#CONTEXT i have been struck with god awful pain for weeks now. i would love to write i have ideas but i cannot work on them.

[pyrriax]

curse of being a fanfic writer ig

[wroetobabe]

Change Your Mind (Pt. 2)

Pairing: Reader X Simon

Warning(s): Several mentions of sexual activity - also some swearing!

Requested(?): Yes!! I was so happy to see you all loved the first part :)

Additional Notes: This was written almost a year and half after the first part, so the writing style does change a little bit, so apologies for that! Also if theirs any spelling mistakes i also apologise, my microsoft word spell checker isn’t worker atm lol

Word Count: 2.2k

… … … . 

I woke up well into the afternoon, direct beams of sunlight coming from the open window struck my eyes and made the headache I was harbouring ten times worse. I must’ve lay in bed for at least an hour before finally peeling myself from the warmth of the blankets covering me, I almost stumbled out of my bedroom door.

Simon’s door was wide open, so as I was walking to go downstairs I went slightly slower, peeking to see if he was inside. Nope, not in there.

I continued the long trek to the kitchen, slamming open the fridge and chugging almost a bottle of apple juice. “Quite the hangover then?” A voice asked from behind, causing me to jump a little.

“Fuck me man, I almost shat myself, don’t do that” I moan, turning around to see Josh sat at the island. “But yes, hangover from hell” I reply. “How’s Simon?”

“Not seen him today, wasn’t in his room when I woke up. That was at around 10ish, not been home since” He informs me. I give him a confused look.

“That’s odd. I suppose he probably has to go speak to his family about last night” I offer a suggestion, to which he shrugs in response. “I feel awful”

“Why do you feel bad?” JJ interupts, waltzing into the room looking just as hungover as I was.

“She likes him” Vik chimes in, also entering.

“What?! How do you know that?! Who else knows that?” I panic, suddenly wakening up a little.

“Everyone knows, it’s so obvious. Well, except for Simon clearly” Josh chuckles.

“Oh my god what if he does know? He’s going to think all the chasing I did after him last night was because I wanted him for myself, not because I cared!” I put my head in my hands, leaning my elbows on the kitchen island.

“He doesn’t know, there’s no way. No offence, but he was too obsessed with Vanessa to take notice of all the things we took notice of” Vik says, cheering me up a little bit. “That’s why Ethan let you go with him on your own yesterday”

“I just want the best for him you know? If that’s not me I’ll get over it someday” I say, quite sadly.

“Y/N, you’ve liked him since the Sidemen became a thing. You’d be over him by now if that was the case” Josh giggled.

“That’s because I was holding on hopefully. I think it’s time to give up and get over it” I look down at the apple juice, fiddling with the lid.

“Get over what?” A new voice enters the conversation, causing everyone’s head to lift up. It was Simon.

“Nothing, just another one of Y/N’s internet crushes” Josh saves my life, chiming in quickly.

“Where even were you bro?” JJ asks, turning his chair around to face the blonde.

“Why’s that anyone’s fucking business?” Simon yells back, storming off up the stairs, no doubt to his room. We all look around, everyone sharing the same shocked and confused look.

“I’m going to my room, if I make it there alive” I joke, taking my juice and following him up the stairs. Similar to earlier, I slow down slightly as I walk past his door, this time deciding not to peak in. I get to my room and just lay on my bed. I had to move on, I couldn’t grasp on to the idea of a relationship with Simon forever.

As I closed the blinds on my window, I looked outside to see Talia’s (Just for some context, in this story, Talia is Simon’s ex, who left before he got with his ex-fiance) car pulling into the driveway. I debate for a few seconds on whether to go ask the boys why she was here, but decide against it.

It made me so incredibly jealous that he still felt the need to confide in her. We all knew what they were doing in the bedroom whenever he had a problem. It hurt. I was his best friend, I could be a shoulder to cry on, but he clearly didn’t see it like that, and that was what pained me.

I sat on my bed, crying, for what felt like hours. In reality it had only been around thirty minutes, however, I had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it anymore.

I had to leave. There was no chance in hell I could move on whilst living in a house with him, watching him fuck his way through life. This was the new beginning I needed, and chapter one, was moving out.

After keeping it quiet for weeks, packing silently whilst nobody paid attention, today was my moving day. Josh knew I was leaving, but as far as I was aware, nobody else did.

I had been taking boxes to my car for the past half an hour, cramming as much in as possible.

It wasn’t until I saw my room empty that the idea really hit home. I’m leaving, and although the boys weren’t all that aware, I wasn’t coming back.

