#diary of a scrawny kid

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me 🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - age gap,, i think thats all

all of the songs and celebrities mentioned in here are from the time periods this was written if you are confused🩷

Chapter 1

It was 1956. I was living with my family at the Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas, where my father, then Captain, Joseph Paul y/ln, a career officer, was stationed. He came home late for dinner one evening and handed me a record album.

“I don’t know what this Matt guy is all about,” he said, “but he must be something special. I stood in line with half the Air Force at the PX to get this for you; everybody wants it.”

I put the record on the hi-fi and heard the rocking music of “Blue Suede Shoes.” The album was titled Matt Sturniolo. It was his first.

Like almost every other kid in America, I liked Matt but not as fanatically as many of my girl friends at Del Valley Junior High. They all had Matt T-shirts and Matt hats and Matt socks and even lipstick in colors with names like Hound Dog Orange and Heartbreak Pink referencing names of his songs. Matt was everywhere, on bubblegum cards and Bermuda shorts, on diaries and wallets and pictures that glowed in the dark. The boys at school began trying to look like him, with their fluffy hair and turned up collars.

One girl was so crazy about him that she was running his local fan club. She said I could join for twenty-five cents, the price of a book she’d ordered for me by mail. When I received it, I was shocked to see a picture of Matt signing the bare chests of a couple of girls, at that time an unheard-of act.

Then I saw him on television on Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey’s Stage Show. He was sexy and handsome, with his deep brooding eyes, pouty lips, and crooked smile. He strutted out to the microphone, spread his legs, leaned back, and strummed his guitar. Then he began singing with such confidence, moving his body with unbridled sexuality. Despite myself, I was attracted.

Some members of his adult audience were less enthusiastic. Soon his performances were labeled obscene. My mother stated emphatically that he was “a bad influence for teenage girls. He arouses things in them that shouldn’t be aroused. If there’s ever a mothers’ march against Matt Sturniolo, I’ll be the first in line.”

But I’d heard that despite all of his stage antics and lustful, tough-guy looks, Matt came from a strict Southern Christian background. He was a country boy who didn’t smoke or drink, who loved and honored his parents, and who addressed all adults as “sir” or “ma’am.”

I was an Air Force child, a shy, pretty little girl, unhappily accustomed to moving from base to base every two or three years. By the time I was eleven, I had lived in six different cities and, fearful of not being accepted, I either kept to myself or waited for someone to befriend me. I found it especially difficult entering a new school in the middle of the year, when cliques had already been established and newcomers were considered outsiders.

Small and petite, with long y/hc hair, y/ec eyes, and an upturned nose, I was always stared at by the other students. At first girls would see me as a rival, afraid I’d take their boyfriends away. I seemed to feel more comfortable with boys—and they were usually friendlier.

People always said I was the prettiest girl in school, but I never felt that way. I was skinny, practically scrawny, and even if I was as cute, as people said, I wanted to have more than just good looks. Only with my family did I really feel totally protected and loved. Close and supportive, they provided my stability.

A photographer’s model before her marriage, my mother was totally devoted to her family. As the oldest, it was my responsibility to help her with the kids. After me, there were Don, four years younger, and Michelle, my only sister, who was five years younger than Don. Jeff and the twins, Tim and Tom, hadn’t yet been born.

My mother was too shy to talk about the facts of life, so my sex education came in school, when I was in the sixth grade. Some kids were passing around a book that looked like the Bible from the outside, but when you opened it, there were pictures of men making love to women, and women making love to each other.

My body was changing and stirring with new feelings. I’d gotten looks from boys at school, and once a picture of me in a tight turtleneck sweater was stolen from the school bulletin board. Yet I was still a child, embarrassed about my own sexuality. I fantasized endlessly about French-kissing, but when my friends who hung around our house played spin the bottle, it would take me half an hour to let a boy kiss my pursed lips.

My strong, handsome father was the center of our world. He was a hard worker who had earned his degree in Business Administration at University of Texas. At home he ran a tight ship. He was a firm believer in discipline and responsibility, and he and I frequently knocked heads. When I became a cheerleader at thirteen, it was all I could do to convince him to let me go to out-of-town games. Other times no amount of crying, pleading, or appealing to my mother would change his mind. When he laid down the law, that was that.

I managed to get around him occasionally. When he refused to let me wear a tight skirt, I joined the Girl Scouts specifically so I could wear their tight uniform.

My parents were survivors. Although they often had to struggle financially, we children were the last to feel it. When I was a little girl my mother sewed pretty tablecloths to cover the orange crates that we used as end tables. Rather than do without, we made the best of what we had.

Dinner was strictly group participation: Mother cooked, one of us set the table, and the rest cleaned up. Nobody got away with anything, but we were very supportive of one another. I felt fortunate to have a close-knit family.

Going through old albums of family photographs showing my parents when they were young fascinated me. I was curious about the past. World War II intrigued me, especially since my father had fought with the Marines on Okinawa. He looked handsome in his uniform—you could tell he was posing for my mother—but somehow his smile looked out of place, especially when you realized where he was. When I read the note on the back of the picture about how much he missed my mother, my eyes filled with tears.

While rummaging through the family keepsakes I came upon a small wooden box. Inside was a carefully folded American flag, the kind that I knew was given to servicemen’s widows. Also inside the box was a picture of my mother with her arm around a strange man and, sitting on her lap, an infant. On the back of the photo was inscribed “Mommy, Daddy, y/n.” I had discovered a family secret.

Feeling betrayed, I ran to phone my mother, who was at a party nearby. Within minutes I was in her arms, crying as she calmed me and explained that when I was six months old, my real father, Lieutenant James Wagner, a handsome Navy pilot, had been killed in a plane crash while returning home on leave. Two and a half years later, she married Paul y/ln, who adopted me and had always loved me as his own.

Mother suggested I keep my discovery from the other children. She felt it would endanger our family closeness, though when it did become known, it had no effect on our feelings for one another. She gave me a gold locket that my father had given her. I cherished that locket and wore it for years and fantasized that my father died a great hero. In times of emotional pain and loneliness he would become my guardian angel.

By the end of the year, I’d been nominated to run for Queen of Del Valley Junior High. This was my first taste of politics and competition and it was especially trying because I was running against Millie Collins, my best friend.

We each had a campaign manager introducing us as we went from house to house knocking on doors. My manager tried to talk each person into voting for me and donating a penny or more per vote to a school fund. The nominee who collected the most money won. I was sure that this competition would jeopardize my friendship with Millie, which was more important to me than winning. I considered quitting but felt I couldn’t let my parents or my supporters down. While my mother was out looking for a dress for me to wear to the coronation, my dad kept reminding me to memorize an acceptance speech. I kept putting it off, certain I was going to lose.

It was the last day of the campaign, and a rumor began circulating that Millie’s grandparents had put in a hundred-dollar bill for their vote. My parents were disappointed; there was no way that they could afford to match that much money and even if they could, they objected on principle.

The night they announced the winner, I was all dressed up in a new turquoise blue, strapless tulle net formal that itched so badly I couldn’t wait to take it off. I sat beside Millie on the dais in the large school auditorium. I could see my parents with happy, confident looks on their faces though I was sure they were going to be disheartened. Then the principal walked up to the podium.

“And now,” she said, hesitating to heighten the suspense, “is the moment you’ve all been waiting for  . . . the culmination of a month of campaigning by our two lovely contestants: y/n y/ln  . . .” All eyes turned toward me. I blushed and glanced at Millie. “ . . . and Millie Collins.” Our eyes locked for a brief, tense moment.

“The new Queen of Del Valley Junior High is  . . .” A drum roll sounded. “ . . . y/n y/ln.”

The audience applauded wildly. I was in shock. Called up to the stage to give my speech, I had none. Sure that I was going to lose, I’d never even bothered to write one. I walked, trembling, to the podium, then looked out at the crowded auditorium. All I could see was my father’s face, growing more disappointed as he realized I had nothing to say. When I finally spoke, it was to apologize.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not prepared to give a speech, as I did not expect to win. But thank you very much for voting for me. I’ll do my very best.” And then, looking at my father, I added, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

I was surprised as the audience graciously applauded, but I still had to face my father and hear him say, “I told you so.”

Being elected Queen was a bittersweet victory, because the closeness that Millie and I once shared was restrained. Still, to me that crown symbolized a wonderful, unfamiliar feeling: acceptance.

My newfound tranquility ended abruptly when my father announced that he was being transferred to Wiesbaden, West Germany.

I was crushed. Germany was the other side of the world. All my fears returned. My first thought was, What am I going to do about my friends? I turned to my mother, who was sympathetic and reminded me that we were in the Air Force and moving was an unavoidable part of our lives.

I finished junior high school, my mother gave birth to baby Jeff, and we said our goodbyes to neighbors and good friends. Everyone promised to write or call, but remembering past promises I knew better. My friend Stephanie jokingly told me that Matt Sturniolo was stationed in Bad Neuheim, West Germany. “Do you believe it? You’re going to be in the same country as Matt Sturniolo,” she said. We looked at a map and found that Bad Neuheim was close to Wiesbaden. I said back, “I’m going over there to meet Matt.” We both laughed, hugged each other, and said goodbye.

West Germany

The fifteen-hour flight to West Germany seemed interminable, but finally we arrived in the beautiful old city of Wiesbaden, headquarters of the U.S. Air Force in Europe. There we checked into the Helene Hotel, a massive and venerable building on the main thoroughfare. After three months, hotel living became too expensive and we began looking for a place to rent.

We felt lucky to find a large apartment in a vintage building constructed long before World War I. Soon after we moved in, we noticed that all the other apartments were rented to single girls. These Fräuleins walked around all day long in robes and negligees, and at night they were dressed to kill. Once we learned a little German, we realized that, although the pension was very discreet, we were living in a brothel.

Moving was out of the question—housing was too scarce—but the location did little to help me to adjust. Not only was I isolated from other American families, but there was the language barrier. I was accustomed to changing schools frequently, but a foreign country posed altogether new problems, principally that I couldn’t share my thoughts. I began to feel that my life had stopped dead in its tracks.

September came and with it, school. Once again I was the new girl. I was no longer popular and secure as I’d been at Del.

There was a place called the Eagles Club, where American service families went for dinner and entertainment. It was within walking distance of the pension and soon proved an important discovery for me. Every day after school, I’d go to the snack bar there and listen to the jukebox and write letters to my friends back home in Austin, telling them how much I missed them. Drowning in tears, I’d spend my weekly allowance playing the songs that were very popular back in the States—Frankie Avalon’s “Venus” and the Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream.”

One warm summer afternoon, I was sitting with my brother Don when I noticed a handsome man in his twenties staring at me. I’d seen him watching me before, but I’d never paid any attention to him. This time, he stood up and walked toward me. He introduced himself as Steven Wright and asked my name.

“y/n y/ln,” I said, immediately suspicious; he was much older than me.

He asked where in the States I came from, how I liked Germany, and if I liked Matt Sturniolo.

“Of course,” I said, laughing. “Who doesn’t?”

“I’m a good friend of his. My wife and I go to his house quite often. How would you like to join us one evening?”

Unprepared for such an extraordinary invitation, I grew even more skeptical and guarded. I told him I’d have to ask my parents. Over the course of the next two weeks, Steven met my parents and my father checked out his credentials. Steven was also in the Air Force and it turned out that my father knew his commanding officer. That seemed to break the ice between them. Steven assured Dad that I’d be well chaperoned when we visited Matt, who lived off base in a house in Bad Nauheim.

On the appointed night I tore through my closet, trying to find an appropriate outfit. Nothing seemed dressy enough for meeting Matt Sturniolo. I settled on a navy and white sailor dress and white socks and shoes. Surveying myself in the mirror, I thought I looked cute, but being only fourteen, I didn’t think I’d make any kind of impression on Matt.

Eight o’clock finally arrived, and so did Steven Wright and his attractive wife, Carole. Anxious, I hardly spoke to either of them during the forty-five-minute drive. We entered the small town of Bad Nauheim, with its narrow cobblestone streets and plain, old-fashioned houses, and I kept looking around for what I assumed would be Matt’s huge mansion. Instead Steven pulled up to an ordinary-looking three-story house surrounded by a white picket fence.

There was a sign on the gate in German, which translated as: autographs between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m. only. Even though it was after eight o’clock, a large group of friendly German girls waited around expectantly. When I asked Steven about them, he explained that there were always large groups of fans outside the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Matt.

I followed Steven through the gate and up the short pathway to the door. We were welcomed by James Sturniolo, Matt’s father, a tall, gray-haired, attractive man, who led us down a long hallway to the living room, from which I could hear Brenda Lee on the record player, singing “Sweet Nothin’s.”

The plain, almost drab living room was filled with people, but I spotted Matt immediately. He was handsomer than he appeared in films, younger and more vulnerable-looking with his haircut. He was in civilian clothes, a bright red sweater and tan slacks, and he was sitting with one leg swung over the arm of a large overstuffed chair, with a cigar dangling from his lips.

As Steven led me over to him, Matt stood up and smiled. “Well,” he said. “What have we here?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just kept staring at him.

“Matt,” Steven said, “this is y/n y/ln. The girl I told you about.”

We shook hands and he said, “Hi, I’m Matt Sturniolo,” but then there was a silence between us until Matt asked me to sit down beside him, and Steven drifted off.

“So,” Matt said. “Do you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, about a junior or senior in high school?”

I blushed and said nothing, not willing to reveal that I was only in the ninth grade.

“Well,” he persisted.

“Ninth.”

Matt looked confused. “Ninth what?”

“Grade,” I whispered.

“Ninth grade,” he said and started laughing. “Why, you’re just a baby.”

“Thanks,” I said curtly. Not even Matt Sturniolo had the right to say that to me.

“Well. Seems the little girl has spunk,” he said, laughing again, amused by my response. He gave me that charming smile of his, and all my resentment just melted away.

We made small talk for a while longer. Then Matt got up and walked over to the piano and sat down. The room suddenly grew silent. Everyone’s eyes were focused on him as he began to entertain us.

He sang “Rags to Riches” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and then with his friends singing harmony, “End of the Rainbow.” He also did a Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation, pounding the keys so hard that a glass of water he’d set on the piano began sliding off. When Matt caught it without missing a beat of the song, everyone laughed and applauded except me. I was nervous. I glanced around the room and saw an intimidating life-size poster of a half-nude model on the wall. She was the last person I wanted to see, with her fulsome body, pouting lips, and wild mane of tousled hair. Imagining Matt’s taste in women, I felt very young and out of place.

I glanced up and saw Matt trying to get my attention. I noticed that the less response I showed, the more he began singing just for me. I couldn’t believe that Matt Sturniolo was trying to impress me.

Later, he asked me to come into the kitchen, where he introduced me to his grandmother, Minnie Mae Sturniolo, who stood by the stove, frying a huge pan of bacon. As we sat down at the table, I told Matt I wasn’t hungry. Actually I was too nervous to eat.

“You’re the first girl I’ve met from the States in a long time,” Matt said, as he began devouring the first of five gigantic bacon sandwiches, each one smothered with mustard. “Who are the kids listening to?”

I laughed. “Are you kidding?” I said. “Everyone listens to you.”

Matt seemed unconvinced. He asked me a lot of questions about Fabian and Ricky Nelson. He told me he was worried about how his fans would accept him when he returned to the States. Since he’d been away, he hadn’t made any public appearances or movies, although he’d had five hit singles, all recorded before he’d left.

It felt like we’d just begun talking when Steven came in and pointed to his watch. I had dreaded that moment; the evening had gone so fast. It seemed I had just arrived and now I was being hurried away. Matt and I had just started to get to know each other. I felt like Cinderella, knowing that when my curfew came, all this magic would end. I was surprised when Matt asked Steven if I could possibly stay longer. When Steven explained the agreement with my father, Matt casually suggested that maybe I could come by again. Though I wanted to more than anything in the world, I didn’t really believe it would happen.

a/n - thoughts on this story so far? all the fashion and technology and things is still based in the time period its set in but i promise it gets better as the story goes on! i know the age gap is crazy but back in the day it was normal and its the age gap in Priscilla’s book so i just stuck with it. I in no way support this at all🎀

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

[yoshirage]

Body Swap Diaries: Enri

The old man slowly open his eyes; his vision slowly clearing as he looks down. He sees a tight muscular body free from wrinkles. The man that helped him with acquiring this body hands him a mirror and a giant smile forms at the once old man’s face

“So how do you like it?”

“Amazing” the man closed his mouth surprised at his thick Mexican accent. “How how is this possible!?” The man is still bewildered at what happened

The man tries to explain. "I am what you can call as a 'swapper' I can swap people's bodies with anyone I want, but I also can swap bodies with whoever I want." He searches the gym bag for the old man's new body's wallet. "and it looks like I swapped you with someone named Enrique."

"Enrique huh" He flexes his new muscular biceps in awe at how big he his. "But why would you do this for me" Enrique ask the man before him.

"Well i guess you can call it gratitude Coach Stevenson." The man was surprised that he knew who he was. "I'm sure you don't remember me but I was one of your students during the 70's when you were still a coach." The man explains. "and being one of the few black kids in that school, i've experience a lot of racism and bullying from both teachers and other students."

"Wait... Trevor is that you?" Coach Stevenson exclaimed.

Trevor smiled and he continues his story. "But you... you were the only adult in that school that showed me respect, and you even helped get into track and football, though I had to quit the latter since I was so scrawny back then."

"well look at you know! you've grown into quite a handsome man." Coach Stevenson laughs.

"well actually this is not my original body." Coach Stevenson was surprised hear this but Trevor continues. "I managed to get into a great college and got myself a great job as business man and my life's been great since; but I felt empty in my life since I always wanted to be an actor." Trevor is in deep thought but he continues. "it wasn't until a man named Blue taught me to become a swapper and it was then that I swapped with an upcoming actor named Michael."

