#everyone else just tolerates me and prefers other people over me and i just force them to talk to me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hippogrifffeathers · 1 year ago

Text

Is This Seat Taken?

Ominis didn't usually mind History of Magic. Dull as it was, at least the class gave him a change to get some peaceful sleep for once. It was almost enough to make up for the stinging loneliness that came with the reminder that he was sitting alone, that nobody wanted to sit next to a Gaunt- nobody except Sebastian and once upon a time, Anne.

And maybe, in the light of a newly blossoming friendship, MC.

or, as usual, it's also on ao3!

It had been a small mercy that History of Magic classes didn’t start until after Halloween, something which all Hogwarts fifth-years would agree on.

Ominis had chosen the class under family expectations, and only tolerated it now due to the ease of the curriculum- and if he were being completely honest, the wealth of nap opportunities the lessons provided. Though, he could do without the demanding workload Binns assigned. One student could only take so many essays.

The chatter of the classroom greets Ominis as he crosses the threshold, full of usual pre-lesson complaints and friends trying to choose what table they want to claim for the rest of the school year. He pushes past it all, allowing it to become background noise.

That was another downside of History of Magic, sitting alone. It was one of the few classes he didn’t share with Sebastian, which left him sparse on people to sit with.

Solitude was hardly an unfamiliar shadow in Ominis’ footsteps, it had become something he’d grown used to quickly in his youth, trying to convince himself he preferred things this way. It was quiet, not isolating, he was just fine with the way things were.

The lie was easier to believe some times more than others.

Hearing the whispers of chatting classmates around him, knowing their giggles and scratches of quills on parchment were more from the exchanging of notes and games than focusing on Binn’s droning tone, wasn’t always easy to ignore- not against the pang of envy that he was particularly susceptible to in classes like this one. Times when reminders of his loneliness were forced to the forefront of his mind.

As classmates debate and disagree over which desk they want to claim for the rest of the school year, Ominis heads for the front of the room, settling for the desks to his immediate right. It made little difference to him where he sat, hardly as though he’d get any visual advantage, but given his unpopularity among his classmates Ominis had long since avoided more favourable tables when sitting on his own.

He goes through the motions of pulling out a quill and parchment, despite knowing they’ll go untouched for the next few hours as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Some rest was just about all he had to look forward to for the next few hours.

A familiar voice pulls him from his thoughts, someone who had stopped by his desk. His spine straightens.

“Ominis?” Soft and almost hesitant, in a way he wasn’t used to hearing from its normally assured owner, a rush of unexpected joy pulses through him as he recognises them, and his posture relaxes on reflex- MC, “Sorry, for bothering you I was just…is this seat taken?”

The unexpected line of question momentarily throws him off course, and a small laugh threatens to burst forth at their innocent inquiry.

With MC’s popularity, getting along with just about everyone in the school and the way they were excelling in all their classes, sometimes it was easy to forget this was their first year at Hogwarts. Then they asked something like that, and it was all too obvious.

“You’re not bothering me at all, MC,” He resists the urge to reach for his wand, catch a better understanding on how they were standing- or even, if there was anyone else in their company, “This seat’s free, why?”

A shuffle of shoes on stone, relief lacing their tone, “Oh good, I was hoping- I mean, if you’d not mind, if I could join you?”

A pulse of silence follows their question, Ominis finding himself momentarily lost for words, something that he found never happened, not to him.

Nobody ever wanted to sit next to Ominis Gaunt- a fact he’d become quickly familiar with in his first year. The only people who ever did sit with him were Sebastian and, once upon a time, Anne, sometimes even bickering over the seat in their early years. The occasional housemate might join him, if they were short on other choices.

But MC? MC, who Ominis knew had a wealth of friends in this class alone- many of which would be happy to offer MC a seat- and they wanted to sit with him?

