#also the idea for MR is actually ingenious and not just another shitty 'what if wizard'

[jiraicerobaketsukane]

The shitty worldbuilding and barely disguised racism and antisemitism would like to have a word with you, tato.

It's not a good series and it doesn't get a pass like other shit series from the time (maximum ride comes to mind) because JKs actions have proved what could have been accidental was in bad faith. She was always like this and the rose tinted glasses are just off. Please sit down and think about the "ethical" slavery of the elves and why the bank tellers are goblins, a notorious antisemitic creation. Also think about how characters like CHO CHANG (literally 2last names omg) are made just to be 'diversity!' when they aren't written well and permanently sidelined the second Harry doesn't need them himself anymore. And don't get me started on the girl with the last name brown, who they whitewashed in the movies once she became important (movies that, may I remind you, were SPEARHEADED AND APPROVED BY ROWLING)

Your book series cannot be "made by miku" or "untied from its creator". Rowling is still getting money from her shitty book series and the books themselves are riddled with her views that everyone chose to ignore until she became a verbal freak.

you are a bad person for liking Harry Potter btw

[peachywise]

nullify part 3

an umbrella academy fanfiction // klaus hargreeves x reader

- part iii: the difference between truths and lies || part i ⋆ part ii ⋆ part iv ⋆ part v ⋆ part vi ⋆ more parts to be released

- synopsis: Klaus may have terrified your neighbour, broken an unspoken contract, and overall just acted like an absolute ass, but hell. That wasn't anything compared to how shitty your first meeting went when you met the rest of his family.

- notes: Sorry, this chapter took a little longer to get up than expected! Then again, it was delayed because I got a puppy, so yeah man I'm not that sorry lmao. Hope you enjoy! Swearing and minor violence TW.

link on ao3 

________________________

“Did you break my lamp?”

Looking over his shoulder, Klaus peered at the tall beige light lying haphazardly on your floor, its shade squished to shit with little pieces of broken light bulb scattered around. It also just so happened to be right beside the window he had crawled in to get here.

“Would you believe me if I said it was like that when I got here?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Patience. You had to have patience. Granted, that would be easier to achieve if you also had a lamp that was intact.

“Hey, if it makes you feel any better, it made a loud enough crash and you didn’t even wake up. Would have thought you were dead if I wasn’t such a brilliant expert on the subject already.” Crossing the room to stand in front of you, he lowered his voice slightly, asking, “what pills do you take for it? Never seen anything like it.”

“Nothing. Just the sheer anger and exhaustion that comes from having been born,” you bluntly stated, only half-joking.

He tilted his head in a funny nod. “Ah, yes. That would do the trick.”  Shaking your head, a little amused despite it all, you brushed past him to grab one of your canvas bags hanging by the front door. In doing so, Klaus’s eyes fell down to your hand, only just noticing the object clasped in your grasp. His face contorted in confusion “Are you actually bringing that clock with you? I was joking when I suggested it, sweetheart.”

Slipping the clock in the bag—which was little more than a defensive weapon now—you snorted. “I’m not taking any chances.” You’d already had a plate thrown at you, a spoon, and a pot dropped on your stomach, and that was all in less than twenty-four hours. If they were going to keep tossing ridiculous objects your way, then the clock was yours to use freely as far as you were concerned.

You almost wanted to smack him over the head with it again to avenge your fallen lamp. At least that’s why you told yourself you wanted to.

“Remind me why I agreed to go meet them, again?” You muttered, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you slipped some sneakers on. Klaus moved back over to your window, gingerly stepping over your lamp like he was afraid of damaging it more than he already had. How nice of him.

“Because I’m incredibly charming. And if you’re thinking of backing out, you aren’t going to get the ice cream cone I was going to treat you too on our midday stroll.”

Well, shit. Couldn’t say no to that.

“Let’s go, then."

Klaus’s grin was way too big, his face a little too excited. It was the same as that almost anticipative, hopeful look in his eyes you saw when you first met. The near intensity that he looked at you was enough to unnerve even the most confident of people. It was confusing. You had begun to think about what they could need. Clearly, they weren’t as interested in your forcefields ability of simple defense, given Five’s early dismissal of it. He was way more interested in learning you could nullify powers. At the very least you knew you could cancel out Klaus’s. Most likely they just needed you to do that with someone else. The question was, who was it?