"so you gave up everything to become an actor? the money, the success, everything?" Coach Stevenson asked

"So you gave up everything? money, success, everything!?" Stevenson asked

"Yes, and I don't regret any of it. and know I've been a hit. Been in some movies like Creed and Black Panther, and as for the original Michael, \me and Blue made it so that he doesn't remember his old life and would live my life as if he's in auto pilot"

"how about me. I don't know anything about this kid Enri. How am I supposed to live as him? and what happened to my old body."

"Don't worry, His memories will flood into your head shortly." Michael sees the old coach wince a little as he knows that parts of Enri's memories started to come in. "and the old Enri, will live your life as did Michael is living my life. Michael tossed Enri his Gym bag "come on Enri time for your work out"

Hearing his new name sounded natural to him as more memories flood into him. Enri grabs his gym back and dressed in his gym gear. His cutoff shirt still showing his new massive body.

"YO Enri, where are you?" another man comes into the locker room. Enri recognizes him as one of his Gym bros.

"Faziz Man! I told you I'll be out! and let the bros know its arm day today."

Faziz left the lockers. Enri smiles at Michael " thank you again for this Michael. and no matter how many lives you live in this lifetime... Coach Stevenson will always be there for you." He pats Michaels shoulder as he picks up his bag and leave the locker room as his new life as Enrique.

"Thanks for everything Coach." Michael says to himself as he smiles.

[misstycloud]

Friend's yandere brother HC

• Your friend had a younger brother who is just sooo adorable! With his fiery red hair and cute dark eyes. He was the perfect example of that shy little sibling everyone fawned over. Well, everyone except your friend that is. She only thinks he's annoying and couldn't be bothered with him.

• You on the other hand thinks he's a nice kid who deserves some attention. Especially since the bullying is getting more frequent with time. Cyrus has always been smaller than other boys his age, which has made him the ideal target for mean kids. There were more times than one where you remembered defending him when you were young.

• Because of his smaller physique, Cyrus grew up with quite many insecurities. Those only grew worse the older he got. The other boys became tall, while he remained short. The other boys gained the ability to increase their muscle mass, whereas he was scrawny and weak. They were confident and he was shy and awkward. They aged and became older, Cyrus stayed the same. They managed to get the girls they liked. Cyrus did not.

• The only one he felt he could confide in was you. You, who was his older sister's best friend since kindergarten. You where his safe space, away from all the bad and pain. His sister couldn't think less of his existence and his parents weren't much better. The only one really paying any greater attention to him was you.

• And for that he was eternally grateful. Vey grateful.

It wasn't his fault. He hadn't meant to fall for you so hard. So deeply. But how could he not? Not when you were always there for him, letting him cry on your shoulder when he was feeling down and praising him when he did something good. You were like an angel who descended to earth. So perfect. So good.

• The worst time came when his stupid parents convinced themselves it would be best if he attended some boarding school far north from where you lived. He begged his parents to let him stay, and cried to the point he was sure he'd lost the ability to conjure tears. But nothing worked and they did not change their mind one inch. It'd be easier to move a boulder with your bare hands.

• It felt like he would go under the moment he left you. If he was so far away, how would he be able to see you? He wouldn't.

• God, how he hated that awful school. He wondered if his parents had put any thought into it at all, or if they just wanted to get rid of him like his sister. The adults there were incredibly strict and would rather die than allow any of the students to be happy, that's what it felt like most of the time. The other students weren't much better though, perhaps even wore in some aspects.

• They teased and picked on him. It wasn't rare to find his books drenched in the school's fountain, or his clothes gone after a P.E lesson. It was all hell which he couldn't escape from. He had no one. He tried consulting one of the teachers for help but they dismissed him and said that the others surely didn't mean any harm by it. That they were just playing around. but Cyrus had noticed the way they smirked as they disregarded his pleas when they just so happened to pass by.

• That was when he lost hope and everything turned grey, dark and cold. Everything except you of course. You were still his closest (only) friend and he wouldn't replace you for anything in the entire world. During his time away and all those lonely night he spent in his dorm, he thought of you. Your warmth, your voice, your smile. He loves all of you.

• In order to cure some of the loneliness, Cyrus wrote multiple diaries and notes relating to you. It helped him get through those hellish years without seeing you. He remembered an incident from his first year, one of the bullies had gotten their hand on his diary and read all of the disturbing romantic poems about you. He eventually got his diary back but at the cost of the harassment getting even worse. They called him a weirdo, a freak. A crazy obsessed creep.

• You were honestly a bit sad when Cyrus went away. While you weren't particularly close, you still liked him and enjoyed his company. Years passed and you eventually began to forget about the little boy who used to cling to you whenever he could. He didn't forget you.

• You sure got quite the surprise when an unfamiliar man turned up at your doorstep, asking how you were and if he could come in. Not being able to recignise the face of the person in front of you, you inquired about his identity.

"Huh? (Yn), it's me." He said in a confused manner.

"Uh, sorry I have no clue who you are, sir." You discreetly tried to back away, not liking how close this man was to you.

"it's me, Cyrus."

".......what..?"

• Yeah, it was a real surprise all right. The man currently in front of you looked nothing alike the boy you remembered. No, this man was obtusely tall; nearly reaching the top of your door. His hair wasn't red, it was black. He told you he had dyed it recently. He had matured and toned muscle was clearly visible from the tight fitted shirt he wore.

• Now that you recognised who he was, you invited him in. Exited to see him again. What had happened during these past years? What was boarding school like? Things like that. Cyrus chuckled at your enthusiasm. He answered all your questions truthfully no he didn't and told you about things he'd achieved, like all the sports games he's won, how he goes to the gym all the time and how good his grades were.

• In the beginning you were happy to see him, though the feeling vanished the more you spoke with him. You expressed joy at his success, but it had turned into bragging. Something you were not fond of. Eventually you had enough and politely kicked him out, saying you were busy and had things to do.

• Cyrus stood outside the door, silent at the fact you asked him to leave so quickly. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to be impressed with him, all his achievements. His appearance mot of all. Just look at him, he's the total opposite compared to his younger self. Now he's strong, tall and confident. Shouldn't you fall for him? What was he going to do now that it didn't work? Maybe he should try again some other time, you said you were busy after all. He knew you weren't.

• He needed to come up with a new plan. One that would make sure you fall in love with him too. Otherwise he'll be forced to do something drastic.

[devilsrecreation]

Rating headcanons on the Outlanders made by a character hc generator pt 2

Okay hear me out….if Brutus and Nero from The Rescuers can play the organ, WHY CAN’T KIBURI PLAY THE PIANO????/hj

No but honestly, I can see Kiburi playing the piano as a secret talent of his in an au. Is he Beethoven? No. Does he do it often? Nah. But can he? Yeah, why not? 6/10

Literally hc the same thing cuz he’s that stupid. He’ll flirt with someone but be completely oblivious if that same animal flirts back. 10/10

Personally I hc him to have abandonment issues. Baby boy has lost a lot of friends and his mom at a young age so he’s always with someone. Even if he didn’t appear in “Beshte and the Beast”, I like to think he stuck with Neema. Agree 100% 10/10

I’M CACKLING HE PROBABLY WOULD JDHFHRGRG

I can see him “borrowing” his roomates’ (aka his float’s) clothes and just…never giving them back. Maybe he doesn’t realize, maybe he only does it out of spite, any way, I can see it. 7/10

AHAHAHAHAHAHA EMO VULTURE

4/10 just cuz it’s funny

Ndhdhdhdhddgdh?????

Although it’s funny to think about, I can’t really see him in any au having a diary, let alone a glittery pen. 2/10

And as a treat, I did it with Makuu, Hodari, and Pua

YOU KNOW WHAT? HE PROBABLY HAS JDHFHFGDG. Bro likes to pretend they don’t exist. If someone were to find his yearbook photos, he’d adamantly deny that kid was him. Who is that? That’s not him. He was never that scrawny. Now put that away and get back to training!

8/10

Hodari being the type to make oc’s is really interesting to me. I’m gonna go ahead and give it a 5/10 cuz it could go both ways. He could make an oc but at the same time, maybe oc’s wouldn’t he his thing. But if he did, he’s BOUND to have at least one

Yes you do, old man. Yes, you do/aff

10/10

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

For Chrissy

Summary: Vickie just wanted to make sure the cops were doing their jobs to find her cousin's killer. She didn't expect this to happen. A fanfiction story where Rovickie is the main course. Steddie and Hellcheer are the sides. Warning: It's long.

They say that your brain decides to trust someone in seconds. The first time that Vickie Fisher first talked to Eddie Munson, she was lying face first on the ground, hoping that no one saw her trip over nothing.

"Are you okay?" A voice asked.

"Oh God, please, let me die," Vickie said. "You didn't see that, did you?"

"Unfortunately for you, yes, but I give you points for sticking the landing," the guy said. "And then just staying there."

"I belong to the floor now," Vickie replied.

"Are you too proud to accept help from the town freak?" The man asked.

Vickie looked up and saw Eddie Munson standing above her. He was grinning. There was something in his soft brown eyes, a sparkle of mirth and understanding. He held out his hand for her to take, and she took it.

"Thanks," she said softly as he helped her up.

Vickie smiled at the memory as she pulled into the Wheeler's driveway. She was doing this for Chrissy, and hopefully Eddie because she doubted that a guy like that could harm anyone. She knew that if Chrissy were still alive that she wouldn't believe it either. Vickie took a deep breath and got out of the car. She walked up the front door and knocked. A moment later, a blond woman with big hair answered the door. She assumed that she was the owner of the house: Mrs. Wheeler.

"Hi, my name is Vickie Fisher. I'm Chrissy's cousin and I was told that Chief Powell was here," Vickie said.

"Yes, of course, come in," Mrs. Wheeler said and led her into a sitting room where the Chief was sitting. "Chief Powell, this is Vickie Fisher, and she says she's Chrissy's cousin."

"Laura Cunningham made it clear that they didn't have any other family members," the chief said.

"Of course, she would," Vickie rolled her eyes and handed him a picture. "I came prepared. That's all of us at Thanksgiving. As you can clearly tell Laura is my father's twin sister."

"Why would she lie to us?" a scrawny look cop asked.

"Maybe to cover up the fact that she's been abusing her daughter," Vickie scowled. "We tried to get Chrissy to live with us a couple of years ago, Laura got mad and cut us off. Laura was determined to control every aspect of her life including what she wore and what she ate. She even told her who to date. I can guarantee that Chrissy never wanted to date Jason. She only did it to make her mother happy. On the night of the basketball game, she broke up with Jason because she told me she found someone she actually liked. I know Jason was angry with her and I know he saw her get into Eddie Munson's van. If you search the Cunningham's house, you'll find that there are locks on the fridge and under a lose floorboard under a rug there's a diary where Chrissy documented everything. Eddie Munson shouldn't be your only suspect. Chrissy never liked Jason. In fact, she always told me that she was scared of him, and her diary will prove that."

She was rambling and breathing heavily, on the verge of a panic attack. She hadn't realized that she had been crying until Mrs. Wheeler handed her a tissue.

"Why did you wait so long to come forward?" the scrawny looking guy asked.

"Because Jason scares me too," Vickie said meekly. "And so does Laura."

They questioned her some more and then allowed her to go. As Vickie was walking to her car, she noticed four kids sneaking out of the house. One of them, a younger girl with cute braids slashed the tires and then they all drove off on their bikes. Vickie waited a minute before following them. She had a feeling that these were the people to talk to. Of course, they quickly realized that she was following them and stopped their bikes. A curly haired boy with a hat banged on her window. She rolled it down with a sheepish grin.

"Who the hell are you and why are you following us?" Dustin asked. "Do you work for them?"

"Uh. . .I just want to know what happened to my cousin," Vickie said blushing.

"Your cousin?" he asked.

"Chrissy," she said softly and showed him the picture. "Look, why don't you get in and I'll bring you to wherever you have to go? I'm going to follow you anyway and you can't out bike a car."

"Are you sure that you want to know?" he asked.

"Are we sure that we want to get into a stranger's car?" Erica asked.

"She's more than my cousin, she's like my sister. We grew up together. I have to know," Vickie said.

"I guess we're ignoring Erica," she sighed.

They abandoned their bikes and climbed into the car. She quickly drove off.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Forest Hills trailer park," he said. "By the way, I'm Dustin Henderson, that's Lucas Sinclair, his sister Erica, and Max Mayfield."

"I wish I could say that it's nice to meet you but I kind of wish it was under better circumstances," she sniffed. "Tell me."

"There's a monster that we call Vecna, he comes from the Upside Down, another dimension that lives underneath Hawkins. We've been fighting it since '83. He cursed Chrissy, Fred Benson, Patrick McKinney, and Max. He's been haunting their dreams, targeting their traumas then he killed them to open gates into our world," Dustin said.

"She's been having nightmares," Vickie realized. "She told me and I. . . I didn't think they were anything else."

"You believe us?" Max asked.

"Something strange has been going on in Hawkins for a long time now," Vickie said. "Besides, I've always been open minded."

"Wait, you implied that you know Eddie?" Lucas asked.

"Enough to know that Eddie isn't a serial killer," she replied.

"Wait, are you - are you in love with Eddie?" Dustin asked and she burst into laughter.

"No, absolutely not. I'm enamored with someone else," Vickie said. "And the name of that person is very much classified."

"Aw but we told you about our deep dark secret," Dustin grinned.

"Good point, but still no," Vickie said.

"Alright, I won't push it," Dustin said and paused. "You should know that the gate we're going to is where Chrissy died. We need to get to it in order to save Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, and Eddie. They accidentally got stuck in the Upside Down."

"Wait, we're going there to rescue people and Robin's one of them?" Vickie asked.

"You know Robin - ah!"

Vickie stepped on the gas, flooring it. They got to Eddie's trailer pretty quickly. Dustin got out of the car, clutching his stomach.

"I think I might puke," Dustin said.

"Don't be such a baby," Erica said.

"That was awesome," Lucas said.

They walked into the trailer and stared at the dark, oozing gate on the ceiling where Chrissy died. The sight of it made Vickie sick to her stomach.

"Shouldn't there be an opening?" Vickie asked.

"It looks like we're going to have to make one," Max said.

Vickie grabbed a broom and started tearing at the flimsy look material spread across the gate. It was disgusting. Finally, she managed to tear through. Vickie was looking up at Robin, Steve Harrington, and Eddie Munson.

"Vickie?" Robin asked.

"Robin?! Are you okay?!" Vickie asked.

Robin blushed and she caught Steve smirking at her. . . almost as if he knew something. Vickie blushed.

"How? Why?" Robin asked.

"Ask questions later. Let's get through the gate," Steve said.

It was Dustin who figured out how to get them through. He tied sheets together and tossed them through the gate. They grabbed Eddie's mattress and tossed it under the gate for them to fall onto. Robin was the first one through. Vickie grinned and helped her up. She hugged her tightly before pulling back.

"Hi," Vickie said.

"Hi," Robin said.

"Holy shit, that was fun!" Eddie exclaimed.

Vickie blushed and pulled away from Robin at the same that Robin pulled away from her. Of course, Dustin had to give her a look of realization in that moment which he quickly looked up at the ceiling when he did so.

"Nancy!" they heard Steve scream.

Nancy had been cursed like the others, and everyone was running around to find any music that could wake her up. Turns out that they didn't need it because, for some reason, he let her go. They scrambled across the way towards Max's trailer and into the living room as they waited for Nancy to start speaking. They waited until the early hours of the morning. Embarrassingly, Vickie had nodded off on Robin's shoulder briefly.

Nancy started talking about Vecna's plan to bring the Upside Down into Hawkins, how he showed her his plan to kill Nancy's family and everyone else. She spoke about how he showed her that he was Dr. Brenner's first experiment, that he had tricked El, a girl friend of theirs that had powers and who had helped them out many times before this. Vickie tried to wrap her head around all of this, but it was making her brain all foggy. Suddenly, she felt someone discreetly take her hand, and she found that Robin's hand was on hers. Well, that wasn't making her head any less foggy, but it was a different sort of foggy. It was a nice foggy.

"You looked a little pale," Robin whispered.

Vickie smiled and laced her fingers with Robin's, squeezing her hand tightly.

"Oh, that's just my face," Vickie whispered. "Don't you know that I'm a redhead?"

Robin covered her laugh with a cough. That's when Nancy announced that they need to go back into the Upside Down to kill Vecna. Vickie was against it as much as Eddie was. It sounded like a stupid plan.

"Not that we have don't have any other options but isn't that like sending in a five-pound yorkie to fight a grizzly bear?" Vickie asked.

"It's exactly like that, that is an excellent analogy, Vickie," Eddie said.

"Who are you?" Nancy asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Okay, that was a little rude, but I'll let that pass since everyone is a bit stressed out," she said. "Vickie Fisher. I'm Chrissy's cousin."

"You're Chrissy's cousin?" Eddie asked, looking at her softly.

"Yeah, we grew up together. She was my best friend," Vickie said.

"I'm sorry," Eddie said.

"From what I've heard, it sounds like there's nothing that you could have done," Vickie said.

"Look, I'm sorry, but we can talk about this later," Nancy said, actually looking apologetic. "We're going to need a lot of firepower."

"I think that I know the place!" Eddie exclaimed.

Max, the last to be cursed, volunteered to be the distraction. Meanwhile, they were going to steal an RV to head to the War Zone, a place her ex-boyfriend loved to go to. It was all overwhelming for her. Max was going to sacrifice herself, basically. She was just a goddamn kid. They all were. From the way that Nancy talked, Vickie doubted that they were going to win. They needed another person with powers to fight this asshole. Vickie was still going to fight by their side, though, because what were their other options? She muttered something about going to the restroom and disappeared down the hall. A moment later, there came a knock on the door.

"Vickie?" Robin asked.

Vickie opened the door and quickly pulled Robin inside. Robin stared at her in surprise.

"We could die, you know?" Vickie asked.

"Yeah, that's a possibility," Robin said.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked.

"Yeah!" Robin exclaimed.

Vickie leaned in and pressed her lips against Robin's. She gently kissed back, moving her hands to Vickie's hips. Vickie pressed harder against her lips. Robin wrapped her arms all the way around her waist as Vickie stood on her tiptoes, running her fingers through Robin's hair. Vickie was just slipping her tongue into Robin's mouth when someone knocked on the door.

