if it had all been a game to her. He couldn't read her— and maybe, that was all she wanted.
"I need all the help I can get, in a world like this."
One more step.
"Goodbye, Edward."
And the door opened.
And she closed it, before he could do anything. She had slipped through his fingers— again. Just as she always had, and just as she always would. It was hopeless.
He sat and cried. Over what he had done— but moreso, over what he hadn't. Over what had never been, what could have been, what could have been different.
you can tell things are going well when you bust out the depressing fic you abandoned years ago and think 'huh this is good actually i bet i could get back into this'
Whoops haha I shouldn’t be making myself cry at 3am while writing, that’s not how this works. I’m not supposed to be inflicting emotional damage on myself.
“You look unhappy,” Katara comments from the other side of the low table. She looks relaxed, her hair pulled over one shoulder and legs folded atop a floor cushion. Zuko likes it when she wears her hair down. He likes it when she wears the dark blue hair beads that click against her temple, too. When Zuko doesn’t respond – when he’s caught staring at her like the awkward idiot he is– she grins and says, “Now you look happier.”
His face flushes and his mouth dries. It’s terribly unfair.