“What’re you doing?” A voice chirped from behind me.

“Moving” I said, a sigh followed after. I shut my room door for the last time and turned to face him. “I’m leaving” I smile lightly at the tall, blonde figure.

“Wha- why?” He asks, stopping me from walking past. His touch still sent shivers down my spine

“Do you want me to lie to you?” I ask, plucking up the courage to tell him the truth.

“What are you talking about? Of course not, tell me the truth” He furrows his eyebrows, confusion spralled across his face.

“I need to be away from you” I tell him, looking at the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. “You’re bad for me”

“What the fuck’s that meant to mean? How on earth could I be ‘bad’ for you?” He asks, raising his voice, flailing his arm around.

“If I stay in this house any longer, watching you fuck every girl in London, I’m never going to move on with my life. I need to leave, I need to get out of here and I need to get over you. And this is how I plan on doing that. I’ve loved you since I met you, and either you’ve been oblivious, or you’ve chosen to ignore it. Either way, i’ve given up. And after seeing you the past few weeks, I’m glad i have” I tell him, almost shouting in his face. He looks at me, half angry, half confused.

I grab the box I had to take to the car, and continued my decsent down the stairs. All the boys stood outside their respective rooms, watching me with sad eyes, clearly hearing the whole confrontation from before.

Shutting the boot to my car, I looked back at the house and watched as Simon appeared in the doorway of the front door. I made eye contact for a few seconds before opening the door of my car and getting sat down.

I stare at the wheel for a couple of seconds, not really sure if I want to drive away just yet. I knew if I allowed myself to think for too long I’d get back out the car and ‘leave it until tomorrow’ or something, so I started up the engine and put it into first gear. It was then I realised that Simon was now halfway down the driveway, no shoes on, wearing only shorts and a shirt.

I could just drive. I would never have to see him again if that’s what I wanted. I could get over him so soon, I can set myself free.

I went against everything I told myself.

I opened the car door, climbing back out and pacing quickly over to his figure. I grabbed his face with my two hands and dipped his head, levelling it with my own. I waste no seconds, connecting our lips in a hard, forceful kiss. I remain for a few seconds before pulling back, I had to go now, or I would never go.

I let him go, turning around to go back to the car, registering that he made no movement, he didn’t kiss me back, he didn’t want me.

I opened my car door, just to have it slammed back into it’s previous position. As I turned to see what he wanted, he spun my body around to face his own, reattaching his lips to mine.

I was practically pinned against the car, I could feel people staring and I knew fine well the boys would be watching from somewhere. Simon pulls away breifly, before bending down slightly and picking my legs up as I wrapped them around his slim build. I assumed he was just picking me up so that he didn’t have to lean down so far, but my heart started racing as he headed back toward the front door. “Where are we going?”

“My room” He says quickly, continuing to pepper my neck in soft kisses.

“The boys will see us go up like this” I tell him, turning to see if any of them were on the ground floor.

“Let them see” He mumbles, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot. He carefully moves up the stairs, and as we’re about to reach his room door, all of the boys are gathered around Josh’s door, staring. “Nothing to see here” Simon shouts, not taking even a second to stop.

“That’s my sister” Josh mumbles, stomping his feet slightly, mouth pouted.

“Fuck off” Simon tells them, this time turning his head to face them. “We’re busy” He smirks, pushing open his bedroom door and slamming it behind him. I knew once this was over I would get ridiculed from everyone. He turns so that I’m pressed against the shut door, letting me onto my own feet. “You want this, yeah?” He asks, I nod in return.

He tugs my jacket from my shoulders, allowing it to cascade down my back and into a crumpled heap on the floor. Butterflies were sending my stomach into knots, I’ve only been intimate one other time, this was (hopefully) going to be the second.

Simon flops over to lay beside me, disposing of the condom he had used. He gazed at me, analysing the panting of my breath and the small beads of sweat falling from my forehead. “It pains me to think about how many boys it took you to get that good”

When I would normally take offence, justifiably if you ask me, I giggled lightly.

“Your my second, ever” I glance at him, catching the slightly shocked look on his face. “It’s not exactly hard when your on the bottom, you just lay there” I laugh.

“There was something about it I don’t know” He sighs, pulling his phone from his jean pocket, which were situated on the floor in amoungst the other scattered clothing. “Fucking hell it’s 7pm” I look at him, unsure of what the big issue was. He notices my face, giggling a little to himself. “When I came out to your car it was 5. We were just at it for two hours straight”

“Oh jesus christ” I sigh, hands over my face.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t cover your mouth when we were doing it. We maybe could’ve gotten away with saying we didn’t do anything” I shake my head in his direction, knowing that he loved it secretly. “Maybe big brother Joshy will hurt me” He jokes, poking my side.