"Uh, I hate to interrupt, but Nancy is really ready to go, and she's not taking no for an answer," Steve said through the door.

"Fuck you and your timing, Harrington," Robin said and paused. "You should know that he knows about me and I've kind of been talking about you."

"Aww, you've talked about me?" Vickie asked. "What did you say?"

"Um, that you're kind of my dream girl," Robin blushed.

Vickie kissed her quickly, smiling from ear to ear.

"We should go now, or Nancy might just kill us herself," Vickie said, giggling. "She's kind of scary."

Robin and Vickie followed everyone to the RV. Vickie tried not to laugh at Eddie in the Michael Meyers mask, but it was difficult, especially since he moved like he was a human puppet. They all managed to succesfully sneak into the back window. Eddie hotwired the vehicle while Steve was the one to drive it. Due to the fact that they were stealing it, it was a rough ride out of the trailer park, and Vickie ended up falling into Robin. Luckily, Robin caught her around the waist. Vickie looked at Robin with shining eyes.

"Hi," Vickie said breathlessly.

"Hi," Robin said.

"It's lucky you caught me," Vickie said.

"It's lucky you're cute," Robin said.

"Uh, you guys do know we can hear you?" Lucas asked, and Max elbowed him in the stomach.

"We don't judge. I would be a hypocrite," Max said. "I'm bisexual."

"Is it a redheaded thing?" Vickie joked, and Max laughed.

"No, it's not!" Eddie and Steve exclaimed.

Vickie watched in amusement as Eddie slowly turned around to look at Steve. Since the cat was out of the bag, Vickie was free to settle into Robin's side. Everyone else was cool with it. She wondered if Chrissy would have been cool with it. That's when she realized that she had never gotten the chance to tell Chrissy about Robin, and she was never going to. Vickie sucked in a deep breath as if she had been punched in the stomach.

"Are you okay?" Robin asked.

"It just hit me that I'm never going to talk to Chrissy again," Vickie said and let out an ugly sob.

"Oh, Vickie," Robin said softly.

Robin held her close and let her cry into her chest. Vickie's entire body shook with sobs, and she couldn't help but feel embarrassed about it. She must look like a little baby. When she finally let it all out, when she finally couldn't cry anymore, Vickie pulled away from Robin slightly.

"Sorry about that," Vickie said.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Robin said.

"Yeah, I cried too, you know," Eddie said.

"You did?" Vickie asked.

"Like a baby," Eddie said. "Everyone in the vehicle has cried over the shitty thing that's happened to them. Apparently, it's a normal reaction, which is weird because I don't think I've been normal a day in my life."

Vickie giggled as she settled against Robin, feeling comforted by the feeling of Robin's long fingers trailing up and down her back.

"What's your favorite movie?" Vickie asked.

"Huh?" Robin asked.

"If I'm going to take you on a date, I need to know your favorite movie," Vickie said. "I think you already know mine. I rented it a lot from you guys, and I kept pausing it in one place so I could subtly let you know that I'm into - "

"Boobies!" Steve exclaimed from the front seat. "I knew it! I told you!"

"I'm giving you up for adoption! You're no longer my platonic soulmate!" Robin said.

"By the way, she's going to tell you that her favorite movie is Dr. Zhivago, but really, it's Grease. Also, she'll say she likes Mr. Mom because it reminds her of my life," Steve said, and Eddie cackled. "But she just really thinks it's funny."

"Traitor!" Robin hissed.

"It's okay. I like Grease too," Vickie laughed.

"And hey, I like Grease too!" Eddie exclaimed, and everyone looked at him. "What? Because I'm a big bad metalhead, I'm only supposed to like metalhead things? Please. I like the music. Didn't necessarily like the ending because I felt like she shouldn't have had to change for him. Plus, the car just flew away?"

"Maybe they smoked some bad weed, and they were literally high," Vickie giggled.

"You might be onto something, Vickie!" Eddie exclaimed. "They were all high as kites! It explains why they kept bursting into song. I think I like it even better now."

"Wonder what it would be like to get high and then watch the movie," Vickie said.

"After this, we should find out," Eddie grinned.

"You're talking about this in front of underage teenagers, you do realize that?" Nancy asked with a grin.

"Who are also sitting in a stolen vehicle on the way to buy guns, Wheeler," Eddie said.

"Fair point," Nancy laughed.

"Of age teenagers are invited, the rest are not," Eddie said.

"Damn," Dustin said.

"It's alright. I've already been drunk and I didn't like it very much," Lucas said.

"You did what?" Steve asked sharply.

"Hey, Mr. Mom, eyes on the road," Eddie said. "Ground him later."

Vickie walked into the War Zone with Robin, Nancy, Steve, and Erica while the others stayed behind. Nancy went to get the guns while others shopped for other weapons and battle gear. Steve went to get proper stuff for his bat bites, something that alarmed Vickie because she hadn't known that interdimensional bats had ripped out pieces of his flesh. Vickie was wandering the aisle when she found a cute little red beret. She took it and plopped it right onto Robin's head.

"Oh, very cute. Definitely suits you," Vickie said.

"Really?" Robin asked, striking a pose, and Vickie giggled.

"Vickie?"

She whirled around and froze. Oh, she should have known. Of course, she'd run into her ex.

"Hey, Brian," Vickie said.

"Hey, I heard about Chrissy. I'm so sorry," Brian asked. "Do the police know what happened?"

"Uh, thanks, and no, the police think they know what happened," Vickie said, looking nervous.

"How are you holding up?" Brian asked.

"I'm good," Vickie said and looked at Robin.

She looked as awkward as Vickie felt.

"Yeah, she's good," Robin said quickly, her brow twitching. "I mean, she can speak for herself, which is obviously what she just did. And I know she's good because we've been hanging out today, you know, making sure she's good. You know, because she is."

With amusement, Vickie realized that Robin was a little jealous and it was very cute. Vickie smiled fondly at her.

"Oh. Well. I'm glad Vickie has such a good friend," Brian said, smiling knowingly.

"You know?" Vickie gasped. "How do you know?"

"Come on, Phoebe Cates?" He grinned.

"Oh, I was obvious, wasn't I?" Vickie winced.

"A little. I always knew, Vick. I was your friend first, remember? I figured you would tell me when you were ready," Brian shrugged. "At first, it made me uncomfortable, and I wondered if that was me or what my parents taught me. I didn't have to think that way because my parents did. I looked at you, and you were still Vickie Fisher. Nothing changed. You're still my friend."

Vickie grinned and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. She broke the hug and watched as he turned to Robin. They looked at each other awkwardly. They held out their hands and then pulled them back as if they were going to shake hands. Robin panicked and held up her hand for a high five. Brian grinned and high fived her.

"See you," Brian said and walked away.

"What was that?" Vickie asked Robin, laughing.

"I panicked!" Robin exclaimed and burst into laughter with Vickie.

"Did I miss something?" Steve asked as he approached them.

"Robin high fived my ex-boyfriend," Vickie giggled.

"Oh my God! Robin!" Steve exclaimed. "You panicked, didn't you?"

Now, they were parked in a field, making their final preparations. Vickie was sitting next to Steve, making molotovs for the fight against Vecna.

"So. . .you want to date my best friend?" Steve asked.

"Oh God," Vickie grinned. "Is this where you tell me that you're going to beat me up if I hurt her?"

"Oh God, no, I would just be severely disappointed with my hands on my hips and look at you like this," Steve said and gave her very big puppy dog eyes.

"Oh God! Put those away," Vickie laughed.

"So, tell me what you like about Robin," Steve laughed.

"She's funny and smart. She speaks so many languages! I can't do that. It's amazing she can do that. I love the way that she rambles when she's nervous because I do that, too. I love the way that her eyes sparkle when she talks about something she's passionate about. I love the way her hands move when she talks and . . . Oh God, I'm rambling," Vickie blushed.

"I don't think I'm going to need to throw you the puppy dog eyes," Steve said. "Seems like my best friend is in good hands."

"What are you guys talking about?" Robin asked as she left the RV and plopped down next to Vickie.

"Nothing," they said in unison.

"Riggght," Robin said.

"Well, I was just talking about how great you are," Vickie leaned in to whisper.

"Really? And what great things were you saying?" Robin asked.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Vickie giggled.

"You know if you guys wanted to, now would be the perfect time to be alone in the RV?" Steve asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Put those eyebrows away, Steven," Robin glared.

"I'm serious," Steve said. "I've got this."

"You don't want to go into the RV and make out with me, Robin?" Vickie asked innocently.

"I mean - if you - I mean - do you - ?," Robin sputtered.

"I do," Vickie grinned.

Eddie jumped behind Steve, clamping his hands on his shoulders.

"Go forth, Birdie - ," Eddie said.

"It's Robin," she corrected.

"And be with your lady love," he said. "I'll help Stevie."

"What if someone needs the RV?" Robin asked.

"Don't worry, Buckley, if Stevie and I decided that we need to start making out, then we'll just do it in front of the children and scar them for life," Eddie said and Steve let out a loud squawk.

Vickie laughed as she pulled Robin into the RV, leading her into the back. She pushed Robin onto the couch and straddled her waist. Robin laughed.

"Sorry, am I too eager?" Vickie asked.

"Just eager enough," Robin said and pulled her in for a kiss.

Vickie smiled against her lips and pinned Robin's hands above her hands. She slid her fingers through Robin's as she kissed her hungrily. Vickie broke the kiss and released her hands.

"Are you - I mean, are you my girlfriend?" Vickie asked.

"Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" Robin asked.

"Yeah," Vickie said.

"Then I guess I'm your girlfriend," Robin replied.

Vickie squealed and buried her face into Robin's neck. She laughed, wrapping her arms tightly around Vickie, and pressed a hard kiss to her cheek. Vickie moved her head and started pressing kisses to Robin's neck. She giggled when she felt Robin moan, and she decided to take a little nibble.

"You bit me!" Robin shrieked with laughter.

"Sorry, I really like your neck," Vickie said. "It's very pretty. Should I stop?"

Vickie nibbled, sucked, and kissed her neck, enjoying every sound that Robin made as she did so. Robin let out a growl, and suddenly, she had Vickie on her back.

"I have no idea what the hell I'm doing," Robin said.

"It's okay, I don't either," she replied. "We can be clueless together."

Once they properly gave each other hickies, they stepped out of the RV with the biggest grins on their faces.

"So, how'd you make out?" Eddie asked with a grin, and Steve hit him in the shoulder. "What? It's an innocent question?"

"Not from you, it's not," Steve said.

"Aw, baby, are you jealous?" Eddie asked. "You know, the RV is free. If you want, we can go in there, and I can mark up that pretty little neck of yours?"

"Not even if you were the last man on earth," Steve scoffed and walked into the RV.

"You know you want me," Eddie said, following him into the RV.

"Shut up," Steve said.

"Make me, big boy!" Eddie yelled as he slammed the door behind him.

After that, they geared up for battle. As Vickie zipped up her own battle vest, she watched Robin slip on her own and then the beret that Vickie had picked out for her. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She wasn't going with Robin when she set off to kill Vecna. It made sense that they needed another person to help with the distraction efforts, but she hated not being there for Robin. She grinned as she watched Robin struggle with her zipper. Vickie walked over to her and helped her with it, smiling as she felt Robin's gaze on her.

"You can still back out, you know?" Robin asked.

"Are you going to back out?" Vickie asked.

"No."

"Then neither am I," Vickie said. "Besides, this is for Chrissy."

"For Chrissy."

They dropped Max, Lucas, and Erica off at the Creel house before driving off back towards Eddie's trailer. They climbed into the Upside, Vickie's first trip through.

"This is fucked up," Vickie said when she walked out side the trailer.

"Isn't it?" Eddie asked her.

Vickie took Robin's hands before they went their separate ways.

"Be careful," Vickie said.

"You two," Robin said.

"You know, you should use everything you've got at this fucker. Especially the axe, you know. Especially when he's doing his mind meld thing, and it probably would be more effective if you use the axe. Just slam it right into that fucker's skull, right down the middle. Even though you would have to get real close to him, he would be distracted. Just to make sure that he's dead-dead, chop him up into little pieces and barbecue him. You know, for Chrissy," Vickie said. "I think I'm panicking a little."

Robin slammed her lips to Vickie's, and they clung to each other tightly as they kissed. Vickie was crying, and she could taste her own salty tears in Robin's mouth. They broke apart, and Robin wiped away her tears with her thumbs.

"Good luck," Vickie said, then looked over at Steve and Nancy. "To you too, but you guys are going to need to get good luck kisses from someone else because only Robin gets mine."

"Did you hear that, big boy? You wanna pucker up, and I can give you all of the good luck that you want?" Eddie asked, winking at him.

"Keep it in your pants, Munson," Steve replied.

They finally parted ways. Vickie, Eddie, and Dustin got to work, turning the trailer into a cage.

"He so wants me," Eddie grinned, and Vickie giggled.

"I'm not sure the way to Steve’s heart is to annoy him so much, Eddie," Dustin said.

"Well, I heard from a little bird that this is exactly how you buttheads managed to worm your way into his life," Eddie said. "You annoyed your way right in."

"Yeah, but we never wanted to kiss him," Dustin growled and wiggled his eyebrows at him.

"Never ever do that again, Henderson," Eddie said. "Isn't there something that you could be doing inside?"

Dustin raised his hands and wandered inside. They were left outside to work quietly. Every so often, Eddie would stop to look at Vickie.

"What's up, Eddie?" Vickie asked.

"Uh, I hope you don't mind if I ask this. . .," Eddie said softly. "What was Chrissy like growing up?"

"Wonderful. She was so funny and she saw beauty in everything, even in this old abandoned house we would stumble upon our many adventures. She dreamed of traveling the world, and she wanted to draw, but she was trapped like a bird in a cage. Her mother wanted to control everything, every aspect of her life, and I think it's because it annoyed her to no end that the one thing she couldn't control was Chrissy's heart," Vickie said, pausing. "She told me about that day in the woods. She told me every single detail. She always remembered you, Eddie. I know because I was sitting beside her when she watched you on stage. She thought you were so beautiful, Eddie."

Eddie's hands were shaking, and he was crying.

"I thought she was beautiful too," Eddie sobbed. "And I just feel so -,"

"You have nothing to feel guilty about," Vickie told him. "Nothing."

She hadn't realized that she had been crying until Eddie hugged her tightly.

"I think we're all set inside - Oh, shit! My bad!"

Spon, Vickie was sitting by Dustin on the roof, watching Eddie's performance - the performance he dedicated to Chrissy. She couldn't help but find the beauty that Chrissy had seen in Eddie in that moment. It wasn't the same beauty that Chrissy had for him, but it was beauty none the less. Vickie shared a grin with Dustin. When they got inside, they jumped together in excitement over the most metal concert ever, and then they got to work to cover the vents as the bats pounded against the trailer trying to come in. Once all vents were successfully covered, Dustin went up the rope to the other side, and then Vickie followed after him. Dustin and Vickie looked up at the gate. Eddie was frozen on the other side.

"Eddie!" They called out.

Suddenly, Eddie was cutting the rope and running out the door. Fuck. She needed to make fire. Nancy had said that the Demogorgons hated it, so why shouldn't the Demobats? Vickie found a thing of hairspray and a lighter. There wasn't really anything else. She paused at the gate and turned to Dustin.

"Stay here," she told him. "Please."

It's probably not going to do anything, but she had to try, right? It's better than doing nothing. She jumped through the gate and landed on her feet. Chrissy always told her she was like a cat. She ran off after Eddie and saw him get knocked off his bike by the hundreds of bats that surrounded him. She gripped the whistle around her neck. She liked whistles. Eddie stood in the middle of the swarm of bats, screaming at them. Vickie wrapped her lips around her whistle and blew. The bats started heading her way, but some of them had knocked Eddie to the ground.

They suddenly started screeching in pain, which was odd because there wasn't any sound coming from her new whistle. She looked at it. Oh. It was a dog whistle. Oh, she was dumb. She was really dumb. Eddie screamed in pain. Shit. She moved closer to them and blew the whistle. They go of Eddie, screaming, and they continued to scream until they suddenly started to drop. Vickie watched as they all died, looking at the bodies in shock and then at the whistle in her hand. She shook her head and ran towards Eddie, who was still lying on the ground. His cheek was bleeding.

"Eddie?" Vickie asked.

"Did you do that?" Eddie asked. "Did you kill them?"

"With a dog whistle? I don't think so," Vickie said. "Are you going to live?"

"I think so," Eddie groaned. "I belong to the floor now, though."

Vickie rolled her eyes and helped him up. He stood up shakily and pressed a hand to his neck. Vickie punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Dumbass!"

They walked back into the trailer, fixed the rope, and climbed back to the other side. Vickie grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom and started fixing up Eddie's face while Dustin gave Eddie a lecture.

"I'm sorry for scaring you both. It's just that the bats were heading back towards the others. I couldn't let those winged alien bastards get to them," Eddie said. "I didn't want to be a coward who runs away."

"Eddie Munson, you were never a coward for running away that night. I'll say this again, you have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing. I know Chrissy, she would have wanted you to run away. She was already dead and you had no clue what was going on," Vickie said. "Chrissy was my cousin by blood and my sister by heart. She would have told you that you didn't owe her anything by doing what you just did. She also would have beaten you with her tiny little fists."

"She would have kicked my ass too," Eddie sniffed and they sat down on Eddie's couch in silence, Eddie's cheek now bandaged.

"You're still an idiot," Dustin said.

Two days later. . .

Vickie walked towards the Hopper cabin, hand in hand with Robin. They stopped when they saw Steve's car pull up and watched as Steve got out with Eddie jumping out of the passenger side door. Dustin, Max, and Lucas spilled out of the backseat.

"Aw, they look like a little family," Vickie giggled.

"No, there's no way. Steve hates him," Robin said. "He's been complaining about him nonstop for the last few days."

"Robin, baby. . .," Vickie laughed. "Don't look now."

Steve and Eddie walked up, hand in hand.