Moving to unlock your door, you heard a familiar swish and click of a window. Turning back around, you noticed Klaus trying to squeeze himself through it, his body already halfway out.

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re doing that to be funny, or because you forgot we could leave out the front door.”

Stalling just before he stuck his second foot out on your fire escape, he stayed still for a beat then backtracked, maneuvering himself inside the apartment once more. Clearing his throat as he stood upright, he murmured, “I was just following Ben’s lead,” walking past you to swing the front door open. “Well come on, we haven’t got all day. Early bird gets the worm and all that."

Patting Klaus’s arm condescendingly, you stated a little loudly simply in hopes ghost boy was actually still in the room, “with how much I assume Klaus pins his stupid stunts on you, it's a travesty that you haven't been anointed to sainthood, Ben.”

“Please,” Klaus scoffed, throwing his arm over your shoulder as you moved out in the hallway, closing the door and locking it behind you. “You can’t even hear him and you believe him over me?”

Shrugging his arm off, you span around and walked backward, facing him. “Are you kidding? Currently, he’s my favourite because I can’t hear him. It’s blissful.”

Klaus was about to shoot something back at you, his face lighting with the knowing signs of amusement, but stopped himself before he could begin. Oh, so no clever come back? You’d gotten so used to the rapport you were almost disappointed, despite what you had just previously stated about the quiet.

But then you heard another voice behind you, and Christ, you already dreaded having to explain the presence of your rather scantily clad, eccentrically distinctive acquaintance.  

“Honey, are you okay? I heard some noises coming from your apartment and I was just on my way to check.”

Spinning back around, you gave a tight smile in welcome to your elderly neighbour, Eliza Carr. She was a sweet little woman, albeit nosy as all hell. Shrunken to about 4’9 with overly long grey hair pinned up in a tight bun, you always wondered if she did it too stretch her wrinkles in a make do facelift. Ingenious, really. She’d always kind of reminded you of a fairy. Odd comparison, but it worked when you considered they were often pleasant under the guise cover an impish exterior.

Once you had even caught her looking through your mail. You were pretty sure she had taken a pizza coupon from the stack and hid it in her bra.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Carr. I was just—”

“With me,” Klaus interjected, stepping beside you and looping his arm through yours, pressing you closer to his side as he put on his fake little polite act.

Shit.

Why he interrupted, you had no idea. Maybe it was just his incessant need to hear his own voice, or his need to make his presence known lest he disappears like the invisible ghost who trailed along after him.

“Believe me, I tried to quiet them down but they just can’t keep their hands off! Didn’t help that they ball-gagged me and had my hands and feet tied together, but that’s pretty tame compared to last night.”

Maybe he interrupted because this truly was hell and Klaus was a literal fucking demon given the duty to torment you in every sense of the word. Then Eliza’s hand went to her chest, and you had decided he was actually the grim reaper who just tried to kill the poor old bat.

Widening your eyes, you were completely stunned into silence, unable to cough even the slightest noise or retaliate against his words. Then Eliza dropped her hand and took a small, concerned step forward, reaching that hand out to place it on your forearm in a comforting, though at the moment mortifying, gesture. “Why don’t you come to church with me on Sunday, Hun? I think—”

Sidestepping away from her grasp, you gripped Klaus’s wrist as you finally found your voice again. “Sorry, gotta go! Late for an appointment!” Before she could try to convince you that you needed Jesus—someone who inevitably must have abandoned the earth the moment your present companion was born—you pulled Klaus behind you in your frantic attempt to escape. Then he turned just slightly to yell back at the woman, “we’re trying to adopt! I think we’ll make fantastic parents," as you turned down the hall and raced down the few flights of stairs. Klaus snickered the whole way down.

As soon as you reached the landing of your lobby, musty and welcoming with its stained emerald carpet and all, you dropped his wrist and indignantly ignored him as you exited the building. He trailed behind you like the world’s worst trained mutt. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, will ya?” He huffed, as you walked down the concrete steps and on to the sidewalk. “I’m still a little winded from having that ball gag in my—”

Sticking your leg out casually as he descended from the final step, he comically tripped over it and fell to the ground just as gratifyingly as you had imagined it.  