Even despite their almost too-easy companionship recently, Ominis knew he’d made an awful first impression on them that first night by the Undercroft, snapping at them as he had, threatening their mentor- the fact they’d headed straight for him now, of all the choices they had, was almost too unrealistic to consider.

Too late, he realises MC has mistaken his silence for rejection, he can hear the rustle of fabric as they start to fidget, the disappointment underpinning their rushed retraction as they desperately try to redeem whatever moment MC seems to believe they’ve ruined, “I-if not I totally understand! I didn’t mean to impose, I can sit somewhere else-”

“No!” He hopes he doesn’t sound as awkwardly flustered as he feels, frantically interrupting MC’s rambles before they can make the mistake of thinking Ominis didn’t want them there, “I mean, I’d be happy for you to join me.” He emphasises his point by shuffling along the bench slightly, aware he’s been sitting closer to the middle of the table, an old habit.

“Oh, thank you!” His chest gives another pang at the relief in MC’s voice as they slide onto the seat next to him, their arms brushing slightly at the proximity. Neither of them move away, even as MC continues their chatter, and Ominis can’t quite believe their evident happiness is because of him, feeling a smile take over his expression as they talk, “It was a relief to see you here, if I’m honest, you didn’t mention you were taking History of Magic!”

The easy way they said it risks going straight to his head, he tries not to give that much attention. “Well, nor did you. History of Magic isn’t the most popular choice amongst our peers you know, I didn’t expect you to take it honestly.”

It was true, which maybe was blindsided of him. MC had taken to spellcasting like a niffler to treasure, everyone knew that, but proficiency in practical magic didn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t be interested in the theoretical, too.

Their mentor is the Professor of Magical Theory, afterall.

“It wasn’t really my choice, the school board chose my classes for me.”

Ominis supposed that was another explanation.

“That sounds unfair.”

MC shrugged, “Looking back maybe it was, but I didn’t exactly have the knowledge to make an informed decision on my classes at the time anyway.”

“Well, while the class is incredibly dull, it is useful for getting into some N.E.W.T classes, as long as you don’t mind all the essays Binns tends to assign.” He can’t help the look of distaste at the reminder that he had another year of that to endure. Late nights alone in some corner of the common room, trying to force out several inches worth of facts on Goblin Rebellions, always made more difficult when he needed his wand to search the textbooks. It nearly doubled the amount of time he had to spend on the assignments compared to his peers, not that any of the staff seemed to care.

Sebastian would always help, where he could, but History of Magic wasn’t even his subject- it never felt fair asking his friend to help, no matter Sebastian’s fondness for learning.

And now between Sebastian’s own studies, and his questionable preoccupation with finding a cure for Anne, Ominis doubts Sebastian would even have the time to offer his help.

MC nudged his shoulder gently, pulling him from his spiralling thoughts, “Well, I suppose I’m lucky to have a friend to study with, in that case.”

Warmth spreading from where they had brushed against him, Ominis tried not to feel too excited by their words, the silent offer- or was it a request? Sometimes, it was hard to tell with MC, but their sentiment was not lost on him. The suggestion of the pair of them studying together for History of Magic, working on the same essays that had been such a burden on Ominis for years now, but instead in the warmth of company and even teamwork, was almost enough to make up for the hand cramps Binns’ essay length would inevitably cause.

“I believe that might be my line.” MC didn’t know quite how truthful his statement really was.

“Careful Ominis, I’ll hold you to that.” He could think of no other reply but a small chuckle, as though their companionship was something he might ever want to avoid.

Please do, he couldn’t help but urge, hoping they meant it. Perhaps it was pathetic of him, the surge of glee he felt at something so measly as the possibility of working together on homework, but with years of pushing through the exhausting subject alone, guilt-riddled whenever he asked Sebastian to help him find something in the textbooks, nobody could really blame him.

“What did you mean when you said this class was dull, anyway?”