"Oh, he's got some explaining to do," Robin said. "I missed it. How did I miss it?"

"You were very distracted," Vickie grinned.

"That's a good point."

They walked into the cabin and found the Byers' waiting for them inside, along with a thought to be dead Chief Jim Hopper. No one seemed to care about how he was back, just that he was back. Everyone took turns hugging him tightly.

"We called everyone here to make sure that everyone involved was okay," Joyce said. "And to answer any questions that anyone has."

"Well, aside from a few bat bites and several nightmares, I think we're good," Eddie said cheerfully.

"Oh, I'm sorry you got involved in this," Joyce said.

"It's okay, or it will be," Eddie said softly. "I'm just glad that I'm no longer wanted for murder and it's all thanks to everyone here but especially to Miss Vickie Fisher."

"I just told the truth," Vickie blushed.

"Oh, girls, did the bats get you too?" Joyce said as she gazed at Vickie and Robin's neck.

The ones who knew giggled behind their hands.

"Yes, yes, it was the bats . . . they wrapped around their throats and bruised their necks. Yes, the bats!" Dustin said loudly.

"That's not necessary, Dusty," Robin said fondly.

"Are we missing something here?" Hopper asked.

The others laughed harder and soon they couldn't contain it any longer.

"Is someone going to tell us, goddamnit?!"

Vickie laughed into Robin's shoulder. It seemed that her group of friends were getting better and a part of her felt guilty about that because Chrissy should be here, but she knew that Chrissy would be happy for her. She hoped that wherever Chrissy was, that she was happy like she was.

"Seriously?! Anybody?!"

[darlingillustrations]

I'm Gay

When I was eight years old, I wrote my first poem. I remember the moment the words came to me. I was lying in bed at night, the lines rattling through my brain, startling sleep away. I turned on my pencil-shaped bedside lamp, grabbed my pink diary and huddled up underneath the little roses on my wallpaper to scribble the words down before they were lost to me forever. I re-read them over and over, letting them seep into my mind as I drifted off to sleep, so full of mystery and fascination at this new craft that had opened up to me.

The next day, I showed the poem to my mother. It was a love poem, and the only thing she said was, “Why is this written to a woman?”

I didn’t know.

In high school, I also didn’t know why I enjoyed turning around in psychology class to chat with the girl with the cool beaded purse who sat behind me. I didn’t get it why I was so tongue tied around the girl in college with the mousy brown hair and soft floral skirts. After graduation, I still didn’t understand why the scrawny girl with facial piercing who I worked with at the coffeeshop held such a deep place in my heart that I’d give anything to make her smile.

The day I nervously confessed to my parents that I no longer wanted to be in the Church of Christ, the religion they’d raised me in, and that I’d been going to an Episcopal church, they laughed in relief.

“We were worried you were going to tell us you were a lesbian,” they said, wiping tears of joy from their eyes.

It never occurred to me that I could be a lesbian because I was attracted to guys. I didn’t realize that bisexuality was a thing. It wasn’t until 2016 that I started to face the truth about myself. After the attack on the Pulse nightclub, I felt deeply and inexplicably unsafe, and after months of soul searching, I came to realize it was because the people who had been attacked, the LGBT men and women, I was part of their community. They were me. I was LGBT.

As part of my journey, I was asked to exhibit my art at the Pierce County AIDS Foundation. I wanted to share something that was representative of the LGBT community, and that’s how my Affectionate Animal series was born. I chose vintage photos as my source images because I loved the nostalgic feeling they evoked. I wanted to offer the feeling that being gay was a normal thing.

The funny thing is: when I painted these first nine couples, I didn’t yet realize my own truth.

Coming out to myself was about self acceptance. When I told Matt, he asked me what this meant for our marriage. I said it meant nothing: instead of choosing him over half the world population, it meant I chose him over all of the world population. But when Matt left me (for other reasons), some of my close friends whom I’d trusted with my secret blamed me for him leaving. “He’s been through a lot,” they said.

I was scared to tell anyone. For a long time I only told people who were gay, and I spent a lot of time online, on tumblr, living an invisible life, coming to terms with what my sexuality meant.

That’s where I met my first girlfriend. She flew cross country to visit me and I flew cross country to visit her. We fell in love with each other and each other’s kids, and I was going to fly out with the girls to spend Christmas with her, until she broke up with me suddenly and then blocked my phone number before ever explaining why everything was ending.

They say your first heartbreak after a divorce is the worst. When you get divorced, there’s too much other stuff in the way that inhibits the grieving process, so when your first heartbreak after divorce hits you, all that pent up grief rears its ugly head and devastates you. In short, that’s what happened to me. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I kept throwing up for weeks. I lashed out at people, then became disgusted with myself for acting like such a monster and fell into a pit of despair. My body felt like knives were stabbing me, raking my arms from the inside out. My chest felt cavernous. I felt beyond gutted. I felt like I was in tatters.

God bless my therapist, because she texted with me through the worst of it, assuring me that this is what grief felt like. I’d tell her I was scared of the depression. She said I was strong enough to weather a little depression. I took comfort in that. Deep down I knew she was right.

I started cleaning my house. It wasn’t much, but a little every day gave me a sense of normalcy. I signed up for the Motivated Moms checklist so that I wouldn’t have to think about what I was supposed to do. I could just do it.

On Friday, my checklist said to spend time on a craft or hobby. I spent more time scratching my head trying to figure out what I was interested in than I did playing my guitar once I finally remembered I liked to sing. On Sunday I was paralyzed by the suggestion to pamper myself. How does someone pamper themselves? I googled it and read dozens of suggestions before I felt inspired by the suggestion to give myself flowers.

I’d always thought that, when I was with my girlfriend for Valentine’s Day, we’d do some sappy romantic thing, and I’d post sappy pictures & let people draw whatever conclusions they wanted to about our relationship. Now that I’m single again, I guess I’m coming out of the closet anyways. I’m not doing it for another person. I’m doing it for myself. Because, at the end of the day, lovers come and go, but there is one person who will love me for my entire life, and that person is me. And it doesn’t take a parent or a husband or a girlfriend to validate my loveliness. I am loved. I am darling. And I am complete, just as I am.

I don’t know why God made me this way, but this is the way I am. I don’t fall in love with people because of what’s in their pants, but because of what’s in their heart. So, in closing, I’d like to share with you the poem I wrote when I was eight years old, long before I knew what the depths of my heartache might bring:

Beauty Your eyes sparkle in the moonlight, Your legs tremble fast, Your voice can sing the wonders, And your ears can hear me laugh, Your nose smells the flowers that I bring to you in prize, Your legs can run freely, And your hands can hold my thighs. But you’re the one in my mind, The wonders that I dream, For you are so beautiful, The wonders of my dreams.

I like to think that, maybe, the woman I’d written it for was, in fact, myself.

[ This essay first appeared on my blog on February 14, 2019, and it is how I came out publicly to my friends, family and the world. I want to repost it here to tumblr in the hopes that it might resonate with you. ]

[natty1730]

Chapter 4 : Business of Misery

I don't understand Glam. Why did you invite your bitchy sister over for dinner?" Vicky asked, helping Glam clean the kitchen. "I did not invite her dear, and we are not having diner. Just a cup of coffee." He said making sure the countertops were sparkling with cleanliness. Vicky turned her head slightly and asked, "So she asked to come here? She knows that this isn't a mansion right?" Glam just hummed a reply of yes before asking Vicky to get the kids.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone sat quietly at the table, staring at Lydia who was drinking coffee from her own mug, that she brought with her. "I never knew you had kids." Lydia said breaking the silence. "Yes." Glam curtly said, starting intensely at Lydia. "Well I'm sure you have some speculations as to why I am here." Lydia gently set down her cup as she glanced at Dee and Heavy, before staring back at Glam. "No, not particularly Lydia." “Do you remember Ivan Morozov, he was one of your companions at the conservatory .”Glam's eyes hardened and his grip on his cup grew so hard his knuckles turned white. "Yes, vaguely." Glam then turned his head toward Vicky and said in a voice that could make everyone at that table gulp, "Vicky, you and the kids should go out for dinner. I will not be cooking tonight." Vicky and Heavy quickly got up, grabbed the keys from the holder, and practically ran out the door. He then looked only to see that his eldest son was still sitting at the table. "Dee you should leave." "Dad I don't want to-" Glam interrupted him with a harsh tone of voice. "Leave Dee." The boy gulped and hesitantly left the table and walked out the door. "That was unneeded Seab- I mean Glam." Lydia said before sipping the rest of her coffee. "Why must you drudge up the past, dear Lydia." Well I'll be in town for a couple of months, staying at one of my mansions." Glam snarled and took on a certain glint in his eyes. "What does this have to do with… Ivan?” Well, his daughter has recently come to town, and I will be her private piano instructor. Besides that, one of my maids was cleaning out the mansion and found this." Lydia took out a small green book from her small purse and slid it to the other side of the table towards her brother. Glam gasped as his eyes widened, 'My diary.' He thought. "I'm selling the house to Ivan so his daughter will be closer to the music conservatory. So I thought you should have that." Glam finally looked up at his sister, and gently grabbed the book from the table. Lydia stood from the table and started to make her way toward the door. "I must take my leave dear brother, after all I have a dinner to attend." Without looking back, Lydia left Glam alone at the table with his old diary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daisy sat at the open window seal smoking, while watching the rain droplets hit the leaves of the trees. 'How simple would it be if I was just a rain droplet? I'd never have to worry about anything ever again.' Daisy looked down to see her rather tight dress and sparkly heels. She sighed before closing the window. Sat at her vanity, looking at her reflection. She smiled at herself at the makeup she put on, it was a natural look . Y/n stood up from her chair and took notice that walking started to feel easier, and the way her body started to relax. The girl opened the door and started to walk down the marble staircase,The tall slender woman walked in, with beautiful styled blonde hair and a small beauty mark near the left side of her nose. “Ivan, it's been far too long. How have you been?" The beautiful woman offered her hand to shake, and Daisy’s father shook it eagerly. "It truly has been too long my dear Lydia, and I have been doing wonderful." Lydia then looked behind the man only to see Daisy wearing a dress with a slit too high for Daisy's liking . “So you must be Margarita? I must say I was expecting someone rather scrawny, and someone more... appropriate. Nonetheless, it's good to meet you." The woman said, giving Daisy a small nod. She sat down and started to zone out and focus on that spine tingling energy she felt roll down her back. "Y/n. We have a guest, please focus." Her father snapped her out briefly. She noticed the anger burning in his eyes as she turned her focus to Lydia. "What pieces do you like to play Margarita?”

The girl cleared her throat and started to roughly grip onto her dress. "Oh well I mainly like to play Mozart most of the time." That was a lie. Daisy mainly liked to play on her guitar, but she doubted that Lydia or her father would approve of her saying so. "Oh that's wonderful, he truly was a gifted man."The girl just nodded her head and started to focus on the table cloth. The pattern. “Shall we begin,” Lydia said. I play a piece called a Merry-Go-Round of Life. It is one of my favorite pieces from Joe Hisaishi. I move my hands with such grace and swiftness, I get lost in the music. Music is my passion, it is my reason for living. I close my eyes while playing. When the song came to the end, I opened my eyes. “That was beautiful, the most magnificent playing that I ever experienced. You played with so much passion, your father is right, you are spectacular at piano.” Lydia said with such delight as she stood up from her chair. “Bravo, Bravo you played magnificent, darling, I am so proud to call you my daughter.” I stood up from the stool And I gave a courtesy and said “Thank you, you're too kind.” “Thank you Ivan for inviting me, it was a delight to see your daughter.” Lydia said she smiled and she stated to leave the door.

“That was splendid playing, my daughter.” As my father hugged me I stood there awkwardly as he hugged me. He let go of me and said “Oh, sorry about that, Lydia will start to see you every Wednesday and Thursday , the rest of the week and weekend will be your free time.” I gasped for air. “Thank you, I should start heading to bed now.” I walk up the marble staircase. “Ok, have a good night's rest.” “Too you as well,” I opened the door to my bedroom. I started to get undressed and removed the makeup. Then I took a shower, after the shower I put on my pajamas and went to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I don't get it! Am I not pretty enough? Smart enough? Why don't you like me Dee?" Diana asked with tears threatening to ruin her mascara. Every day Diana has tried to put more effort into everything, for him. She would wake up hours earlier than usual to style her hair into gorgeous waves, or put on just a little bit more makeup than usual, or even look up facts about bands that Dee listens too. It wasn't until last night when she finally broke down. Crying into her silky pillow, with her step-mother rubbing her back in a lovingly way, Diana broke. "I just don't view you in that way. You're not my type, so please just leave me alone Diana." Dee said while sighing, walking away from Diana to walk home. He really did feel pitiful for the girl, but she would just not stop her advances. While the boy was walking his thoughts strangely did not wonder to Lif, but to Y/n instead. 'Now that I think about it, Daisy seems sorta tired all of the time. Hopefully she's okay, she hasn't been here all week.' He thought, brushing the piece of hair in his face away from him. 'Whatever I'm probably just overthinking it, she's fine.' Dee thought before opening the door to his home and walking in.

Daisy walked into school for the first time this week looking a bit rougher this time. She walked into history early, with only a couple people scattered in the classroom, one of those people being who she desperately wanted to avoid. Daisy sat down at her seat, avoiding the stare Dee was giving her. "Where were you? You were supposed to talk to Lif." He asked, taking notice of her weary appearance. The girl awkwardly smiled and scratched her neck before responding, "Yeah, she said that she had a crush on someone else... I'm sorry Dee." The boy had a feeling that Lif liked someone else, but it still hurt to hear it in reality. Did you talk to Diana for me?" Dee wondered for a second if he should bring up what Diana told him, "No not yet, sorry Daisy”. The bell finally rang and students started to trickle inside the classroom, everyone except Diana. By this point Daisy was getting desperate, so desperate in fact that she was planning to stop by Diana's house and personally ask her what's going on. The girl dug her textbook out of her bag and set it down on the table, wiping off white powder that was accidentally smeared on the book. "Y'know Heavy won't stop talking about you, it's getting pretty annoying actually." Dee said, sighing while staring into the window. Daisy just smiled at that, happy that someone else besides Lif actually liked her. "So I've been told. He invited me to dinner last week, but I had to decline. I still feel bad about turning him down." She said remembering how excited he was to ask her. "Were you busy doing something?" Dee asked, finally deciding to look at her. It was in this moment of eye contact, Daisy realized just how blue his eyes really were. Such a bright electric blue, she thought it was going to electrocute her. She snapped out of it, and picked up the moment of tension between them. “Yes, I was busy. It's none of your business Dee." She coldly said His gaze lingered a bit longer on her, before finally returning to their history teacher. "Today class, you will be doing a week-long project with whoever is at your table." Everyone started to groan and whisper, ignoring the teacher's attempts to quiet them down. "No complaining! In this project you will choose a historical figure with your partner, and will make a presentation on how they shaped Russia. I heavily implore you to spend time outside of school working on this, because you won't have any time in class to work on it. Any questions?" Dee immediately raised his hand up high, startling Daisy a bit. "Yes Dee?" "Is there any chance we could work alone on this, without a partner?" The teacher just sighed before replying to Dee in a rather monotone voice. "No Dee, you have to work with your table partner."

As everyone started to talk about who their project will be over, the boy and girl just sat in an awkward, tension filled quietness. 'He really hates me that much? It hurts to know that he would rather work alone than to even talk to me.' Daisy wondered while placing her textbook back inside her bag. Dee coughed to break the silence, earning a small glance from Daisy . "We should work together after school today, at my house." He said while putting his textbook away as well. "Sorry I can't today, I have a thing after school." Not entirely a lie, the girl really did have something after school. It was just piano practice... at seven in the evening. "Well what about tomorrow afternoon, it'll be Saturday so we won't even have school." Daisy thought thoughtfully for a moment weighing out all of her options. "If we do this project fast then we should finish in two days. So I'll work on it with you after school, then tomorrow. Can we settle on that" The girl asked, staring into Dee's blue eyes. "I thought you had a thing after school?"The girl just grinned mischiefly and her ears pricked a little bit red. "Yeah well it's just later in the evening. I just need to leave your house by six." Dee gave a nod of approval, and hid the confusion on his face. 'She really hates me that much? She had to lie so she wouldn't even talk to me, that hurts.' He thought looking back out the window. "Do you want to meet at the front?" Daisy asked, glancing over to Diana's empty spot. "Yeah sounds good, though Heavy will probably walk with us. Don't worry about my parents, they both have this thing to go to, so you won't meet them today." He said, staring into Daisy's deep brown eyes. He never noticed how angelic her appearance was, it was almost intriguing to Dee. The boy knew little to nothing about Daisy. The bell rang and Daisy grabbed her bag and quickly left the room, leaving behind a rather intrigued Dee.

Daisy walked through the hallway and entered the bathroom, filled with girls talking or replying to makeup. She noticed a familiar backpack on the floor of the very last stall, Daisy waited until everyone left then finally had enough courage to knock on it. "Diana, it's Daisy. Look I don't know what I did, but I really am sorry. You've been my first friend since I got here, and it really sucks to see you like this... can we talk? Please?" She heard the door open with a click and Diana walked out of the stall with tears of dried mascara on her face. "I don't get it." Diana mumbled looking down at the tiled floor. "Don't get what?" Daisy asked curiously. "I don't fucking understand why he likes you and not me!"She yelled, fresh tears adorning her face. "I have known him since elementary school, I have always been nice to him, and hell I even force myself to listen to the bands he listens to!" Daisy didn't know what to do or even say, so she tried to comfort her. "It's just a crush on Diana! And-" "It's not just a crush on Daisy ! I am in love with Dee. I know that all of my teenage hormones, and bad decisions make it look like a crush, but it's not. I wish it was, then my fucking heart wouldn't be chewed and spit out every damn time I talk to him!" They both stared at each other for awhile, both analyzing each other's shells of their personalities. "Dee hates me Diana. He goes out of his way to avoid me every day, and he doesn't even like me. He has a crush on a different girl in our grade, who is completely different than both of us. It's useless being mad at a version of me that doesn't even fucking exist."The pink haired girl's eyes widened in realization, but her tears started to run even further. "Don't be my friend Y/n." Before Y/n could mutter out another word Diana grabbed her bag from the floor and took out a small makeup bag, that was quite heavy. "I don't want to be your friend because I hate you Daisy , it's actually quite the opposite. If we maintain our friendship I'll just fuck it up again with my insecurities and jealousy."She looked at the mirror and Daisy couldn’t believe of what she is hearing “It's best for both of us to cut all contact. I feel really embarrassed about being a bitch, but I know that if we develop our friendship even further, someone will just get hurt." Her tears finally dried and Diana wiped off the rest of her makeup in the reflection of the mirror. She asked, looking away from the mirror and staring back at Daisy. "Okay Diana." They both gave each other a weak smile, as Diana left the bathroom. Daisy stepped inside the stall and pulled out a box of cigarettes and smoked one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outfit Reference

[theinvisibledoodlewizard]

I am on AO3!