“Do that again and I’ll shove coal so far down your throat you’ll be shitting diamonds for years to come.”

“You promise?” He smiled, pushing himself off the ground and wiping the gravel from his hands on to his pants. Not like those things could really get any dirtier. “Also, that’s an oddly specific threat. You pick it up from Five? Sounds like him, though it’s a little crude.”

“Do you get off on making a random strangers life hell?” You questioned, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at him indignantly.

Klaus stepped beside you and bumped his shoulder with yours. Smirking as he bent his face lower to your level, he groaned out, “come on, you had to find it a little funny. That woman probably isn’t a saint herself. Seen plenty of grannies reading Fifty Shades of Grey on the bus. Think she’d want to give it a go with me?”

Okay. It was a little funny.

Taking your silence and the slight upturn of your mouth as a win, he poked your arm as if the last attempt to coax you out of grumpiness. You let out a small laugh. “Fine, whatever,” you conceded, “It was a little funny. But seriously, don’t do it again. She’s tried to get me to go to her church so many times that I think next time she’ll just knock me out and drag me there in her car.”

Chuckling back, he sprang into action as he began walking down the street, calling back, “come on, let’s go get that ice cream.”

“I can’t believe you,” you muttered, pulling the vibrantly pink sunglasses down off your head to cover your eyes, despite being inside.

Klaus turned to glance through his matching pair.

“What? I told you. It will present us as a united front.”

“Not the glasses,” you said, taking another lick of the ice cream. You know, the ice cream that you paid for despite him saying it was his treat? Yeah. At this point, you were just ashamed that you had even believed him. And to trick you with the promise of ice cream, of all things! He was truly and most undoubtedly heinous. “When you say you’re going to treat someone to ice cream, typically that means you’ll pay for it, not just order mine and one for yourself, then look me dead in the eye to tell me to pay the man.”

“Did I not hand it to you? I treated you. It's not my fault you thought I had money.”

Wow. He truly would have thrived in high school debate. How disappointing he was raised to be a freakin’ con man instead.

“You know what? The glasses I was fine paying for. They’re cool. But to make me buy you ice cream, taking back an unspoken contract? Despicable.”

You couldn’t tell if the offended look on Klaus’s face was real or a weak attempt to hide the pleasure you knew he was truly taking from this mindless argument.

“Unspoken contract!” He snorted, exiting the elevator on one of the higher levels of an apartment complex way nicer than your own. “Why are we even having this conversation? We both have ice cream, do we not? I call that a win-win.”

“That’s because you're stupid,” you jeered back, reaching over to take a bite of his ice cream like a passive-aggressive child. He gasped in what seemed like true horror. “Hey, you have your own!” Klaus whined, lifting his ice cream high up like that would actually stop you. You gave him a cheery grin—downright innocent. “I bought it. Both are mine.”

Klaus stopped in front of one of the apartment doors, not even bothering to knock as he swung the door open and entered inside. You followed behind him.

“Honey, I’m home!” He called out, then turned his attention back to you, swooping down to take a bite out of your ice cream in return. You gasped, recoiling back as if he had just tried to take your most precious possession. Man, now you knew how Gollum felt. “Not fair!” You laughed loudly, Klaus’s eyes crinkling as he returned the laughter in kind.  

Then the thunk of something planting itself in the wall right beside your ear had your laughter cutting off rather fast, and you dropped your ice cream too the nicely tiled floor in shock.

Oh, hell no.

“Diego, what did I say?” Echoed a baritone voice from around the corner. Turning your head slightly to stare directly down the hall, you lifted the sunglasses back on your head and made eye contact with one of the family, Diego. Luther soon followed into view and tugged him back.

Klaus muttered a small “uh oh,” beside you.

Peering from the corner of your eye at the knife he had just thrown at you, narrowly missing your head by a fraction of an inch, you turned your attention fully back to Number Two, squinting as you did.