“So, I take it nobody’s warned you?” That was definitely unfair, everyone deserves an advance warning about Binns’ teachings. If only to make sure they remembered to bring a pillow to class, “He’s hopeless, rambles on for the entire lesson and hardly even recognises students, let alone calls on them- I’d not worry about that though, most people just use it for napping or messing around, as long as you’re not too loud he won’t notice. Or care. Nobody’s sure which it is.”

“That sounds like such a waste.”

“Oh, so you’ll be paying attention then?” He grins, already knowing the answer.

“I never said that.” Their tone is equally as cheeky, punctuating it with a small laugh, “What about you then- you’re telling me that the ever perfect Ominis Gaunt naps in class?” He felt a flush of warmth flash across his face at their teasing, the ever perfect Ominis Gaunt-

“You expect me to get a full night's sleep in the same dorm room as Sebastian? The boy snores.” Not a complete lie, Sebastian did snore on occasion, it just wasn’t the reason Ominis struggled to sleep sometimes- but the jibe is enough to earn him another laugh out of MC.

“Oh no, he doesn’t!”

“Oh, he does.” Ominis grins at their obvious glee in teasing their mutual friend, even if Sebastian wasn’t here to defend himself, “I’ve considered casting silencio several times now, but I wouldn’t want to get predictable.” Or face retaliation.

He likes it, this easy conversation between them, the light jibes and laughter.

Despite their rocky start together, after that horrific night in the Scriptorium, he and MC had become closer; MC warmly greeted him whenever they crossed paths in the corridors, happily struck up conversation with Sebastian and Ominis outside of classrooms, but until now they’d never had any chances to talk where it was just them, without the buffer of their mutual friend. Now, with MC choosing to sit beside him, their conversation coming just as easy as it did whenever Sebastian was there, MC’s earlier words stuck in his mind, a surge of appreciation in his chest-

A friend.

MC considered him a friend. Not just ‘Sebastian’s tagalong’, or someone they talked to because it was convenient, but a friend, their friend.

There were only two other people in his life who had ever thought of Ominis as a friend, and now it was three.

Ominis wished he’d not been so harsh to MC that night by the Undercroft, so uncharacteristically emotional in the heat of the moment. It had been an impulsive lashing out that haunted him even more after the Scriptorium, when MC had defended him against Sebastian of all people- he knew what that must have taken, given the two were practically wrapped around each other’s wands these days, and still MC had taken Ominis’ side when Sebastian had wanted him to cast Crucio. Merlin, MC had all but demanded Sebastian cast it on them, just so neither Sebastian or Ominis would have to bear the torture curse themselves.

It was an act, a friendship, he still struggled to feel deserving of.

Even now, surrounded by classmates perfectly suitable for MC to sit with, others who MC knew and greeted warmly, it had been Ominis they made a beeline for when they entered the classroom, Ominis whose company they chose over everybody else.

He wished he was able to convey just how much that really meant to him, without sounding like a complete moonmind, or risk scaring one of the few friends he has off by being too attached.

For now, he’s content just knowing they chose his company even if he doesn’t understand why, but elects not to dwell on it any further, happy just to enjoy the mindless conversation with MC- drawn to an end only by the sudden wave of silence that sweeps through the room, followed by the familiar drawling tone of Professor Binns.

As if on conditioned reflex, Ominis’ eyes begin to feel heavy.

The only thing that snaps him out of it is a quiet groan from MC, who’d already made the rookie error of making an attempt to pay attention, “Goblin Rebellion?”

He leans towards the left, closer to MC and murmurs to them conspiratorially, “A Binns specialty, they’re practically all he talks about.”

MC groans again, “I’ve had enough of Goblin Rebellions for an entire lifetime, thanks.”

It’s fortunate they seemed to be complaining more to themselves than him, because Ominis didn’t know how to respond to that, nor did he like the uncomfortable reminder of the sorts of dangerous activities that (rumouredly) occupied MC’s spare time.