It’s the story I’ve been doing snippets of for the past few days :3333

I’ll have chapter two up in a bit.

Also, for anyone not on AO3 (like me just a bit ago)

Also if anyone has tips on how to get italics/indents to work on AO3? I’d be eternally grateful

Edit: I FIGURED OUT ITALICS but not indents

Twice under the past, there was a village surrounded by the woods.

Ok not much of an opening, I know. But it’s the best I got.

Everything I read in the library as a kid started in the same tacky way, so I thought it’d be a good idea. Anyway, how do people usually write in one of these things?

“Dear Diary,” or something like that? Hmm… sounds too much like a person then. You’re a book. Y’know what? How about I’m the narrator, the main character, and you’re a book. Sound good? You’re already nailing it.

Let’s start again.

Thrice through the future,

…

The book isn't judging you and no one is going to read this, it's fine.

There was a village in the woods.

Not a very small village, but not a very big one. Farm land dotted the massive clearing of forlorn trees, broken by shops and places of learning, and even a small castle. The town provided all of its own resources. Reusing metal, keeping herds of animals extremely carefully, every stone found put to use right away. The town had to work hard, but its people were never starving or cold. It was prosperous in its own way. It had everything it needed, which was good since no one traveled in or out.

The forest was dark and foreboding, no one dared travel far within its reaching branches. Though it was said that once, many years ago, people would travel to other villages outside and in the forest, its twisted branches and forgotten paths were enough deterrent for the townsfolk of our story.

It was told in tales, that heroes of old had cleared the forest of all monsters in a great battle many years ago. No one knew what those monsters were anymore, the books and legends never specified.

Some people guessed bears, others guessed lions, some said trolls. This last category swore their great great great great great great great great uncle’s cousin had traveled to a town that had been having issues with them. The most ludicrous of all these claims were the people who said the old battle was named “The Battle of the Bugs.” In these renditions the ancestors had done battle with giant beetles, flies, maggots, and the like. A simple gnat being the size of a man’s head. Obviously these were the most mocked, also the most used to scare children into learning the deadly plagues or getting into bed.

Some people were brave enough to live under the shade of the reaching trees, the areas where the forest was trying to reclaim its lost territory. Not venturing far out, houses always built facing the village and away from the looming dread. Brave or foolhardy, the townsfolk could never make up their minds. Our protagonist is one of those people.

A sour mouthed, scrawny, beanpole of a man, not many people ventured out to visit Joshua Tailor. Living the farthest out from the village, and not following the usual tradition of having his house’s back turned to the dark, many wondered if the illusive man was a tree from the woods, come to live among them.

In reality, Joshua just didn’t like talking with the superstitious people he had been raised with, instead deciding to live alone among the sparse trees that could give him neighbors that only chirped among themselves and didn't bother him.

He had a small garden where he grew what food he could. Sending off for anything else he needed. In that list were things like cloth, needles, bobbins, and work orders. All these things were brought by three brave messengers, the only ones brave enough to traverse that far out.

The most annoying, and most persistent of these emissaries was Joseph Planter. He had come today to bring the new orders.

“So we have your food orders, about twenty five sharp things, fabric that I totally didn't drop on the way here, and three return orders from customers that I know I had to carry there and now back again. I’m blaming you for every prick, bump, and branch I got hit with, as I, again, totally didn’t chase the fabric through the underbrush and watch it roll away forever.”

“Hello Joseph,” said Joshua, stopping his work and standing up to inspect the damage on his goods and courier, “Are those all of your complaints?”

“Not even close!” replied Joe Planter flopping everything on a counter in one giant tangled pile, “Thank you for asking! Yesterday, Veronica told me tha-”

“Zip it” Josh curtly grunted, shooting a glare and a slight grin towards the sulking gossiper leaning on his counter next to the abhorrent pile, “You know I don't actually care.”

“I see you’re the usual antisocial sourpuss,” Joe pouted, watching Josh try to detangle the mess that had been brought.

“Antisocial is a bit of a strong word,” Tailor said absentmindedly, “I prefer introverted. But say what you will, lazy, good for nothing, s-”

“Woah woah woah!” proclaimed Joe, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m gonna stop you right there! We’ve been over this, just because I’m not running the family business, does not mean I am not working. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Here, and bothering me,” Joshua rolled his eyes, “What a joy. By the by, how is your sister doing, running the family farm?”

“Mary is fine, just fine,” now it was Joseph’s turn to be curt.

“A young pretty thing like that definitely doesn't need another hand on board,” Josh couldn’t help but dig.

“Listen, ma and pa don’t even want me near the land anymore,” Joe sighed, leaning back onto the counter, “And sis is scheduled to be married soon. I’m lucky to be invited. Let alone still in her life. I'm not going to strain what I have.”

Joshua looked at his colleague curiously. When Joseph really wanted to, he could be really protective of those he cared about. It always baffled Joshua why he was the one the lonely Planter lamented to, instead of some bar in town. But he had to admit, something about it fit Joe’s character. He wouldn’t say these things to just anyone. So why him?

“Alright, alright.” Josh conceded, “I apologize.”

A turn of Joe’s head, with a flash of an upturned lower lip, told Josh that what he’d said wasn’t enough. He had to sweeten the pot a bit.

“And I admit that being a courier is a real job,” he finished, slightly less genuinely.

“Thank you,” Joe sniffed over dramatically, ignoring the inauthenticity of Josh’s addition, “You know you’d miss me if I was stuck on a hot farm all day. And what then? You’d have to walk your own sorry butt to town to come see me.”

“I have two other couriers you know,” Joshua replied flatly.

“The insults keep coming!” Joe proclaimed, falling backward and feigning inconsolable injury to his pride and social standing.

“Any notes with these orders?” Tailor ignored the dramatics happening to his right with not even a sigh.

Joe straightened and brushed off his coat, done with his act, pride only mildly damaged.

“Nope. But can you maybe make me some new duds sometime soon? I’ll give ya half off the next five trips here and back.”

So salesman mode was going to be his revenge. Challenge accepted.

“Next ten trips here and back,” was Josh’s counter offer, not even looking up as he placed the new pins into a drawer.

“Five trips, here and back,” Joe emphasized, “is already ten trips! I can’t give out discounts for that many trips! Do you know how much food costs back in town?”

“Given how much you charge, plus your shipping fee?” Josh mused, scratching his chin for mock emphasis, “Yes, yes I do. And I'll remind you, you're asking for discounted goods as well? I use every scrap of material you bring me, and my other customers pay much more than half price for walking.”

Joe groaned as Josh proudly folded the new cloth.

“Fine!” the courier conceded, much like a child would “I’ll do half off seven trips here and back. But I genuinely can’t do more than that! Mary’s wedding is coming up, and I’d rather not have to starve in order to get her a nice gift.”

“Sounds fair enough” Joshua replied, utterly deadpan. “Next time you come, I’ll take the measurements.”

“Why not now?” Joe whined, annoyed he had been bested twice in one trip.

“Because I have other work to do that's more urgent, and you've annoyed me enough for one day.” Josh returned, turning around to look Joe in the eye for the first time, while crossing his arms in a firm “I’m done talking” gesture.

“It was nice catching up, Joe,” Tailor said with finality.

“Yeah yeah,” Joe said, rolling his eyes at this display, “I get the hint.”

Joshua walked his guest to the door, mostly to make sure Joe didn’t grab anything on the way out like he usually tried to. But as Joe was about to start the trek back to the village, Josh stopped him.

“When is Mary’s wedding exactly?” he asked nonchalantly.

“About a fortnight away,” Joe called over his shoulder, before turning back to the house in curiosity. “Why?”

Josh thought for a moment, then ventured, “Would you be able to make a trip back in five to eight days time?”

Joseph cocked his head as a dog would, looking at the imposing figure standing in the doorway thoughtfully. He smiled and nodded, almost to himself.

“I think I could,” the courier stated, before turning back to the road matter of factly.

Tailor sighed a bit before calling after him again.

“That trip doesn’t have to be one of the half off ones,” he shouted. Then walked back inside and closed the door.

[aerichuchu]

opening elliot's window

The book feels nicer in her hands than she remembered;  it must have a leather casing. “Bougie kid,” Sera mutters. 

Opening the cover, she looks for a name on the first page. It says “Elliot” inside the cover. She decides to go through some of his notes to try and figure out who he is.

She flips the next page over before she can reason herself out of it. It's so she can return it.

The pages are filled with doodles and scrawny handwriting, the kind that somehow gives the impression of being neat if looked at from afar but is marginally hard to read up close. 

it takes Sera a moment to realize that they're not lecture notes.

She’s holding Elliot's diary.

A strangled squawk makes its way out of her throat without her permission. Sera's eyes take in the words on the page before she can stop them. It's an open window, curtains billowing in the summer wind. And she's being dragged to the other side.

[barbaesparza]

Diary of a Scrawny Kid – Dominick Sonny Carisi (2639 words)

Ma left me this notebook in case I wanted to draw something or write her a note if she’s not here and I want to go back to sleep. I don’t know what to draw so I’m just gonna write here instead. I’m really bored.

I’m getting tired of telling the same story over and over again. But I can’t do anything else.

Hospital food sucks balls.

Pa brought Gina and Theresa to see me. Ma stayed home with Bella. Theresa said I look like a mummy. Gina brought me some magazines. I don’t know why she thought I’d be interested in Vogue, but it’s the thought that counts.

I wish I could go outside. Technically I can, but the doctor and nurses said to take it easy.

Ma snuck me some lasagna from home because I’m “a growing boy”. She’s the best.

My friend Adam came to see me after school. He brought along a small pile of homework for me. I sure was glad to see that… Actually, I’m glad to have something to do.

I went outside today with Ma and Pa. We walked for a little while and talked about what's been going on at church and at home. Luckily they haven't asked me anything more about how I got hurt.

My face has been a lot better the last couple of days. They took some of the bandages off. Ma brought Bella to see me. She was awful quiet. I think I scared her.

I want to go home, but I don’t want to go back to school.

I’m waiting for my discharge papers. The doctor said he thinks I’ll make a full recovery and made me an appointment to come back to see him.

I’m allowed to stay home until next week. Adam brought me more homework. It’s pretty lonely in the daytime. Ma’s here, but her concern is a little over the top at times. It’s better than the hospital, at least.

Bobby didn’t talk to me all day today. Wouldn’t even look at me. I’m glad.

I went back to the hospital for my appointment and the doctor said I was doing well and that the scars should fade with time. Nothing hurts anymore so that’s good.

My teachers are helping me catch up on what I missed. Sometimes at lunch I stay back so they can go over some things with me. Sometimes I just ask Adam.

I told Adam I was thinking about asking Abby to the Spring Fling. He kinda looked shocked, but then he told me to go for it! So I’m totally going to ask her tomorrow. I hope she says yes.

Abby said she’d go with me! I’m so excited! Maybe Gina will help me find something to wear?

Adam looked kind of sad today when Abby gave me a hug in the hallway. I think maybe he likes her? Crap.

Maybe I should ask him. I don’t want him to be sad. I don’t even like Abby like that, not really. But she’s really nice and super pretty, and I always wanted to be her friend. It’s just a dance, right?

I asked Adam if he like-likes Abby and he straight-out said no. So maybe I’m just imagining things.

Abby and I had lunch together today, but I don’t know where Adam was. I kept looking around for him, but he didn’t show up. He was probably at the library.

Gina took me shopping and we got this maroon button-up for me to wear. Then when we got home she decided to play around with my hair and put some gel in it. I kept putting my hand in it by accident and getting my hand all sticky, haha.

Abby kissed me after the dance last night. I’ve never kissed anyone before. It was, um, kinda nice? But I didn’t think she even liked me that way.

The dance was really fun, and even though he doesn’t like dancing Adam still came and I got to hang out with him by the fruit punch.

I had fun dancing with Abby, and she looked really beautiful in her floral dress and I told her so. She does gymnastics outside of school and she was telling me about her competition that’s coming up.

Abby and I haven’t kissed again, but we’ve been hanging out every day at school. She’s the most awesome girl I’ve ever met. I love making her laugh. I think I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend.

I miss Adam. I don’t know what happened. We used to be pretty close but lately he’s been studying a lot. It kind of feels like he’s avoiding me.

I took Abby to the mall today and we got ice cream. Then I told her I like her a lot and would she want to be my girlfriend? She smiled so big and said okay. Then when we finished our ice cream we walked around the mall, not really looking at anything. So I guess Abby’s my girlfriend now, and I’m her boyfriend. I still can’t believe it.

I caught up with Adam and told him the news. He smiled and gave me a hug.

Abby asked me to go watch her at her gymnastics competition. She was amazing! She got 3rd place in her category and the judges were really impressed. I also met her mom, haha. She seems nice. She didn’t really say much except “You must be Sonny” and “It’s sweet of you to come along and support Abby”. Abby was really happy.

Adam and I got paired up for the science project. I’m really glad, I’ve been wanting to hang out with him more.

Abby told me she loves me yesterday. I said it back. I think I do? Adam’s coming over soon so we can work on the science project.

We chose to do our project on diabetes, then Adam stayed over for dinner. Talk about irony! Ma made cannoli, too.

Okay so the thing is, I’m only 15 and I’ve never been in love before, so how can I know what love feels like? But this is nice, so I’m not going to question it too much.

Adam and I were lying on my bed, doing our project, and then we got bored and started talking about where we want to go for college. Adam wants to study literature. I told him I didn’t know. I still kind of want to be a priest but I don’t know if that’s silly. I didn’t tell him about that. He wants to move to NYC. I told him I’d probably stay on Staten Island, at least for college.

I talk to Abby every night on the phone, even if we already saw each other that day. Last night we talked for more than an hour. I don’t know why but we never run out of things to talk about.

We finally finished our project, and just in time too. To celebrate, we played Super Mario Kart. He totally kept letting me win. I know he can kick my ass in this game.

Adam comes and sits at our table more often again now. He talks to Abby, too.

Abby came over today. We weren’t allowed to stay in my room, obviously, but we watched a movie and I made popcorn and that was really fun. The teasing from Gina and Theresa afterwards was insufferable… “Ooh Sonny’s got a girlfriend” should not really apply since I told them about this from the start…

In English class today we were writing poems. I wrote a really shitty one about Abby that I’ll never show anyone, especially Abby. Poetry just is not my thing. Adam wrote a really nice one, though. The teacher chose 5 people at random to read theirs out to the class. I don’t know what I would have done if she chose me. Anyway, Adam’s poem was super romantic and got several wolf-whistles from the boys and even a few of the girls. I don’t know how he writes that stuff but I sure know he’s going to do well in college.

Bobby snuck up on me today while I was getting some books from my locker. I froze. He shoved me against my open locker and taunted me by saying “got your head in the books again, Sonny boy?” Ugh. I thought all that was over. I’m so done with Bobby. It didn’t even hurt, though.

And then I just sat there, on the floor. I was going to be late for class but I didn’t care. I was just done. Didn’t want to move. Because that’s what I���ll have to keep dealing with for the next 2 years.

Then Adam came down the hallway and saw me. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him. After a while, he asked me if Bobby had anything to do with me ending up in hospital. I didn’t say anything. Adam just nodded and patted me on the back. He sat with me for the whole period, which was weird because he has a perfect attendance record.

Adam brought some cookies to school today. He baked them himself. He said it was to cheer me up. I can’t believe he made them just for me. And they were AMAZING.

Abby and I went to watch a movie last night. She said I could pick, but I don’t think she ended up liking it very much.

Adam came over for dinner again. Afterwards we hung out in my room doing homework. He helped me with math. He’s better than me in every subject, basically. So he helps me a lot. Sometimes he asks me stuff too, but I’m pretty sure he’s just humoring me.

Ma and Pa took us all out to have dinner for Bella’s birthday. We had Mexican food because it’s her favorite. I got her a little notebook with purple flowers on it. I think she liked it!

I think I’m in love with Adam.

Alright, I have to write why. Yesterday I had to psych myself up just to write down that one sentence. I’ve never liked a boy before. And Adam is pretty much my best friend, although I’ve never called him that.

I think I love him because, well, when I look at him I feel really funny inside, and I love the way he laughs and even though he’s shy he’s not with me?

And when we talk, I feel like he really cares what I’m saying, and he’s really listening, and he’s so thoughtful and articulate, and he just gets me, you know? And he’s there for me. Not because he has to be, but because he wants to. I think.

When he read that poem in class he looked at me once and my stomach did so many flips and I didn’t even know why. But I know now. Now I find myself wishing so hard that he had written it about me.

When we hug I just want to hold on tight and never let go.

I feel like I’m cheating on Abby.

I guess I can admit it here. I don’t love Abby.  Now how do I tell her without making her cry?

I told her and she didn’t cry. She looked really upset, though. I never thought I’d be the one to break up with someone. But it wouldn’t have been fair to her to keep going when I didn’t love her.

I don’t know if Adam likes boys. Or me. God, I hope he does.

Abby hasn’t talked to me much since. I hope we can still be friends because I really do like her as a friend. But I’ll give her some space for now.

I found this note in my locker today.

I love you so much it hurts, but you don’t feel the same way.