“I am not a fucking steak!” You yelled at him, getting really tired the cutlery this family just kept throwing at you. So tired, in fact, that you ignored the man’s inquisitive look in favour of scrounging in your bag, pulling out your broken clock and throwing it with the intent to clock him on the head, no pun intended. Instead, it just bounced enthusiastically off his chest, falling to the floor and cracking its glass face.

Everything went quiet. Well, apart from the snort Klaus tried so hard to mask by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I don’t see any force field. I told you I don’t trust them,” Diego sneered to Luther, turning back around the corridor with a lasting, “we don’t need to involve anyone else.” You weren't necessarily going to dispute that, but man, he was a bitter boy.

Klaus leaned down close to your ear, whispering, “that was Diego. A ray of sunshine, isn’t he?”

Absolutely delightful.

Luther took that opportune moment to advance towards you too. While his disposition tried to read friendly, you knew underneath it all he was scrutinizing you just as much as the trigger-happy Diego had. Reaching out a gloved hand, you tried hard not to let his intimidating size spook you. When the fuck did he get that big?

“I’m Luther,” he introduced himself, as you shook his hand firmly but briefly.

“I know who you are,” you commented back, dropping his hand and taking a tiny step back. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

A look of confusion fell over his face. “Wait, no one told you?” Wow, the whole family was smart, weren’t they? “Klaus, you were supposed to tell her,” he sighed, turning towards his brother.

“Probably best he didn’t. He’s not the most reliable source for information,” came another voice, slightly higher pitched and overly familiar. Five moved to stand in front of you. “Nice to see you again. Was that a clock you threw?”

“Yes. Probably looks a little different from the Disney themed one you have beside your race car bed, so I understand your confusion.”

The only tell he had of his annoyance was the slightest tick at the corner of his eye. “Are you done and ready to talk like an adult now?”

“What, looking for practice? Can’t remember the last time I played house. Maybe kindergarten.” You were going to milk this as long as you could. It wasn’t just that you were trying to avoid whatever weird, nearly cult-like thing this had evolved into in your mind. It was also because you wanted to see just how much you could push the little tyke’s buttons until he snapped.

And then he snapped.

Giving a small huff, a knowing, almost winning look crossing his features. “And that was before your house burned down with you in it, right? If I recall correctly, that was when you were ten.”

This motherfucker. He knew. He knew everything.

Judging by the perplexed look on Luther’s face, and Klaus’s small exclamation of, “what?” it seemed that he was the only one who did. At that moment, it was the only thing stopping you from falling into a spiraling descent of panic and unbelievable ire.

This wasn’t worth it. No matter your curiosity, this was far from worth it.

Turning to Klaus, you bit out, “I think you need to set the kid down for his afternoon nap. He turns into the world’s biggest asshole when he’s tired,” and then swiftly moved to open the apartment door, slamming it behind you as you left without even saying goodbye.  

[ylimehuizenga]

NO ONE ASKED

WHAT BOOKS ARE ON YOUR NIGHTSTAND? 

Understanding Lorrie Moore by Alison Kelly (it is 190 pages and cost $40). Son of the Morning Star by Evan Connell. Billy Collins’ Sailing Alone Around the Room. Oval by Elvia Wilk. Stoner - John Williams. Plus a few more I just finished and a few more I just want close to me right now. 

WHAT’S THE LAST GREAT BOOK YOU READ?

American Pastoral. First time I’ve earnestly been inclined to describe something as “a masterpiece.” 

DESCRIBE YOUR IDEAL READING EXPERIENCE (WHEN, WHERE, WHAT, HOW).

On vacation. Everyone else is off doing something and it’s far enough into the trip that I don’t feel guilty or FOMO not. Trip residue (sand, wine, ashes) on the book and the preemptive luxurious glee of knowing I’ll forever associate the book with the location! 

Second best is when life sucks and the book you’re reading is your only joy/escape, and you get home and eat something dumb and wash your dumb face and brush your dumb teeth and finally get to get into bed and hang out with the only thing in the world you like right now: this book.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE BOOK NO ONE ELSE HAS HEARD OF?

Maybe Hearing from Wayne by Bill Franzen. A collection of bizarre, sweet, sad, funny stories. I listened to one on a podcast one time while driving home from a trip. My boyfriend was sleeping in the passenger seat (we’d been fighting all weekend) and I laughed and cried alone. 