“I’m hungry” I complain. “And I need to call my mum and tell her I’m not coming”

“We could get pizza delivered if you like? We can eat it up here so we don’t get ridiculed by the horny fuckers outside” He suggests, earning a happy nod and grin from me. “I’m sure I heard JJ standing there for a solid five minutes” He chuckled.

“How can you hear someone standing?” I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.

“He kept leaning against the door, cleary on accident. None of the other boys would do it, only explanation.” He explains his little conspiracy, finally grabbing some boxers and sliding them over his long legs. “You need clothes” He sighs.

“I can just wear what I wore when we came in, it’s fine” I tell him, until I pick up my panties. Ripped. “Seriously?!” I raise my voice, he only winks and chuckles before focusing on getting himself ready.

We walk downstairs, finding everyone in the livingroom. I could feel the judgement, but I tried to make a beeline for the kitchen and they were having none of it.

“How was it then?” One asks.

“I fucking hate you, while I’m in the house? Really?” Josh groans.

“You were really loud” Another comments.

“Alright everyone shut up, it was great. We will be taking no further questions, thank you” Simon announces, mocking the way TV stars deal with paps. He pulls out his phone and orders us a dominos, quickly putting it back in his pocket. He gazes down at me before beginning his sentence.

“Can we try and…You know, be something then? Maybe?” I’m slightly taken a back by his sudden change in heart about relationships. “I was going to run back to her, Y/N. You’re the one who did it”

“Did what?” I cock my eyebrow at him.

“Changed my mind”

[ravencromwell]

So Brown Girl In The Ring was one of those books it's difficult to talk about: I loved it with such ferocity that to try and articulate why only leads me into hyperbolic babble. It had such clear, elegantly simple writing but was somehow still so lush. It was a book I galloped through in less than a week, and post my depression meds that, gentlebeings, is an achievement, even for such a short novel. Hopkinson lets the narrative view and treat her characters with such compassion, even as the narrative examines the ways in which trauma begets trauma, the ways we break that cycle: redemption and regret and forging better paths for future generations. And those future generations taking those paths: grudgingly at first and then slowly coming into themselves: deciding that this world, this dystopian Toronto with all its beauty and solidarity alongside the ugliness, is worth fighting for and by God they're going to do it. With gentle, extended meditations on forgiveness and love: at its worst and best, and how we learn to distinguish the two. And it's all wrapped in Caribbean magic realism and I need y'all to go read it stat because I need a group of people to scream about this book with like I need to breathe.

But as I move on to The Association Of Small Bombs, by Karan Mahajan, I'm struck by the way these two masters of their craft use language in such divergent but skillful ways. * Hopkinson's style is simple: not spare by any stretch, but clear and economical. There's an excellent reason: much of the characters' dialogue is in marvelously unapologetic Caribbean dialect and unfamiliar English-only speakers are going to have to invest some time into picking up the linguistic ticks and rhythms. (Though OMG when you do, there's such a marvelous fucking return on investment, as particular characters adopt other characters' linguistic ticks to symbolize maturation in the most ingenious way--Nalo, just let me pick your brain for half an hour please; I'll become a thousandfold better writer--and the Caribbean dialect gives her this vast canvas of expression. There was such a power for me as someone insulated for so many years in the white English cultural bubble of being forced to not only absorb foreign concepts, but absorb them in their words, not tailored to my conception of the world.

The one drawback, if you can call it that, is that the way the coolest linguistic tricks Hopkinson uses require the full context of what came before in the novel to be fully appreciated makes it a profoundly difficult book to quote from out of context. Karan Mahajan, covering much more familiar subject matter, if from profoundly provocative angles, feels freer to use ornate language, equal parts gentle and so sharply incisive it feels like your skin is being flayed off. Lord help y'all, because I'm only three pages in, and I'm in love with the way they write and y'all's dash is like to be flooded with Mahajan quotes for the foreseeable future. Just look at some of these descriptions! On the way class effects even grief:

The two boys were the sum total of the Khuranas’ children, eleven and thirteen, eager to be sent out on errands; and on this particular day they had gone with a friend in an auto-rickshaw to pick up the Khuranas’ old Onida color TV, consigned to the electrician for perhaps the tenth time. But when Mr. Khurana was asked by friends what the children were doing there (the boy with them having escaped with a fracture), he said, “They’d gone to pick up my watch from the watch man.” His wife didn’t stop him, and in fact colluded in the lie. “All the watches were stopped,” she said. “The way they know the time the bomb went off is by taking the average of all the stopped watches in the watch man’s hut.” Why lie, why now? Well, because to admit to their high-flying friends that their children had not only died among the poor, but had been sent out on an errand that smacked of poverty—repairing an old TV that should have, by now, been replaced by one of those self-financing foreign brands—would have, in those tragic weeks that followed the bombing, undone the tightly laced nerves that held them together. But of course they were poor, at least compared to their friends, and no amount of suave English, the sort that issued uncontrollably from their mouths, could change that; no amount of sobbing in Victorian sentences or chest beating before the Oxonian anchors on The News Tonight, who interviewed them, who stoked their outrage, could drape them or their dead children in the glow of foregone success.

Just...look at that for a while. This marvelous meditation on class--and on the lingering, awful effects of British colonization--wound inextricably with such a wonderful, dreadful little anecdote about how you survive the unsurvivable.

There's another wonderful passage around the funeral of the boys:

At the cremation, which occurred on the stepped bank of a Yamuna River canal speckled with a thousand ripply eyes of oil, tendrils of overgrown hypochondriac plants thrust deep into the medicinal murk, Mr. Khurana noticed that outside the ring of burning flesh and wood, little snotty children ran naked playing with upright rubber tires. Behind them a cow was dreadlocked in ropes and eating ash and the wild village children kicked it in the gut. He shouldn’t have, but in the middle of the final prayers Mr. Khurana stepped out and shouted, shooing, the entire funeral party dropping back from the wavy black carpet of fire shadow. The children, not his, just looked at him and with beautiful synchronicity dove headfirst into the water, the rubber tires bobbing behind them, but the cow eyed him with muckraking glee and put its long wet tongue into the earth. The prayers continued but a tremor was evident: if the chanting had sounded before like the low buzzing of bees, the vocal swarm had now cleared and thinned as if to accommodate the linger of a gunshot. The exhilaration of Mr. Khurana’s grief gave way to the simple fact that he was a person, naked in his actions, and that as a person he was condemned to feel shame. He felt eyes rebuking him with sudden blinks between solemn verses. He stopped thinking of his two boys as they burned away before him in a flame that combed the air with its spikes of heat and sudden bone crack of bark. More ash for the cow.

That whole passage steals my breath every time: the insolence of the children, not so much cruel as bemused and grumpy. The way the weight of others expectations for how we're to deal with grief can be utterly crushing. All wrapped in a description of a part of the city as profoundly desolate as he is, as unable to get out of the cycle of desolation as he.

And one more, just cause it's my blog and I can damn it; probably my favorite so far:

Strange sights were reported. A blue fiberglass rooftop came uncorked from a shop and clattered down on a bus a few meters away; the bus braked, the rooftop slid forward, leaked a gorgeous stream of sand, and fell to the ground; the bus proceeded to crack it under its tires and keep going, its passengers dazed, even amused. (In a great city, what happens in one part never perplexes the other parts.)

He could, and probably is, as much talking about the way acts of terror are so often ignored in this vast, interconnected world of ours unless they target certain countries or people. But there's no condemnation there: it's just. a fact of life, and the rooftop incident is even used to levin the situation with a bit of gentle humor. Which makes it even more of a searing observation and indictment, makes you want to do better, pay witness and respect to more, just to live up to the gentleness about your failures in the past.

There's such kindness permeating both Hopkinson and Mahajan's tales. But Hopkinson expresses that kindness by letting complicated characters have their own povs to explain themselves and letting them have redemptive arcs and moments. Because she's being so careful with pros, her structure has to be her vehicle for reassuring us that yes, these characters attempts at betterment and redemption are being seen and will be rewarded. I don't know much about what Mahajan will do with their characters: I'm fascinated by so many questions about the victims and the bombers; there's so much grief the parents are expressing, but the why of grief, whether it's because they see their sons as whole people or extensions of themselves, is still murky. But I already adore that even the omniscient narrator exudes kindness and humor. They wrap you in these ornate sentences like blankets: yeah, the trip will be painful but see there'll be comfort along the way. It's just endlessly fascinating to watch such different stylists work their magic.

*Association is my first attempt to conquer the list of nonwestern litfic with badass voice and politics @tobermoriansass made for me. And damn, am I A. even more glad! she did and B. determined to devour it in its entirety this year after this introduction.