Still, MC had never made such a direct reference to it before, or at least- never to Ominis. They remained frustratingly tight-lipped about where they slipped off to after class, and what they discussed with Professor Fig- regardless of the whispers that followed them around the castle. Despite his urge to ask, to find out exactly what dangers MC was facing, Ominis knew the value of secrets better than most, had respected the privacy MC was so vehement about maintaining.

It only made their small admission all the more meaningful. The confirmation that they were involved in the recent Goblin Loyalist action, and the fact they trusted Ominis with that information, however vague, knowing he wouldn’t push them.

Like they hadn’t pushed him when he brought up his family.

The pair fell into the same silence as the rest of the class after that, the dull tone of Professor Binns washing them into the arms of lethargy, the ghost none the wiser about the slipping attentions of his students.

Predictably, the sounds of whispered giggles and scratching quills echo from behind Ominis- a sound he knows by now is not the sign of a diligent student, but one proposing some game on parchment, or passing along a note.

The pang of loneliness he’s so used to following after the sound never arrives, instead all he feels is the familiar edgings of exhaustion pulling at his eyes, any thoughts drifting far away to the tune of Binns’ mindless droning lecture, the scratching of quills on parchment, and the occasional whisper of a student all creating a harmonic lullaby which he had no interest in denying.

Going to lift his left hand, ready to settle in for a couple of hours of dreamless sleep, he almost jolts violently as a pressure falls atop of the outstretched limb, heavy, but not crushingly so.

His brain catches up to him before Ominis reaches for his wand, filling in the gaps with soft hair tickling the exposed parts of his wrist, familiar breaths that now sound deeper and closer than before.

MC had fallen asleep.

MC had fallen asleep, right next to Ominis.

Well, basically on top of him, if the weight on his arm was anything to go by.

His initial alarm is quickly replaced by a surge of affection, and another of deep surprise. For as tired as he often was, Ominis had only fallen on top of someone four times in his life. Once on each of his best friends, and twice on his Aunt Noctua. It was just about the most vulnerable position to put yourself in, willing to let your guard down completely around that person and place faith that they won’t betray that in any way.

Then here was MC, who hadn’t hesitated to use him as their makeshift pillow as they succumbed to the throes of sleep.

Him. Ominis Gaunt.

He almost can’t believe it, and wonders if he’s been dreaming up a positive History of Magic class this entire time, because at least that would be easier to believe.

For a moment, a stab of disappointment hits him as he realises MC probably only fell asleep on him by accident, not realising how close they were- but, he supposes MC could easily have leaned the other way, and they hadn’t. Just as easily as MC could have chosen any other table in the classroom to sit at, yet they’d chosen Ominis’- even though he’d chosen what was arguably the worst spot in the room.

If it had been difficult before, now it was nearly impossible to fight the smile that tugs at his lips- an expression that’s rare for him, especially these days, he notes with a pang of silly delight.

Just as quickly, his moment of warmth is ruined by a sharp spike of concern, as he notes the way MC hadn’t so much as stirred when Ominis almost pulled away from them in his earlier alarm. MC had fallen asleep faster than Ominis, which was no minor feat- he was at least self-aware enough to admit that much.

Their fatigue is too reminiscent of his own, something he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

How much sleep were they getting at night, Ominis couldn’t help but worry.

Rumours of their escapades outside of the castle had only grown in frequency over recent weeks, between that and their undeniably demanding schoolwork, where does MC find the time to rest. Merlin, do they even allow themselves to rest?

A trickle of insecurity bled through his concern…Was it even Ominis’ place to ask?

Conflict raged within him, the want to ensure MC was taking care of themself, that his friend was alright, versus the fear of overstepping and pushing MC away in the process. Their friendship was new, despite the turmoil it had already endured, and he wasn’t quite ready to test its boundaries.

The idea came to him immediately.

He could ask Sebastian. His friend had many fine qualities, but Sebastian had never been great with boundaries- not where worry for the people he cared about was concerned. It was an endearing enough trait, when it wasn’t pissing him off, or worse yet, exposing his secrets to other people.