WHICH PLAYWRIGHTS AND OTHER WRITERS - NOVELISTS, POETS, CRITICS, JOURNALISTS - WORKING TODAY DO YOU ADMIRE MOST? 

I think it’s cliche but Ottessa Moshfegh. She’s one of the few people I’ve read willing to poke holes in modern stereotypes, like the overweight tattooed girl who bosses everyone around and is actually a jerk but is riding high on societal shame for calling her out. Also Lisa Halliday. She listens to baseball games on the radio and drinks Luxardo after long days. She is cool and impresses me. 

WHAT BOOK WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO SEE TURNED INTO A MOVIE OR TV SHOW THAT HASN’T ALREADY BEEN ADAPTED? 

I was really looking forward to The Goldfinch movie - I thought that would be a no-brainer. But I heard it’s bad and I’ll probably watch it half-hearted and disappointed when it comes out on online. 

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE FICTIONAL HERO OR HEROINE? ANTIHERO OR VILLAIN? 

He’s not a hero but Douglas Bridge in the Mr. & Mrs. Bridge books breaks my heart. I have a big crush on him. I always have a crush on funny, megalomaniac, wry boys in books, and they tend to be writers and be named Jake; Jake from The Sun Also Rises, Jake from Under the Net. But all-time favorite heroine is Dominique from Francoise Sagan’s “A Certain Smile.” She is me, but perpetually 20-years-old, and beautiful, and French. You could probably call her an antiheroine too. 

WHAT CHARACTER FROM LITERATURE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO PLAY?

Junie B. Jones.

HAS A BOOK EVER BROUGHT YOU CLOSER TO ANOTHER PERSON, OR COME BETWEEN YOU?

It’s nice to love a book your friend also loved and talk about that. It’s not great when someone tells you their favorite book and you’ve read it and you thought it was shitty. As far as admiring the person goes, I can never really recover from that. 

WHAT MOVES YOU MOST IN A WORK OF LITERATURE? 

A buoyant, efficient, consummately composed sentence. I am an underliner. Certain sentences can be total works of art. I would love to go to an exhibit that’s nothing but framed sentences that resonate out of context. Beyond that, literature that articulates life, like everyone else. 

DO YOU PREFER BOOKS THAT REACH OUR EMOTIONALLY, OR INTELLECTUALLY?

Emotionally. I can’t think of a case where something that reached me emotionally wouldn’t then reach me intellectually, though. 

WHAT’S THE BEST BOOK YOU’VE EVER BEEN GIVEN AS A GIFT? 

That same boyfriend I fought with all weekend gave me a used copy (my preferred type of copy) of Eudora Welty’s The Golden Apples for Christmas one year, because he read that Eudora Welty was my then favorite author Alice Munro’s favorite author. I thought and still think that was the most quietly ingenious idea for book-giving I’d ever heard, and if I ever use it I’m not going to give him credit.  

HOW DO YOU ORGANIZE YOUR BOOKS? 

Fiction vs. nonfiction, then subject/genre, then author by country. Sometimes it’s kind of a feeling, too. The feeling the books give me. 

WHAT BOOK MIGHT PEOPLE BE SURPRISED TO FIND ON YOUR SHELVES?

Maybe some modern feminist lit I have. 

HAVE YOU EVER CHANGED YOUR OPINION OF A BOOK BASED ON INFORMATION ABOUT THE AUTHOR? 

Once I read more about Salinger, I realized he wasn’t ironic and discerning, he was fragile and found life humiliating. 

DO YOU COUNT ANY BOOKS AS GUILTY PLEASURES? 

I’d put some modern ���buzz-y” books in that category. Must-reads with winsome covers that signal wokeness and intellect on social media. Beyond that, Salinger, again. He pulls it off, though. He pulls it off. 

WHAT KIND OF READER WERE YOU AS A CHILD? WHICH CHILDHOOD BOOKS AND AUTHORS STICK WITH YOU MOST? 