I’m really confused, I hope it’s not from Abby? It’s typed, so I have no idea who it’s from.

Adam invited me over to his place for Sunday lunch. Afterwards we just hung out, watching TV. I couldn’t stop looking at him, I don’t think he noticed. Which is good.

I think Abby and I are friends again now. It’s not back the way it was but at least we can talk.

I got another one. I’m even more confused. I don’t think it can be Abby.

I wish you would notice me. I wish you could see me.

It just hit me. Someone loves me? Please let it be Adam.

I wonder what it feels like to kiss a boy. I wonder what it feels like to kiss Adam.

Geography exam went pretty well today! Glad it’s over – I can’t wait to get 9 hours of sleep tonight.

I can’t stop thinking about him. I find myself daydreaming in class, thinking about hanging out with him again, and how it would feel to have his hand in mine.

Another note turned up in my locker. I found it after lunch.

Give me a sign, Sonny. I’m so scared.

I’m really worried for this person now. Why are they scared? I’d give them a sign, but I don’t know who they are?

Theresa made me coffee this morning. It makes me feel super grown up, drinking coffee.

So I thought I was real smart. I sellotaped my own note to the front of my locker. Give me a clue?

And then I got this…

I love you, and… I’m a guy.

Could it be?

I finally saw Adam again today. I really wanted to ask him about the note… but I choked. What if it wasn’t him?

That would be really embarrassing if it’s not him. What if he’s uncomfortable about me liking him? I really don’t want to lose him as a friend.

Adam and I hung out at the park this afternoon. I didn’t know how to say it but I was sure I would chicken out forever if I didn’t do it then. So I just told him that I thought I was gay, while we were sitting on the swings. It turned into a huge heart-to-heart, going into how I don’t think I was ever in love with Abby. He just listened. When I was all talked out, he looked at me and said he was proud of me and was here for me.

Maybe the note-writer isn’t Adam. But I’m really glad he’s my friend and that he’s supportive.

Oh my God! I found this in my locker after school today!

Blue eyes

Floppy hair

Light of my life

So fair

Smile for me

In my darkest hour

Be there for me

As I’m there for you

Hold me close

I want you to

Kiss me once

I need you to

Never have I ever

Felt this way

But alas the light

Was never mine

For someone else

The sun doth shine

It’s Adam’s poem! In his handwriting! And he put it in my locker! Oh my God, ADAM LOVES ME!

So I left the following in Adam’s locker right after I got his poem:

Dear Adam,

I love you too.

Sonny

And during break Adam came up to me at my locker and just smiled at me, and I smiled at him, and we just knew. I said “You got my note?” and he nodded and then hugged me really tight. For like, a really long time. I was so happy. And… I really wanted to kiss him then but there were people around…

Um. So Adam’s coming over again. He said he was going to drop his stuff at home first. I’m kind of freaking out here.

Update: Kissing a boy is awesome and kissing Adam specifically is freaking amazing.

[disneytva]

Diary Of A Wimpy Kid Animated Film Unveils Animation Studio,Score Composer,New Stills and Extended Plot

Today, Disney released the trailer for  20th Century Animation’s Diary of a Wimpy Kid, which begins streaming this holiday season on December 3rd on Disney+ Worldwide.

Besides the trailer new stills from the film got unveiled along with the cast and crew of the film and animation studio.

Greg Heffley is a scrawny but ambitious kid with an active imagination and big plans to be rich and famous – he just has to survive middle school first. To make matters worse, Greg’s lovable best friend Rowley seems to coast through life and succeed at everything without even trying! As details of his hilarious – and often disastrous – attempts to fit in fill the pages of his journal, Greg learns to appreciate true friends and the satisfaction that comes from standing up for what is right

Directed by Swinton Scott (“Futurama”) and written and produced by Jeff Kinney, “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” features the voices of Brady Noon (“The Mighty Ducks: Game Changers”) as Greg Heffley, Ethan William Childress (“mixed-ish”) as Rowley Jefferson, and Chris Diamantopoulos (“DuckTales 2017”) as Frank Heffley.

John Paesano (Amazon Prime’s The Invincible) composes the score of the film.

“Diary of a Wimpy Kid” is produced by 20th Century Animation (The Book Of Life) alongside Walt Disney Pictures with Bardel Entertainment (Netflix’s The Dragon Prince) being the animation services provider.

[casual-murder]

Any of em, really

alright, so i'll do hollyberry, almond, and licorice

Hollyberry Cookie -will pick you up -does that thing where she holds you up on top of her shield and you pose dramatically -gets it painted -Tall Woman Gives Good Hugs -Tall Woman Makes Good Food -you’re getting wined and dined baby -y'all probably tease pitaya about them having so much merch -what are they gonna do? breathe fire? ur tall stronk gf has a shield for a reason luv and half of that reason is so you can shit-talk a literal dragon to their face

Almond Cookie -gives really good hugs, and he's Scented -like coffee mostly but coffee's a damn good smell i will fight on that -if walnut doesn't like you then he doesn't either -lucky for you you've just been reverse adopted by a tiny detective, count your blessings bc that kid is picky. -doesn't like for you to get involved with his work unless it's more low-stakes stuff. he hates the idea of you getting hurt because of him. -makes a damn good morning breakfast, makes even better coffee because he's not paying for that overpriced parfaedian shit

Licorice Cookie -please for the love of god tell him he’s an evil boy, tell him he’s the evilest boy you’ve met -give him some pats too, maybe run your fingers thru his hair a bit. man’s touch-starved as fuck -he likes getting his licorice servants to do things for you. need a book? they’ve got you covered. need that mess cleaned up? right on it. -he may be too scrawny to pick you up but if you can pick him up then holy shit -man’s a certified simp -expect to find many diary entries saying how cool you are -he’ll teach you some magical basics if you don’t know them already -gives decent hugs, he’s kind of bony and cold but there’s a lot of heart behind them (no matter how much he denies having one)

[ahtsumu]

atsumu: 1, kevin: 0 ; miya atsumu

↳ pairing: miya atsumu x professional women’s volleyball player!reader

↳ synopsis: miya atsumu realises that he’s tired of keeping your relationship “low-key” with a little help from an overzealous fanboy.

↳ genre(s): fluff, humour!!

↳ warning(s): profanity

↳ length: 1.5k words

↳ a/n: surprise!!! lol i have way too many wips rn especially with requests but i wrote this as a little break from all the angst and stuff hence the cheesiness ☺️ enjoy!!

Miya Atsumu was caught in a kerfuffle.

Earlier that day, the twenty-three-year-old setter for the MSBY Black Jackals made the executive decision to come to watch you–– his Mario Kart player number two, his houseplant co-parent, the air-guitarist to his air-drummer, the Karaoke Night pink-lyric-singer to his blue–– kick some volleyball ass in the V. League Division 1 Women's Volleyball Tournament finals. 

The problem?

You played wing spiker for the Schweiden Falkes. 

There was nothing problematic about being a wing spiker on a Division One volleyball team. What was problematic, however, was that the Schweiden Falkes was the sister team of the Black Jackals’ sworn enemy, the Schweiden Adlers. To rub more salt in the wound, the Adlers had won every single game against the Jackals since Atsumu joined (not that they hadn’t prior to his arrival). And to make matters even worse, as one of the nation’s most sought-after athletes, he had to “appeal to both investors and the general population”. Miya Atsumu was supposed to be a marketable bachelor. And he was not.

Miya Atsumu was also not supposed to be at the finals of the women’s volleyball tournament. 

That was the biggest problem of them all. So maybe, actually, Miya Atsumu was mildly ensnared in a few kerfuffles.

The two of you had agreed to keep your relationship low-key from the start and were nearing two years of private, domestic bliss. Questions about each other in interviews were responded to with short and nondescript replies. Outings in public were conducted without physical contact. And despite how Twitter was almost a diary to Atsumu, he’d never once tweeted your name in his life. But as dull as your relationship seemed in public, the two of you were a different story in private. In private, he would find any way to touch you–– a hand in your back pocket, your legs draped atop his thighs, soft lips trailing up from the neck to each other. In private, sweet nothings were proclaimed and not whispered, laughter bubbled like a stream that never ran dry, and Atsumu said your name over and over again like it was habit.

But that didn’t change the fact that, right now, Miya Atsumu was not supposed to be in the nosebleeds of the Sendai City Gymnasium, even if he was hundreds of meters away from the nearest camera.

All the bigger kerfuffles fell quickly to the back of his mind, however, when a smaller and more irritating one presented itself to him. 

A snotty voice declared one row behind Atsumu’s hooded head, “Oi, you’re in the way of the view, jerk.”

Normally, Atsumu would have turned around with an equally cocky sneer on his chiselled features, “the fuck did you just call me?” locked and loaded behind clenched teeth. But when he turned around ready to deliver that exact line, he saw through his black shades that the owner of said snotty voice was none other than a scrawny prepubescent boy.

And that boy (along with the two equally snot-faced twerps beside him) was wearing your jersey number. Suddenly, all the irritation left Atsumu’s face. Was this your little fan club? A wicked cackle threatened to leap out his mouth. They were so annoying. But also, he mused, kinda cute.

“Was I?” he asked with an innocent expression on his face. It was the same one he used when Osamu would accuse him of stealing his clothes (he totally had), or when you would accuse him of eating the last slice of cake in the fridge (he totally did). “I hadn’t realised.” He really hadn’t. He just wanted to milk this for as long as he could.

“Yeah, you were.” The kid crossed his arms, glaring down at the shady guy one row below. “I can’t see the game anymore.”

“Oops–– my bad.”

“Shut up, Kevin, you were watching Y/N!” one of the brats exclaimed, punching Kevin’s shoulder.

Oh? “Yer a fan of Y/N, hmmm?”

“She’s pretty,” Kevin said immediately, shrugging. He just said it out loud like that? So easily? With a subtle wince, Atsumu thought back to the ridiculously long time before he’d admitted his ‘smidge of a crush’ on you. Yeah, unlike you, stupid. “I’m gonna marry her someday.”

At that, Atsumu’s competitive streak jolted awake. He felt himself sober up a little. Not if I marry her first, you little shit.

Bidding the trio goodbye with a bright grin, he turned around and strolled out of the stands. But he didn’t stop there. He stepped into the elevator and rode it straight down to ground level, sailed through the athlete’s entrance with a swipe of his card, and jogged his way to the side of your team bench, making it just in time to see you spike the setpoint past one of their player’s outstretched arms. 

It landed straight on the baseline.

The roar of the stadium scattered into hushed whispers. No one moved. “In,” Atsumu growled under his breath, tapping his feet against the floor. “In in in in in––” He clenched his hands into fists. If they don’t count that as in… 

Finally, the line judge pointed her arms down. The referee nodded.

And all around him, the crowd erupted into cheers.

As confetti fell from above and the Falkes’ victory song began to play, you ran from the court and into a celebratory team hug, screaming ecstatically in each other’s faces. Atsumu, beaming, ducked out of view, not wanting to steal that glorious feeling of a victory hard-earned from you or your teammates. But when the cheering died down, when the hug dispersed, when the television crews started slithering in your direction, he returned to his position behind the bench. And suddenly regretted all the decisions that had led him to that very spot.

Admittedly, Atsumu hadn’t considered the possibility that you wouldn’t want him at your game, but now, standing just metres away from you, he did. His hands suddenly felt very cold and equally moist.

As if on cue, your teary gaze landed on his figure. Your eyes were narrowed in what seemed like a warning. (Really, you were just trying to see better through your tears.)

Oh, no.

Atsumu spun around to make a run for it. At that moment, however, one of the coach’s assistants who’d been sent away to run an errand returned, barrelling through the same door he was heading towards. 

Colliding in a spectacularly embarrassing fashion, Atsumu’s sunglasses flew from his face and his hood blew off from the force of the impact. Disguise in tatters, he could only turn around sheepishly around his hands stretched out, palms up like a magician at the end of a trick.

“Surprise?”

Maybe it was the rush of victory still fresh in your bloodstream or maybe it was simply your brain going haywire, but with complete disregard for you and Atsumu’s original agreement, you ran towards him and leaped into his arms.

“Woah,” he wheezed, instinctively pulling you closer into his chest. “Was not expectin’ that.”

“You’re so stupid,” you murmured, nuzzling your face into his neck. “What are you up to, ‘Tsumu?”

“Unkerfufflin’ myself,” was all he said before gently setting you down. His eyes darted over to the place where Kevin and his gremlins had been and, when he realised that spotting them from here would be useless, lazily flapped a hand in their general direction.

“Some brat said he was gonna marry ya,” Atsumu explained after seeing your brows crease. “I felt I had the duty to save ya from that disaster.”

“By?”

Atsumu blanked. “Er, I, uh, hadn’t thought of that part, actually. I didn’t think you’d be happy to see me here, y’know, considerin’ our agreement and that look on yer face ya had earlie––��

Rolling your eyes, you yanked on his hood, bringing his lips down to yours. His arms snaked around your waist as he deepened the kiss–– he couldn’t help it, it was a knee-jerk reaction by now–– without so much as a second's consideration for the reporters that had swarmed around you like ants to honey. 

You pulled away just a few beats later, both breathless.

“What was that for?” he asked with his forehead pressed against yours. Despite being doused in the blinding flash of cameras and deafened by the barrage of questions shot in your direction, the two of you continued to speak as if you were in your own little world.

“You were about to word-vomit on camera and give Osamu a lifetime’s supply of blackmail,” you replied, giggling. “I thought I’d save you from that disaster.”

Hearing his words come out from your mouth, Atsumu’s eyes waned into little moons. “Consider me saved, doll.”

The noise around you grew louder. You sighed, knowing that the two of you would have a lot to deal with later. As if reading your mind, Atsumu intertwined your hands. I got you. And the unease receded. You’d figure it out together.

“Y/N! Y/N! Are you pregnant?”

“Y/N! Atsumu! When are you two getting married?”

“Can you tell us anything about that steamy kiss?!”

A shit-eating grin crawled onto Atsumu’s face as he grabbed the microphone from that last reporter. “Gladly,” he said, looking into the camera.

“How’s that for bein’ in yer way, Kevin?”

And for the next few hours that the world spent having a meltdown over Kevin’s identity, you and Atsumu remained blissfully tucked away in the comfort of your apartment, playing Mario Kart, baking celebratory cookies to the High School Musical soundtrack, falling asleep to the sound of each other’s heartbeats.

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

[pebblysand]

Omg I LOVE your writing style! I really enjoyed the one you wrote about the missing scene in DH. You are a really good writer!

If you don't mind, could you write about ginny telling harry about tom riddle and the diary; the things she never told anyone which still haunts her? Maybe after they have an established relationship or even married?😊

Thank you for taking prompts btw!💗

Thank you so much for your kind words, anon. I took my time, but I did write you almost 1/5th of a novel.

Here is: slipped (and said something sort of like your name). Also readable here on AO3.

Word count: 8285

slipped (and said something sort of like your name)

.

.

.

In the years that follow May 1998, hundreds of thousands of words are written about the war. The wizarding world becomes intent on exploring the narrative boundaries of its battles, spells, of mourning and trauma. People, writers, journalists, they draft books, articles, and essays about the dead. Sometimes, the headlines are controversial. Sometimes they are bold or cruel, and sometimes simply indelicate. Questions are being asked about the Ministry’s role in the rise of pureblood extremism. There are enquiries into why so many witches and wizards so keenly decided to follow the simplistic ideals that promised the world at their feet. It is line upon line of clever words and sentences, conjectured explanations as to how evil spreads and solidifies in somebody’s character, endless theories about nature versus nurture. Over the years, a couple unauthorised biographies of Harry come out; courtesy copies that end up in the fireplace after he declines to comment. On the ten-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the Prophet runs an editorial titled: Ten Lessons We Learnt from the Second Wizarding War and Ginny refuses to read it.

Whenever the papers write about the man at the centre of it all, even twenty years on, they still call him ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’ To anyone in his camp, he is still the ‘Dark Lord’. A few courageous writers call him ‘Lord Voldemort’ - so do most of the people in Ginny’s life. To them, it is a celebration of the fact that there is no one left to fear.

As far as Ginny knows, she and Harry are the only ones who call him ‘Tom.’ It almost sounds like an old friend, a racist family member who they’ve decided to cut ties with. Mum comments about it, sometimes frowns at her daughter’s choice of words. ‘It’s just… too intimate, Ginny,’ she says. ‘It’s like you knew him or something.’

But, of course, Mum wouldn’t understand that she did know him. Very well, in fact. So did Harry.

Because the thing is: all these books, all these articles that swarm in like bees after something sweet, they’re a bit like the ones written about the boy who killed Tom. The scrawny kid from the cupboard under the Dursleys’ staircase, the one who Ginny chooses to marry. His traits are often blurry when they filter through other people’s words. Those books are never about the real Harry, the one she knows and loves, just like the words she reads are never really written about Tom.

If Ginny did decide to write about him, once upon a time, she would write an ode to the life that they’ve both managed to build in spite of him. She would write it in seven parts; it would be a good fit.

And, it would go like this.

.

one.

.

That’s her introduction of sorts. She likes to think of it as a think piece. Something half-narrated, half-informational, something that would have an arc to sustain. She would begin by defining her terms, frame the topic in a handful of pointed sentences supported by strong, action verbs and clever anecdotes. She would exclude all that doesn’t apply.

There are the little, daily stories that no one expects. The micro-scale. Things like the fact that when they put the kids in Muggle school because neither of them particularly fancy themselves as English or Maths teachers, the little ones learn about things that Ginny never heard of. In her childhood, following Tom’s first reign of terror, the wizarding world was more cut off from the Muggle world than it ever was. People were still scared, distant. Now, her kids play Muggle video games with their dad, organise playdates with their classmates and hear about things like Romeo and Juliet. By then, it is 2012. She and Harry have had to create a joint email address because it is apparently how teachers communicate with parents, these days.

That year, at the end of May, the older students are preparing for a school play. James overhears them rehearsing one Tuesday, comes home in an outpour of words and strong opinions. ‘The words sound so weird,’ he declares, unnecessarily loud, voice filled with the unrelenting certainty of an eight-year-old.