Resolved to casually investigate the matter later, Ominis allowed his lingering concern to fade to the back of his mind. MC was resting now, and he knew better than anyone that naps in the History of Magic classroom were always peaceful and empty of dreams. They’d rest well here.

And so would he.

Exhaustion was becoming too hard to resist, and with Binns well and truly lost in droning details and stories, it wasn’t as though they’d be getting up any time soon. The slow blinks of his eyes were becoming longer and more frequent, and as his head drops sharply with a fractional loss of consciousness, Ominis finally gives in to the urging pull of sleep, bolstered by the comforting weighted presence at his arm. To his sleepy mind, it feels all too close to an invite.

Logically, he should rest his head on his right hand instead, since MC was resting on his left and he didn’t have the heart to move them. It wouldn’t be fair for him to disturb them like that, that was all.

(It had nothing to do with the fact the pressure on his arm felt so warm and comforting. Nothing to do with the easy way MC was touching him, that physical contact between them a presence he was so unused to but deeply appreciated. Privately, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d sleep all the better for it)

He’s too tired to think so pragmatically, for once he just wanted to do what felt natural, without overthinking it- to give in to the natural lean of his body, even as it sways him to the left, resting atop of MC.

Head cushioned by the fabric of their hood, as he easily fits to the junction of their shoulder, suddenly greeted by a wave of them- the faint smell of their shampoo, smooth material of new robes that hadn’t yet endured the might of a Hogwarts school year, and the slow beat of their heart, just audible over the muffle of robes and the droning of their Professor.

It lulls him to rest, not even realising as his breathing and MC’s effortlessly become synchronised, as the sweet pull of sleep finally getting the better of Ominis, along with a comfort he hadn’t felt in some time.

History of Magic wouldn’t be so bad, if he had this to look forward to in the future.

#hogwarts legacy #my fics #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #thrilled to announce i wrote this fic instead of editing the EXACT SAME FIC as i was procrastinating on editing last time #i'm not proud of myself okay #avalanche studios gave us (1) class interaction with ominis and we're all RUNNING with it and i loved that for this fandom #also yES i know HoM is a mandatory class BUT I'D FORGOTTEN WHEN I WAS WRITING IT and i'll be honest i'm far too lazy to change it #i'm lucky if i grammar check you think i'm gonna do a RE-WRITE???

34 notes · View notes

thatwouldbee-enough · 11 months ago

Note

😅🎢🎶🛠⛔🌞❌💲🧐🎃🦅👀🤗💞🤲😬⌛ anyfandom!

Ahhhh thank you so much for this! Sorry it took a while there were so many to answer <3

😅 What's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge embarrassed exists?

Anything from the very very early days of my AO3 account lol. They weren't bad but there's definitely so many things when I go back and read them where I would write things a lot differently now

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Oh man. Interpreting wildest ride in two different ways here.

1 (craziest/most disturbing): Let Me Crawl Up Into Your Mind

2 (wild ride plot-wise): Fate and the Fall

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

Yes!!! Some songs from recent writing playlists:

this is me trying by Taylor Swift

The Cause by Tommy Lefroy

Paul Revere by Noah Kahan

reckless driving by Lizzy McAlpine

Letter to an Old Poet by boygenius

Partners in Crime by FINNEAS

tolerate it by Taylor Swift

Colorado by Renee Rapp

You Could Start a Cult by Niall Horan w/Lizzy McAlpine

⛔ Do you have a fic you started, but scrapped?

So many 😬

🌞 Do you have a preferred time of day to write?

Honestly either early in the morning right after I wake up or middle of the night lmao. Middle of the night has given me some of my best writing for real but at what cost

❌ What's a trope you will never write?