I was consistent and avid. My mom, brother and I would go to the county library every week and check out stacks of children’s books, which Mom would read to us every night. Same deal for kiddie chapter books. I loved Junie B. Jones, Frog and Toad, Amelia Bedilia, and the Amelia’s Notebook series. When I read Anne of Green Gables, I only ate bread with butter and jam for two weeks, except mine wasn’t made from scratch in my adoptive aunt’s kitchen, it was purchased by my mom at County Market and was actually Italian bread and she also used it for garlic bread. My sisters and I were also obsessed with A Child Called It. In hindsight, morbid. And embarrassing. 

HOW HAVE YOUR READING TASTES CHANGED OVER TIME? 

In middle and high school I read a lot of classics, and I’m proud of and grateful to my younger self for that. I’m not sure I’d have the stamina now, too worn down. So less classics-classics, more Level 2 classics (e.g. Austen and Hemingway then, Roth and Connell now). But I still love the same books I always have. Novels about nothing extraordinary. 

HAVE YOU EVER GOTTEN IN TROUBLE FOR READING A BOOK?

No one stopped me from reading The Good Earth at age 11 I think because no one knew what it was. I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble, but someone probably should have raised an eyebrow. Who knows, maybe someone did.

YOU’RE ORGANIZING A LITERARY DINNER PARTY. WHICH THREE WRITERS, DEAD OR ALIVE, DO YOU INVITE?

Roald Dahl, Iris Murdoch, and e.e. cummings. If I could cheat and pick four I’d add Billy Collins - I really want to meet him. This is all purely selfish and short-sighted, though. I would just want writers who are incredibly talented but wouldn’t talk about themselves, and who’d have good stories and drink strong drinks and smoke cigarettes. Cummings would probably talk about himself but he’d also probably hit on me and take me to bed at the end of the night. This is just my honest answer, okay?

DISAPPOINTING, OVERRATED, JUST NOT GOOD: WHAT BOOK DID YOU FEEL AS IF YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LIKE, AND DIDN’T? DO YOU REMEMBER THE LAST BOOK YOU PUT DOWN WITHOUT FINISHING?

The Year of Magical Thinking - didn’t like and did put down. I’ve had multiple people tell me I should or assume I do read Didion, and I dread it. I just want to move on from that conversation, quick. Some books I thought were total flops/clearly blew, like Fleishman is in Trouble or Modern Lovers and definitely Bad Marie, but others loved. No way to talk about it without sounding like an uppity contrarian. 

WHOM WOULD YOU WANT TO WRITE YOUR LIFE STORY? 

Maybe Sinclair Lewis, because it’d probably have to be a midwesterner to get those parts right. And, well, I like the esoteric grandeur of that choice. But if not him then Roald Dahl because he would make my life seem nostalgic and wonderful (which is true of mine and all lives) and his grandparents were Norwegian so he’d still get the Minnesota stuff. 

WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO READ NEXT?

Finish this boring Berlin book about sustainability that doesn’t really apply to me and lower myself into something long and languorous over Christmas. All this talk about not reading classics has me wanting to read a classic. 

[itty-bittle-bakes]

An Ingenious Business Plan

In celebration of reaching 200+ followers (!!), I’ve written a fic based off of this post about SMH getting involved with their local troop. This is definitely going to be a multi-part, but I thought I’d publish the first bit just to whet your appetites. Thank you guys so much for your support and enthusiasm!

It’s not often that Shitty is glad to be wearing a shirt. Or pants, for that matter. Or clothes in general. He likes the feeling of being unrestricted by society’s insistence that he cover most of his body for no reason, all day long.

This is not one of those times.

He swung open the door after the third set of rapid, insistent knocks, ready to chew out the fucking lax bros if they were pulling another one of their stupid “ding-dong-ditch” games on Frat Row. What he did not expect to find was three little girls in Girl Scout uniforms, sashes displayed proudly across their chests, toting clipboards almost as big as their own torsos with them. As far as he can tell, there’s no adult accompanying them at all.