‘I’m just in the next room, James. There’s no need to shout,’ she responds, rather automatically, moving into the kitchen. As always these days, she finds Lily nestled in Harry’s arms, ‘helping’ him as he attempts to prepare dinner, one-handed. He nods at her with a smile across his lips when she enters, wand silently instructing a spatula to stir what looks like tomato sauce. She drops a kiss to Lily’s head as she comes close, another one over his lips (‘ew!’ Lily says). Behind him, she snakes her arm to the back of the worktop, reaches for the open bottle of red. She’s been coaching James’ kids’ Quidditch team these past few months; they’re both just back from practice.

‘That smells nice,’ she comments. Tries to steal the spatula for a taste but he bats her hand away.

‘How was it?’ he grins.

She articulates each syllable of her next word. ‘Exhausting,’ she announces, shaking her head. Wordlessly, Ginny accio-s a glass from their cupboard, leans back against the worktop and pours in a fair amount of wine. A rather loud crash echoes from their living room, then a string of loud noises and curses; Harry raises an eyebrow. They wait a beat but nothing else filters through. She concludes that James is either fine, or dead. Either way, it can wait a minute or two. ‘It’s not the Quidditch,’ she smiles, breathes in. ‘That I can handle. It’s other people’s bloody kids.’

In response, Harry barks out a laugh, something domestic and real, and she revels in the sound for a moment before stealing a second sip of her wine. Harry opens his mouth to say something just as another thought occurs to her. She holds her hand up between them, silently instructing him to wait. ‘James!’ she calls out, voice carrying through to the next room. ‘Go shower before dinner!’ To tell the truth, she often tells the kids to hush, but she rarely ever does so herself.

There is a beat. No response. Merlin -

‘James?!’

Unsurprisingly, belligerent steps suddenly resound up the stairs. ‘Alright, alright, I’m doing it!’ he shouts and: Merlin, he really is like Ron, she just thinks.

Harry is now busy chopping vegetables so for a second, in the quiet of their kitchen, Ginny manages to relish a moment of peace and calm around the three of them. In the background, the wireless hums at a low volume, a slow, folky kind of beat and with her head on Harry’s shoulder, Lily looks already half-asleep. ‘I was going to say, he breathes out, carefully transferring peppers into a pot. ‘Al’s in his room. Showers were had and homework is done,’ he adds with a smile.

Ginny opens an eyelid at that, catches his gaze. Gives him a low sort of chuckle. ‘The hero of the wizarding world, aren’t you?’ she teases. He barks out another laugh.

Over dinner, James doesn’t let go of Juliet and Romeo. It’s a rather obvious one, all things considered: if the older kids are putting on a play, that means that for once in his life, their firstborn can’t be the centre of attention. Tough life, Ginny smirks. ‘Do you even know what that story is about?’ Harry asks, smiling as he spins a mouthful of pasta around his fork. James rolls his eyes and Albus observes the interaction in front of him with wide eyes.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he claims. ‘Mum doesn’t know it either. It’s all Muggle stuff.’

Harry, from the other side of the table, sets down his fork against his plate and gives their son a stern look. ‘James, just because it’s Muggle stuff doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.’

Another eyeroll, followed by a dramatic sigh. ‘I know,’ their son insists. ‘I’m just saying -’

And, at that moment, when Ginny sees Harry open his mouth again - no doubt to lecture James about Muggles and Muggle-rights - it occurs to her that maybe, her son has a point. They teach their children about love and inclusivity but her own knowledge of Muggle culture is still dramatically lacking. ‘You know what, you’re right, James,’ she suddenly finds herself saying, almost surprised at the sound of her own voice. Harry’s thrown, too, shoots her a rather confused glance. At the end of the day, she is a published author of wizarding novels, now, and yet, she’s only vaguely of the play that James is mentioning. Never went to school before Hogwarts; her mother taught the seven of them how to read on bedtime stories and dinner recipes. Everything that Ginny has learnt about words and how to fit them around each other, she has taught to herself, so maybe it is time to learn about this, too. ‘You’re right, James. I don’t know about Romeo and Juliet,’ she observes. ‘And, I should. I promise you I will read it, okay?’ she tells him. ‘And, if you’re still interested, we can talk about drama classes next year, yeah?’

Her tone is daring him to counter her, she knows, and he doesn’t. With this, she seems to have put an end to the argument. Her son looks down at his plate and Harry smirks when he catches her gaze. As a joke birthday present, that summer, he buys her the completed works of Shakespeare.

The thing is, though, she does read it. Again, she’s not one to break a promise, especially one that she’s made to her children. In the hours while the kids are at school in 2013, she gets more time to herself. With it, she sits on their sofa in front of the fireplace and devours Romeo, Hamlet, Macbeth, finds out where Hermione’s name actually comes from. Later, she reads Jane Austen, Dickens, and even starts looking up English Lit courses in Muggle universities. Ginny reads and reads, and reads, after their children are born and it opens up her world more than a bit.

Later, when she stops to think about it, it occurs to her that in an essay about the man who turned their lives into a battleground, years before, she would probably start with asking this: a rose, by any other name, would it still smell as sweet?

In 2012, while James complains about not being the centre of attention, Lily also starts Reception. There, like many kids, she makes her first friend. A kind, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, and his name Tom.

That Tom, her daughter’s Tom, has his father’s smile and his mother’s brains. Sometimes, she calls him Tommy. Her name is Bruna and she picks him up from school because her husband works full-time in the City. There is the slightest, unidentifiable accent when she talks. Their kids take to each other like Ron and Harry did back in their day, so much so that progressively, their mothers become friends, too. They go and pick up the little ones from school together; Bruna is funny and sarcastic, always grins at Ginny before rolling her eyes at the other mums. As an overzealous mother screams at her child for going too fast on his scooter, she whispers: ‘That one’s gonna put an ‘elmet on her kid to climb trees, too, do you think?’

The front gate opens. Lily and Tom run out hand in hand and receive a tight hug from the both of them. ‘So, how was your day?’ Ginny asks. Lily begins to babble away; all the comments on her reports always note how much of a chatterbox she is.

Soon, an impromptu sleepover is organised for the next day. ‘Ah, you’re a lifesaver,’ Bruna whispers in Ginny’s ear. ‘Couldn’t face the round-trip to Liverpool with this one in the back of the car,’ she adds. She and her husband are going over to help her brother move across town. Next to them, Lily is ecstatic. ‘Tom, you are my best friend, okay?’ she affirms.

The words ring, in Ginny’s ears. A chill runs down her shoulders, all the way to her fingertips. She lets it run, flow like water under a bridge. For eight months, a boy called Tom was her best friend, too. He tried to kill her. For seventeen years, he was in Harry’s head until he tried to kill him, too.

But, he is gone, now, she reminds herself. Tom, Tommy, Thomas. Their Tom is dead and buried in an unmarked grave in Little Hangleton. Harry goes, sometimes, though he doesn’t like to admit it. This Tom, though, Bruna’s Tom, is roaring with love and life, and he deserves better than Ginny’s fears.

‘We’ll be glad to have you over, Tom,’ she tells him, ruffling his hair. Tells it to herself, too. The little one beams and the chills have passed. They will be glad to have him, be careful to watch him while he and Lily climb trees.

A very common name, that’s all he is. A rose without the thorns and there are many more Toms than there are thorns.

In the introduction of her story, she would make that fact clear. Tom was one bad apple. One bad apple who told her that she would die when he was done with her. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t,’ she tells Harry, that night.

He nods, kisses her in the dark. Isn’t a man of many words but likes to make them count. ‘You didn’t,’ he points out. An obvious fact that bears repeating.

It’s true: she’s never been one to break a promise. And, she refuses to write off mankind just because of him.

.

two.

.

The thing is: Tom (their Tom), he had one goal. That goal, he’s achieved.

This is the part of the story that takes Ginny back to when she was a child. It is almost a problem statement: the issue that presents itself and that she is actively trying to solve. Perhaps, it is a thesis statement, a hard fact of which her life is just a piece of evidence.

At the time, it is 1986. In the Muggle world, a nuclear reactor’s just exploded in Ukraine. In her world, a war has ended, and no one knows that there will soon be a second. Wizarding Britain is thriving. From that period, Ginny remembers her mum singing Celestina Warbeck’s lyrics off the top of her lungs in the shower. She remembers Harry’s name uttered in dark corners, falling off her parents’ lips. When Mum and Dad speak of him, their tone is filled with unanswered questions and mild worry that they try to hide from the little ones. ‘Who did they give him to?’ Mum asks. And: ‘Merlin, James and Lily... I keep thinking…’

That year, a stray cat finds its way into the Weasleys’ home. Fur an awkward mix of ginger and brown, little white socks at his paws. Ginny has stars of excitement in her eyes. Mum is reluctant. Ron doesn’t want it in the house if it means sharing his space with yet another person/thing/animal that will likely eat his food. Fred and George tease him that Dad will put the ghoul in together with the cat in his bedroom, make him sleep on the floor. Ron storms out and cries.

Ginny likes the cat, though. It purrs, licks her, tickles her arm and makes her laugh. Its tongue is wet and icky, raspy. Dad smiles at it, ties a couple of feathers to a string to entertain it. Ginny and the cat play for hours in the garden. ‘Let’s keep it, Molly,’ Dad says. ‘For the time being.’ Her mother sighs. Nods. Ginny jumps high like fireworks.

They name him Albert.

The cat sort of comes and goes, throughout her early childhood. Mum explains that stray cats love to hunt so sometimes, it is days before Albert reappears. Each time, Ginny waits for him eagerly at the door. When he comes home, he always brings the lot of them presents. Mum shakes her head at it and rolls her eyes - mice and squirrels, dead and bloody in his mouth.

Ginny’s seven when Albert gets into a fight with another, bigger cat. He laboriously drags himself back to their house and lands into her lap, breaths short and strained. The wound at his left side looks deep, Mum says, and it is filled with some kind of pus. Ginny watches in silence as her parents awkwardly look at each other like they’re not sure what to tell her. She’s old enough, now, to know what that means.

The next day, she is brave. Insists on coming with Dad to take Albert down to the animal Healer in Diagon Alley. ‘I think he’s too far gone,’ a kind man in a lab coat tells them. Red hair falls into Ginny’s face. She holds back a river of tears. This is her first heartbreak. There is a flash of green light; Dad shudders. Then, nothing.

Afterwards, they get ice cream, the both of them, sit on a bench in front of the shop. Ginny stares at the ground; her feet don’t reach the pavement and the ice melts in her hands under the summer heat. Her father siphons a chocolate stain off her robes with a quick spell. Dad sighs. When they are done, they leave.

‘You know, people only really die when the living stop remembering them,’ he says. Dad is wise. His hand is hot and clammy in hers as they make their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. ‘You keep Albert in your heart and in your thoughts, and he’ll never truly be gone, yeah?’

And, that is how Tom reaches his goal, isn’t it? No matter what they do, he is there, everywhere. In their thoughts, in their heads, in the history books that she buys for her kids ahead of classes that are still taught by Binns. The living never stop remembering him and so Tom is immortal.

It is a problem statement. A thesis statement. An issue unsolved.

.

three.

.

The truth is that early on, she and Harry decide not to talk about him. It is a choice, believe it or not, and the first solution that they outline. If she ever wrote about it, Ginny knows what potential readers would think. They would frown and let sighs out, perhaps watch the both of them make their way out into the post-war world with a mixture of judgment and empathy. These readers, they would almost congratulate themselves: look at these people. Working hard to avoid problems that will come right back to bite them in the arse.

But, the fact of the matter is: at the time, Ginny thinks that they were right not to talk about Tom, really.

That May, when the war ends, there are a lot of tears. A lot of dead silences and hands held tight through funeral services. The Weasleys head home, one member short. A few days later, Ron sits the whole family down with Hermione at his side. They talk. Discuss Hallows and Horcruxes, stuff that gives her father nightmares for months to come.

Through all of it, Harry stands at the back of the room. He stares straight ahead, quiet, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of the Gryffindor jumper that someone’s lent him. Very few of his things are truly his, these days. The morning after they got back, Ginny watched him from her bedroom window, up at four o’clock in the morning. He walked out of the house like he didn’t want to be in it and burnt all the clothes that Hermione had packed months ago in her tiny, beaded bag. ‘It all smells like damp,’ he said. Like blood, like fear and like the war.

That afternoon, Ron tells them about the locket. Hermione, through strangled sobs, explains why Harry walked into the forest. He leans against the wall to their right like he’s merged into the stones. Ginny has one question.

‘The diary was one, wasn’t it?’

For a moment, a heavy silence is all she gets in response. =In front of her, there is a large kitchen table filled with people who don’t want to answer. Her parents throw each other quick, panicked looks. Her brothers stare down at their hands. Hermione looks conflicted and the silence between them spreads like butter melting in a pan, the way Tom’s tentacles seemed to invade and suck the blood out of every inch of their lives.

‘Yeah,’ Harry suddenly says. His voice is hoarse, hasn’t been used in days. It’s the only word that comes out of his mouth, that afternoon. Her mother shivers. Hermione turns back and glares at him. Later, Ginny hears her whisper: ‘You didn’t have to be so blunt.’

But, Harry knows. He’s the only one who understands how not knowing is harsher than the truth.

In response, she nods, once. ‘Thanks.’

That is that.

Later, the both of them walk into the village. There is a mist in the air, fog; it makes her shiver. Neither she nor Harry have ever been ones for long, open-heart conversations. They prefer to trickle in facts about themselves whenever they need to, whenever these facts are relevant to the lives that they want to build. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,’ he tells her, that evening. ‘It’s that Tom’s already been given too much airtime.’

She agrees. They acknowledge him, haven’t forgotten his existence, but after the war, it feels good to shut the door in his face.

.

four.

.

Of course, Ginny would have loved for that to be the end of the story. To tell her readers that they left Tom at the doorstep of their new lives, that he never crept back in through the tiny holes that they forgot to patch up. It would be in total contradiction of her thesis statement, though. It also wouldn’t be the truth.

The first real row she and Harry have as a couple happens a little over two years after the end of the war. They’ve had a good run, she thinks. They’ve been friends and they’ve been lovers, and she trusts him more than she ever thought she’d be able to trust anyone before.

These days, they talk and they laugh, and they tease, and they smile, and they kiss. Life is kind, fun, and wild. The both of them have moved in, a shared a one-bedroom flat up in Farringdon, far enough from the spotlight of the Ministry, from the fuss of Diagon Alley. Regularly, they have fancy dinner dates together, or just pints with Neville, or Ron and Hermione. Luna too, whenever she stumbles back in town, trunk full of magical tales that only she can see.

Their flat has an open kitchen and large, big windows that open into a south-facing courtyard. That night, it is the dead of winter. Ginny can see the streetlights reflected in the raindrops that merge into each other when they cascade down the glass.

She’s crossed her arms, hid the ‘G’ of her mother’s jumper. ‘Auckland’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, Harry,’ she tells him.

He glares at the wall behind her. There is a slightly arrogant edge to his voice that she doesn’t like, can’t tolerate from him. It seems like all he wants, right now, is to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes. She’s backed him into a corner. Knowing him, he’s either going to finally spit the truth out, or he’s going to walk out. Maybe both. He isn’t the compromising type.

‘I don’t want you to move to the other side of the fucking world, Gin.’

Facing him, she makes a fist of her right hand. ‘Why not?’ she pushes. Why the fuck not? They have reached a point in their relationship where the question actually demands to be asked because where the hell are they going with this? Obviously, Ginny thinks she knows the answer to it but still, whilst there are a lot of things that they can leave unsaid, that isn’t one of them. She’s tired of letting the both of them indulge in the warmth of this status quo; it’s been two years, now. The pieces of this puzzle need to find their slots for them to grow. ‘Do not tell me it’s not safe, okay? You and I both know I can take care of myself.’

When their looks finally meet, the kitchen light is harsh over his features, eyes dark, ruthless, conflicted. That is something that they have talked about before: her war, his. The things that they’ve both had to do to get here. His jaw clenches. This is their moment, she decides. Not Tom’s, not the Carrows’, not either of their pasts to be dissected and put into a jar.

‘I love you,’ he finally says. ‘I don’t want you to go because I love you.’

Two years, seven months, eleven days. It takes an ultimatum for him to get there. If she could, she would find the person responsible for this, take a dagger to their throat and watch the blood pour out.

‘I’ve never said it to anyone before,’ he admits, later, which obviously, she strongly suspected. Her man is a boy who always takes his time to acknowledge one of his wrongs but when he does, the words slip out of his mouth like a stream of rain, overflowing at the edge of the pavement. Her head rests on his bare chest; they’ve had sex - made love - an angry and hot sort of thing and she listens to the rhythm of his heartbeat like the regular tip-tapping of water against double-glazing.

‘I thought that was your superpower,’ she says. He snorts.

‘There’s feeling it and there’s saying it.’ Harry pauses; she trails a finger over the skin of his chest. ‘It feels odd,’ he concedes.

She nods and only partially agrees. ‘By which you mean vulnerable,’ she points out.

There is a look, on his face, but he doesn’t deny it. She knows how much it means that he doesn’t deny it.

Later: ‘The Dursleys thought I was a waste of space,’ he confesses. Ginny takes a deep breath. There are a lot of things that they just have to carry with them.

‘Yeah,’ she nods. ‘And, Tom said you would never love me,’ she admits.

It’s not meant as a sob story, in her head, or something that she needs him to help her overcome. It is just a fact, a fact that explains why this is important to her. Harry’s quick, turns his head to face her and: no, she wants to say. That isn’t her point. Tom did say that (of course he did), but there is more to it. ‘He said no one would ever love me,’ she breathes. ‘After what I’d done.’