I don't like to say never on any tropes because I think with the right idea any trope can be done well. Some things that I tend to stay away from are heavy mental health fix it style stories because 1) I don't feel qualified enough to write that well and 2) I don't find them super interesting usually. Exploring darker storylines is always more fun for me, or mayyyybe the occasional fluffy romance lol

💲 Would you ever open commissions?

For fanfiction based on someone else's intellectual property, no, because there are legal issues there. For writing in general maybe, but I don't see a huge market for that

🧐 Do you spend much time researching for your stories?

Way too much time

🎃 Do you write fics for certain holidays? Which is your favorite holiday inspired fic?

Occasionally! Maybe Sleigh Bells Ring for a favorite. Most of the holiday pieces I've written have been very fluffy lol

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

It's a mix. Usually seat of my pants, but if I have a lot of details worked out in my brain already then I'll outline

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

I have a TBOSAS piece that I'm working on where Coriolanus's punishment after cheating in the Games is to be sold as a sex worker (similar to how Finnick was in THG series) rather than being forced to enlist with the peacekeepers and he ends up with Strabo Plinth as a client.......

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

I cannot recommend enough just... doing it. Everyone worries so much about it not being good enough, but just like every other skill, you'll never get better without practice and just doing the damn thing over and over again.

Also read a lot. Read fanfic and actual books. You pick up a lot of things as a writer when you're reading other people's work. Sometimes you'll see certain ways of writing dialogue or inner monologues that you love and want to incorporate into your own writing. Sometimes you'll see things that pull you out of the story or don't flow well, and you'll learn that it's something you don't want to include in your writing. All of it is useful.

And MOST importantly, please please please learn how to properly format your dialogue 😭 (this is just a pet peeve of mine, but SO MANY fics don't have proper dialogue formatting)

ex: "This is the correct way to format a spoken sentence," she said sternly. "When you write a spoken sentence followed by a dialogue tag, the dialogue tag is PART of the sentence, so you should end the 'spoken sentence' with a comma, and then add the dialogue tag (starting with a lower case letter if it's not a proper noun), and then the sentence ends."

"This is correct too!" she exclaimed.

"This is also correct," she explained, "because the dialogue sentence hasn't ended, it was just interrupted. When dialogue is interrupted, but the sentence hasn't ended, the dialogue tag is surrounded by commas, indicating a whole, ongoing sentence."

INCORRECT EXAMPLES:

"This is not the correct way to format a spoken sentence." She said, crying a little bit on the inside.

"Neither is this!" She exclaimed.

"And neither is this." she sighed, rubbing at her temples as intentionally writing dialogue incorrectly began to trigger a headache.

💞 Who's your comfort character?

For Hamilton/Amrev, it's probably Hamilton. Sorry, basic bitch answer.

For TBOSAS it's Sejanus <3

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

A snippet from the TBOSAS AU with Coriolanus and Strabo Plinth that I mentioned above 🙈

But fighting? Fleeing? He thought back to the arena. The way his heart had pounded as he smashed at Bobbin until he laid unmoving on the ground. He refused to let that sort of response control him again. He was better than base instincts. Especially here. This wasn’t life or death. All he had to do was play things smart, and he would come out on top again eventually. And then everyone who ever tried to make him feel small would pay.

😬 Which of your fics would you be most horrified for friends, family, or coworkers to stumble upon?

Literally any of the smut lmfao.

But specifically the Henry Laurens/Alexander Hamilton fucked up intern AU, Let Me Crawl Up Into Your Mind, and A Royal Affair are probably all up there for top contenders

⌛ How long does it take you to write a fic, or a chapter?

Highly dependent on a lot of different variables (what I'm writing/whether it requires research/what else is going on in my life/level of motivation and focus/etc). Anywhere from a couple of hours to a month lmao

#writing #ask game #asks #thank you!!!