He’s torn between saying: “First things first, I’ll give you my entire tuition to get me some Samoas”, or, “Your organization is so amazing and superior to Boy Scouts, I hope you lil’ dudes know that. Like, pro-LGBT, and supporting young girls, it’s great!”, or even, “I want to buy your cookies, but I don’t want Bitty to think I don’t appreciate his baked goods, I’m sorry”, and finally, “Jesus, what are you doing on a street thats entirely frathouses filled with gross jocks and stoners, that is both a spectacular business plan and a deep-set flaw in whoever is supposed to be watching over and protecting you kids. Where’s your scout leader? I have some firm words for them.”

Eventually he just asked, “What?”

The girl in the middle, who looked a lot like those drawings of Hermione he’d seen lately, all dark skin and curly hair, almost defiantly held her clipboard out to him and asked in a voice far too businesslike for a ten year old, “Would you like to buy some cookies?”

Despite the fact that he most definitely wanted to put in an order for about 500 boxes, he was still searching for any sign of some adult accompanying the trio. Certainly, no parent in their right mind would send three little girls to sell cookies to a bunch of frat guys all by themselves. “Where’s your.. uh… leader?” He peered down the street for some sign of a parent, or even a mini-van. No such luck.

The girl with the clipboard scoffed. Actually scoffed. “Dana’s mom dropped us off four blocks away and drove off to get a manicure. Three hours ago. We’ve been selling cookies ever since.” She looked at her clipboard before turning it around to face him again. “We’ve sold a lot of cookies.”

Shitty raised his eyebrows as he took the clipboard, impressed. “Nine hundred boxes? In just three hours?”

One of the girls behind the apparent leader of the squad piped up. She had flaming red hair that would make even Dex jealous, with the freckles to match. “Half of it was from this street,” She explained, pointing down to the four houses that preceded the Haus on Frat Row.

“Ingenious.” Shitty murmured. “Alright, you’ve got my money. On one condition.”

“What?” All three asked simultaneously, their tones wary.

“You call an adult to go along with you. It’s not safe to walk around town all by yourselves” Seriously, he was gonna have to find this Dana’s mother and have a stern talking-to about leaving kids alone in the middle of Samwell. Even if they were Girl Scouts, and proudly sporting Karate badges.

The last girl, a tiny little thing with jet black hair in a pixie cut, who hadn’t yet contributed finally walked up to stand next to the one he’d decided to think of as Hermione. “Why do you think Dana’s mom dropped us off in the first place? All of our parents are busy or working.” She shrugged, like this wasn’t a big deal. “Besides, we’re almost done. We’re just going to do the rest of these houses and then go wait for Dana’s mom.”

The idea of these three kids just walking down Frat Row by themselves made Shitty genuinely nervous. What if some drunk guys harassed them (fucking lax bros, most likely)? What if they got kidnapped? What if they accidentally walked in on a drug deal? None of these situations were exactly ideal. He made a split second decision. “Hold on,” He told the girls, and stuck his head back in the house. “Zimms!” He hollered at the top of his lungs, knowing full well Jack could hear him. “We’re going on an adventure!”

—

In total, the girls sold about 2,000 boxes to the rest of the frats, with the help of Jack and Shitty (Who was still figuring out what they should call him). Afterward, Shitty had walked them back to the spot where the mom had dropped them off originally, and waited for her with the girls. Amy, the one who’d first spoken to him, didn’t look too surprised when the sun started to set, and Dana’s mom still hadn’t arrived. “She probably forgot about us. She had to pick up Dana’s group too.”

Shitty frowned. “Seriously? That’s it. I’m walking you guys back to your meeting spot. Where are your parent supposed to pick you up?”

They all answered at the same time. “Samwell Middle School.”

Shitty sighed in relief, glad they hadn’t said Town Hall, or some place out on the edge of town, miles away from the university. “That's not too far a walk. Why don’t one of you call your parents and tell them you’re coming while we start heading over?” He handed his phone to Amy, who immediately started dialing.

Chloe, the girl with the pixie cut, hesitated. “What if Dana’s mom does come for us?”

Shitty looked down the road. It seemed completely devoid of any life, human or car, save for the four of them. “If Dana’s mom hasn’t come by now, she doesn’t deserve to be a troop leader. Let’s go, before it gets too dark out.” He reached out to help Aggie, the redhead, up and they all started started walking towards the school. Amy kept chatting with her mom, telling them how the nice hockey players had helped them sell cookies, and how one of them was walking them back to school.