And, for a moment that evening, Harry doesn’t speak. She likes that about him. Likes that when he isn’t sure what to say, he says nothing. His grip just tightens around her arm, the mild pressure of his fingertips against her skin. ‘I love you,’ he says, again, and shifts to look straight into her eyes. He is close, pins her body between his and the mattress underneath. There is resolve in his look, the certainty of Quidditch victories. He is and will always be the kid who looks at the spaces around him like he’s there by accident, maybe broke in through the window. The one who goes from zero to sixty as his only means of achieving anything because he’s only ever gotten one, single shot at things. ‘I’m sorry. I love you, Gin,’ he repeats. A vow, a promise. Then, without any preparation or any sense of strategy: ‘Marry me.’

He’s got no ring, doesn’t get down on one knee. She says yes (yesyesyes) anyway.

She does go to Auckland, in the end. ‘It’s six months,’ she tells him, voice certain and unappealable. He pouts and grumbles but she can’t let him get his way every time. ‘We’ll make it work. We’ve survived Tom, we’ll survive this.’

He laughs, shakes his head. ‘That’s not really an argument,’ he observes. ‘You could say that about anything.’

She kisses his lips in response. Supposes that he is right but: ‘Doesn’t make it less true,’ she shrugs. ‘I know for a fact that we’d survive the end of the world if we needed to.’

And: take that, Tom, she thinks. Sometimes, we talk about you and we talk about good things, too.

.

five.

.

As a journalist, she’s been told that sometimes, to understand a problem, outside sources are essential. She’s been taught that she needs to frame her ideas according to different perspectives, always look for the other side to any story. Sometimes, an authority argument can go a long way in backing you up.

Perhaps, she muses, that is why Hermione goes to therapy. Gets someone else to objectively assess the effects that the war had on her brain. To Ginny’s knowledge, she is the only one of them who ever goes. She is the brightest witch of her age, in fairness. And, when she talks about it, it is like this perfect, logical, sensical thing. ‘It’s like a Healer, but for what’s in your head, you know?’ she says. Ginny nods. ‘When I first went, it had been months since the battle and I was still having nightmares. I thought …’

They’re having lunch at the Leaky, that day. Ginny lets her friend’s voice drift in and out, finds herself moving her head to the pace of Hermione’s speech, and: ‘uh-huh,’ she hums, acquiesces whenever appropriate. She’s not judging, not really. The truth is that after the war, they all continue to do whatever they have to do to survive. If this is the solution that Hermione’s found to get out of bed in the mornings, go to work, learn things and continue to exist and see beauty in the world, that is what she should do.

It is just that to Ginny, the mere thought of unloading all her baggage onto a random stranger who hasn’t been vetted through years of mutual trust, friendship, respect (and a full team of Aurors, these days) gets a chill running down her spine.

‘Does Harry still have nightmares?’ Hermione asks, slightly out of the blue. (Or, is it, really? Perhaps not, perhaps Ginny just wasn’t truly listening to the words that came before.) It’s been three years since Tom died. The question feels invasive and it takes her a moment to see it for what it is: a sisterly bout of worry. Hermione snakes a fork through her rice; she doesn’t notice when a single grain falls onto the tablecloth. ‘He just -’ a sigh escapes her lips. ‘Every time I ask him, he says he’s fine. Like I'm blind and can’t see the bags under his eyes, you know?’

And, yeah, Ginny thinks: they’re private people, the both of them. Sometimes, she knows that as much as Harry loves Ron and Hermione, there is a level of understanding that runs deep between the both of them that will always remain out of reach to the others. They deal with things differently, of course, he gets nightmares and she roams the house for hours with the insomnia that keeps her awake but in the end, they’re often plagued by very similar things. ‘It’s like, all these years, I’m not sure what was me and what was him,’ Harry told her, once, and over her first year at Hogwarts, yeah, she felt that loads, too. Looking at Hermione, now: ‘He’s been working a lot,’ Ginny settles, a particular side of the truth. Hermione nods, shakes her head.

‘Of course, sorry,’ she says, fakes a smile that Ginny could almost consider convincing. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. None of my business.’

And: fuck, she sighs. Didn’t mean to tell Hermione off, either. Sometimes, not talking about it is good. Sometimes, it shuts the both of them off and isolates them in just the way that Tom would have wanted. ‘No, I just -’ Ginny amends, looks for words that she feels she has to physically force out of her mouth. ‘You’re his sister. You’re allowed to be worried. He should talk to you. It’s just -’ she hesitates. A fly lands on the other side of the window next to them, she sees its underside through the stained glass of the pub. ‘It's complicated. I don’t know. He’s been getting better, though,’ she adds. ‘Talking about it more, since he proposed. At least to me.’

And, this time, Hermione’s smile is genuine when Ginny catches a glimpse of it. Harry’s friend sets her fork against the side of her plate and reaches for her drink. Her features seem calm, rested. ‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Sometimes, you just need time to process things.’ (It’s probably something her therapist said to her, isn’t it?) ‘Maybe, you should talk to someone, too, you know?’

There is a kindness in Hermione, behind the ruthlessness that she harbours. You have to dig in to find it, but it is there, large and warm, and everywhere. Ginny lets a smile form across her own features. She wills it to be loving, understanding, reassuring. Hermione’s worried, not invasive. And, over the table, Ginny lets her hand reach out to touch hers, palm and painted fingernails intertwining. Her brother’s wife catches her gaze when she speaks. ‘I’m fine,’ Ginny promises. It’s the truth. Her voice is even and certain. ‘I talk to him, too. I know communication is a two-way street, you know?’ she laughs.

And, at that, Hermione shakes her head and joins in.

This being said: it is true. May sound a bit funny coming from the both of them but they do communicate. They just have their own language for it. When Ginny can’t sleep, or when Harry wakes up breathless on the forest grounds, they refuse to let the silence haunt them the way it did before. Sometimes, they talk about Tom. Sometimes, they talk about his work, or about her Quidditch games. They get up and make food. Shen they feel like it and it doesn’t rain, they go out for runs, trainers hitting the London pavements as the sun rises and the city comes alive around them. It’s what seems to work, what seems to strengthen the slow process of healing their scars. Tom is there in single sentences rather than long essays, whenever something needs to be said.

‘I woke up feeling like I had blood on my hands for three years afterwards,’ she told him, once. Another thing that she’d never admitted to anyone. ‘Not, like, metaphorically,’ she whispered. ‘Like, warm and slick. The chickens, you know?’

He nodded. A breath left his lungs and tickled the top of her hair through his lips. He moved, kissed her. It was the beginning of summer, back then, four o’clock in the morning and the sun was coming up past their open window; they had sex under the covers, slow and quiet, a promise of better days. His mouth trailed down her neck, down to her breasts and stomach. As he moved above her, later, the world had finally stopped feeling as cold as it did before. Without meaning to, she bit his lip when she came.

So, no: they don’t go to therapy. While she recognises that a professional, outside perspective would bring an interesting insight into this essay, this is their lives she’s talking about, and they’re in charge of what feels right to them. For too long, they had to live their lives as dictated by people who thought they knew best. From a mother who loves her but doesn’t understand her, to an old wizard who played a game of poker with his cards close to his chest and gambled with Harry’s life. They never go to therapy and perhaps they should have, but neither of them has ever been good at following directions. Respect for authority arguments isn’t something that she bases her life upon.

For the both of them, trust is earned, cherished. It can’t be bought for two galleons and a handshake, an hour a week. Ginny doesn’t judge Hermione’s healing process, but this just isn’t their style.

.

six

.

Tom never truly goes away. With the years that pass, you would think that his image blurs like reflected in water, but although it does most days; he cultivates a taste for dramatics whenever he returns. Uninvited but still in their lives in a way that makes Ginny’s blood boil.

She sees him, one morning. It is the middle of what she jokingly refers to as the ‘rush from Hell.’ The one in which they have to get five people, three of which are under the age of ten and none of which are morning persons, ready before 8 AM. Albus has an art class in the evening, so Harry’s gone to the spare room to fetch his painting kit and -

He never comes back. It’s been a good five minutes when Ginny realises. ‘Harry?’ she calls out. ‘Put your arms up, Lily,’ she quickly speaks, right after, still waiting for a response while pushing a jumper down her daughter’s small shoulders. ‘James, where are your shoes?’ A beat, a quick response shouted from downstairs. ‘No, I will not just accio them from the other side of the house. Learn to keep track of your stuff, will you?’ Just then, Albus pokes his head through the half-open door, asking about his painting kit again. ‘Oh, help your sister, please? I’ll go see what your Dad’s up to,’ Ginny sighs. Her son nods. She has to admit that she used to laugh at Percy but as a parent, it is nice to have one, responsible child in the house, once in a while.

A few steps down the corridor, she walks into the spare room and her gaze immediately lands on a small boy. Her heart gives a start - he isn’t one of her children, or anyone she knows. At the far end of the room, he stands still, look directed towards the wall that faces him. From where she is, Ginny can only see the side of his face, distinguish a short cut of brown hair and darker eyes. He seems rather skinny for his age, she’d say maybe around ten or eleven years old, just a few months older than James.

Harry is kneeling down in front of him - about six, maybe seven feet away - sitting on his heels against the old, hardwood floor of their house. He’s levelled with the kid, voice low and strained, hasn’t noticed her coming in. The sun is already high in the sky, that morning, pouring into the room through the high windows. Yet, Ginny feels a rather inexplicable chill running down her spine. ‘Please,’ she hears Harry whisper to the boy. ‘Don’t do it.’

Behind him, the dresser that holds most of their children’s stuff is open wide. Surveilling the scene, Ginny notices a dark, thick sort of liquid at the little boy’s feet. She can’t smell it, not when the thing that Harry is seeing isn’t meant for her to experience, but he’ll later tell her it smelt like petrol. ‘It’s because Dumbeldore set his wardrobe on fire,’ he’ll explain, which won’t ever really make sense to her. Interestingly, now, the boy is holding a lighter rather than a wand, borrowed from a childhood shared in the Muggle world.

The boy smiles. That is when she recognises him, seizes her wand in the pocket of her robes in an instant. Even looking sideways, even from a distance, she’d always recognise that smile.

‘You killed me,’ the boy says. He flicks the wheel of the lighter, a flame reflects in his eyes. Harry’s hands are shaking against his knees, like he is trying to reach out but somehow can’t. She spots his wand laid down on the floor, forgotten next to him. ‘You could have saved me.’

‘Please, I -’

‘You’ll kill them. Like you killed me.’ The boy’s arm drops, hovering closer to the petrol at his feet. ‘They’ll die and it’ll be your fault.’

‘No, I -’

Ginny, she watches. Her heart hammers against her chest, before her eyes set on the wardrobe behind him. This isn’t some sort of twisted spell that’s brought back the dead, it’s -

‘Oi!’ she shouts. Her voice fills the room with a rage that she hasn’t felt in a long time, since this boy, right there, came in and tried to wreck their lives. Harry jumps with shock, like suddenly pulled out of his trance; he reaches for his wand but -

It’s focused on her, now. The boy turns his face and looks at her, cocks his head. Slowly she watches him grow, stretch to full height until he towers over her. His features are fuller, now, jaw square and good looking in all the ways that make her sick. He takes a few steps across the room, moving confidently towards her until he stops a few feet away, smile kind and caring (or so you would think).

‘Hello, Ginny,’ he says. It is almost reassuring that hers hasn’t changed, even after all this time.

‘Hello, Tom,’ she responds. And: ‘Riddikulus.’

The kids don’t go to school, that day. She takes them to her mother’s and the Ministry of Magic does without its Head Auror. Harry insists that he’s fine (finefinefine), that everything is fine, but the moment she walks back into the room three minutes later, after almost throwing her kids down their fireplace, he slips his glasses off and hides his face in his hands. Out of sadness or embarrassment, she’s not sure. ‘I got scared by a fucking boggart, Gin,’ he tells her, later. There’s no shame in that, as far as she’s concerned. Next to him, she sinks down to her knees and wraps her arms around his shoulders until she feels him starting to sob against her.

Harry’s worst fear is fear itself until they have kids, you see? Then, Tom materialises in their own, fucking home to tell him that perhaps, the worst danger to his children is himself and the things that he’s done.

‘It’s okay,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. We’re here. We’re fine. I love you. You’re a fantastic father and I love you.’

That day, they sit on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate in their hands, like kids with a war in their heads, still. ‘I love you,’ she insists, again, because it bears repeating.

For the record - for Harry - she would like to add that Tom is dead. That it is a good thing that Tom is dead. That she is glad that her husband, the only boy she ever loved, killed him. That she feels no remorse, no regrets, and that he shouldn’t either.

Instead, though, she rests her head against his shoulder and tells him something that is equally true. That she hasn’t always felt that way. ‘I felt guilty, too, you know?’ she admits, that day. ‘After you saved me? Destroyed the diary? I know it’s stupid,’ she sighs. ‘But, I just - I kept thinking, he felt like a person, you know? Like I was responsible for his death, somehow.’

Next to her, Harry nods, a sad, broken smile on his lips. His hands have stopped shaking, now. She remembers that sometimes, the things in their heads only ever really make sense to the both of them.

.

seven.

.

She’s now reached her conclusion of sorts. Tom wanted seven lives and one of them was forever. The one that is in their heads and that of the people they love, of their children and of grand-children because truth be told, hundreds of thousands of words have also been written about how wars and trauma carries through generations to come. There is no way to avoid him, so they just live with him, and make sure that the good always (alwaysalwaysalways) outweighs the bad.

One summer, the five of them spend a week over at Shell Cottage. The kids play, and scream, and run into the water until their lips turn blue and Bill spends ten good minutes casting warming charms on all of them before their race back into the house.

On a sunny afternoon, Ginny’s sitting up on her elbows under their umbrella, legs bent up and feet toying with the sand. Next to her, Harry’s laying on his stomach with his face turned to the side, calves slightly exposed now that the sun’s moved above them.

From her own towel, a few feet away, Fleur smiles at her. They’re friends, now. It is a thing that’s happened in the last fifteen years that Ginny’s spent getting to know her. ‘You know,’ she says. Sets her magazine to the side. ‘Every time zere iz a storm ‘ere, I go to ze supermarket to buy ze groceries in case ze muggles lose electricity and everysing gets shut off again,’ she explains. ‘And, every time, even if we ‘ave tons, I come ‘ome with tree cans of olive oil and at least a kilo of chocolate.’

Ginny laughs. In the distance, she hears Bill tell James off from going into the water again. ‘You don’t even eat chocolate,’ she observes (Fleur is careful of her looks, you see) and her sister-in-law nods before contradictorily shaking her head, as though chastising herself.

‘I know,’ she insists. ‘But my grandmozer always says zat iz what zey ran out of, during ze war. I just can’t not buy it. It’s - what do you say? Compulsive?’

Ginny nods, breathes under the summer heat. In the next fifteen minutes, she reads the same paragraph of her book at least ten times. What Fleur said about the scars she carries from her own past wars reminds her of the fact that when he was six or seven, Albus overheard his father, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione talk about their winter in the tent. Since then, he’s issued warnings, every week whenever he notices that their Muggle fridge is running slightly empty. Sometimes, Ginny wonders what this all will mean for their children, the inbred fears that Tom has left them with.

She often tries to remind herself that thanks to Harry, thanks to her, thank to everyone who so much as moved a pebble in the right direction during their war and after it, they’re leaving to their children a better world than they themselves landed in, almost forty years ago. She reminds herself that their kids have a father and a mother who are alive and there to raise them and love them, and that that is more than her own husband ever had.

Next to her, she casts a look at Harry. With his hands under his head, fingers laced together as a makeshift pillow, she realises that if he hasn’t moved into the shade closer to her in the last half hour, it is because he is asleep. His breathing is slow, regular, and strangely, she notices a smile across his lips.

She doesn’t wake him up, can’t bring herself to. It’s a new one, that. She’s never seen him smile in his sleep before.

(Despite Tom, despite everything, it’s a good one, that.)

.

eight

.

She never does write the story. It’s too private, too raw, and filled with too many feelings even for someone like her, for someone whose job it is to make people feel things, to put human emotions into words. If she did write it, though, she would lie about the seven parts. There is an eighth part. It is the life that Tom gives them without wanting to, the Horcrux that he never meant to create, the boy who lived (livedlivedlived) and who she’s able to kiss, hold, and call hers every day. She saw him dead, lying inanimate in Hagrid’s strong arms on morning in ‘98, but he came back, and they lived. A beautiful life, a full life, one with ghosts and grief, and pasts, but also love, and laughter, and hearts that beat (beatbeatbeat) until they were done, officially and happily done with this life and ready to embrace the next.

In the meantime, she remembers the day they put Lupin to the ground. She remembers holding Harry’s clammy hand in the heat that summer, just like her father had done after Albert passed away. ‘After Tom,’ she whispered. ‘I stayed after class. Lupin asked if I was alright and I told him it felt like I would never be happy again.’

She remembers Harry looking up at her, then, a look of panic and sadness, and slight confusion on his face. The trees were green and full of leaves around them - the heard a bird sing. ‘He shook his head,’ she added, her story was a two-parter, then. Before and after Tom. ‘He said: “No. It’s hard right now, but you will be happy again. I promise you that you will be.’”

And against hers, Harry’s hand tightened its grip. They walked up the street a few steps, high cemetery walls towering over them. Ginny stopped until he did, too, made sure he faced her before she added: ‘It’s shit right now,’ she said. ‘But we’ll be happy. I promise you that we will be.’

And, she’s never been one to break a promise, Ginny.

-------

Liked it? Want more stories like this? You can find some here or here and find my original writing here. If you would like to help me justify the truly unreasonable amount of time I spend writing, you can consider donating to my tipee writing fund, here.

Thanks very much for reading!

[demifiendrsa]

Diary of a Wimpy Kid (2021 movie) | Official Trailer

Diary of a Wimpy Kid animated film will stream on Disney+ on December 3, 2021

Poster

Synopsis

Greg Heffley is a scrawny but ambitious kid with an active imagination and big plans to be rich and famous – he just has to survive middle school first. To make matters worse, Greg’s lovable best friend Rowley seems to coast through life and succeed at everything without even trying! As details of his hilarious – and often disastrous – attempts to fit in fill the pages of his journal, Greg learns to appreciate true friends and the satisfaction that comes from standing up for what is right.