“Hey,” Amy tugged on his sleeve, phone still pressed to her ear. “What’s your name?”

Shitty blinked in surprise. “I haven’t told you guys my name?”

All three shook their heads.

“Oh, wow, sorry you guys.” He said, stalling, trying to think. They couldn’t call him Shitty, that would just be weird. “I’m number forty-two on the hockey team, so you can call me that. Or…” He paused, remembering what Mrs. Bittle had called him before they came to a happy medium with Mr. Crappy. “I guess Mr. Knight works too.”

Amy nodded approvingly, and then said into the phone, “His name is Mr. Knight. He’s number forty-two on the hockey team.”

Half an hour later, they were only a quarter mile away when Chloe started to lag behind, her feet dragging as they kept walking. Shitty slowed down, leaning down to look at her. “Hey, what’s the matter, scout?”

She sniffled, and he quickly realized she was barely holding it together. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I miss my mom.” She whimpered, and Shitty once again felt overcome by anger at this mystery mom who had left these three completely on their own. Without thinking, he wrapped her in a quick, tight hug.

“We’re almost there, Chloe.” He paused. “How about I give you a piggyback? That way you don’t have to keep walking.”

Chloe looked at him like she didn’t totally believe him. “You mean it?”

He grinned encouragingly at her. “Totally. It’ll be good for my hockey muscles.” Not a lie- he’d missed a team workout at the gym for this.

“Okay.” She agreed quietly, and he leaned down for her to jump on, hefting up her knees once she’d wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Is everyone else hanging in there?” He checked with Amy and Aggie, who both nodded, though they also looked pretty tired. He should have brought Jack along. The bro could probably carry all three girls and not break a sweat. “We’re almost there, I promise. Your parents are going to be so proud of you for all the hard work you did today. You were real troopers.”

Sure enough, as soon as they made it to Samwell Middle School, the girls were enveloped in hugs from their parents, who were clearly relieved they hadn’t been kidnapped by this mysterious Mr. Knight. He handed Chloe off to her mother, extending a hand for her to shake, introducing himself to the parents.

“So, Mr. Knight,” Amy’s mother started, looking at him skeptically. “Amy tells me you helped them sell cookies today. And you’ve walked them here.”

Shitty nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did. Apparently, a girl named Dana has a mother who dropped them off on Dowe Street at one, but she wasn’t walking with them while they were selling cookies. I hope I’m not being intrusive by accompanying them.”

Amy’s mother exchanged glances with the other parents. “You’re most certainly not. I think we’ll be having a word with Susan in the next few days. Did she really leave you three on your own?” She asked the girls, shock coloring her tone. They all nodded.

“We were okay.” Aggie piped up, holding up her clipboard. “Mr. Knight helped us sell 2,000 boxes.”

“I’m sure yo- 2,000?” Aggie’s father looked at Shitty with something bordering awe.

Shitty shrugged. “College students and girl scout cookies. Its a brilliant business plan.”

“Huh.” Aggie’s father huffed thoughtfully. “Who’d’ve thunk.” He reached for Aggie’s hand and started walking her toward the car. She turned and waved at Shitty. “Thanks, Mr. Knight!”

He waved back, smiling. “Bye, Aggie! Don’t forget to do that math you were telling me about!” The other parents laughed as Aggie made a groaning noise.

“You know,” Amy’s mother started, looking at Shitty curiously, “If you ever wanted to help chaperone their cookie sale trips, I’m sure your help would be much appreciated.”

Shitty raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I don’t know…” He thought about how many hours he’d have to set aside. He was already drowning in work for his WGSS 435 class, not to mention hockey practice, and their games. Then, he caught the pleading look on Chloe’s face, and saw Amy smiling up at him hopefully. “Oh, why not.” He found himself saying. “I bet I could get the whole team in on it.”

—

“Hey, Bits?” Shitty stuck his head in the kitchen after Amy’s mother had kindly dropped him off at the house, thankfully not asking him why he lived in what was a glorified, giant shack. “How many recipes do you have for Girl Scout cookies? Also, how the fuck do I become a troop leader?”