2 notes · View notes

fizzingwizard · 1 year ago

Text

call with dad complete

we were supposed to do it last week but he didn't see my message, then told me to pick a "specific" meeting time. When we talked today, I pointed out that it's night for him, but early in the morning for me, and coming off the work week so I'm tired and often oversleep on Sat mornings. So if there's a specific time he prefers, he should pick it so I can set an alarm. "Oh, I'm flexible, I'm trying to adjust to your busy schedule" he said x'D so what was the problem?? lol

"You know how in most couples, there's the high maintenance one, and it's usually the woman? Well, I was the high maintenance one," my dad says, to me, a woman. -___- I'd be offended if this weren't like par for the course. There are many things where my dad will express an eye roll-worthy opinion, then admit by himself all the ways it's different in his own experience, and see no disconnect there. Women are high maintenance, men aren't. But he is, and he can admit it. But women are still more high maintenance than men, because that's what you're supposed to believe. Hahahahahahaha kill me

"Disney is foolish for forcing this woke business into the movies. I don't care what people do, if woke people want to enjoy things, they should, but keep it away from the rest of us!" "But Dad, how can they enjoy it if there's no way they can enjoy it? Like in movies?" "I didn't say they can't have movies!" "You just said they 'force this woke business into the movies'." "... Well, maybe 'force' isn't the right word... But they lost a lot of money!" We did agree that some companies engage in pro-LGBT projects to make money rather than to be supportive. And I just let him have the Bud Light win, I don't even drink beer so I was at too much of a disadvantage :P

He's fighting with his sister and they're not on speaking terms, as usual. So he told me, "It's not a real loss, because to be honest, she's a real bore." And not as joke. Well, people's opinions of each other are their business. It's just that my aunt could be saying the same thing about my dad. His whole family deals with depression and anxiety and social issues. I don't see how it's useful to describe someone going through the same sort of stuff you do as "boring." A lot of us are boring at least some of the time. Relationships fall apart when, instead of literally trying anything else, people just go "I'm bored" and skip out because commitment is for wimps. In my opinion, so many interpersonal problems boil down to "I need to be constantly entertained because I can't make my own happiness, and I'd rather blame you than take a hard look at myself."

He also still thinks he's lost friends because they want to talk about their politics, but don't want to hear him talking about his. I don't know how true that is. From what I've seen, he's not been given an "ultimatum" as he says, rather people have tried to come to an agreement to just not discuss politics at all with him in order to stay friends. However, people as far right as my dad do tend to consider things "political" that the rest of us don't. And in his defense, people on the far left tend to have expectations of how sensitive everyone needs to be which don't account for educational or cultural barriers. But my dad also chronically underestimates how much he talks about politics. He thinks he's successfully kept the no politics talk agreement, but then admitted that he "sometimes said things, you know, as a test." And I can speak from my own experience over decades: with my dad in certain moods, there isn't an off switch. So I just don't think his estimation of his friends is 100% correct, although I won't say it's a total lie either. But it really did fall more on him to hold himself back, because he was the instigator and also the most aggressive one (calling people idiots and libtards).

My dad's tolerance for me is pretty high, and my tolerance for him is pretty high too. So although we avoid talking politics too, something of the sort tends to come up at least once per call. And I also have decades of living with him behind me. So I know that, with my dad, he'll express an opinion, and then when you point out or fact check anything about, "That's not what I'm saying," or "I totally agree with that," etc. He'll rant about wokeness but then say he supports gay and trans people, "but I just don't want it shoved in my face" when is it being shoved in your face? you don't have to see the disney movie "Oh, Disney is allowed to make those movies! I have no problem with that!" ok so they're allowed, and you don't even dislike them, so what are you upset about? "They lost a lot of money" Disney can afford it "yeah, but they look foolish." It's like he just parrots things he hears on Fox News, then bends over backwards to prove he doesn't actually agree with it, but then continues to parrot the same things the next time we talk.

That's the issue with him and my brother. My brother is deeply offended by those kinds of opinions. Last i heard, he identified as queer, and he's had trans friends and lover. He and his loved ones are part of that community and it is really hard for him to hear such scathing stuff. I'm straight, but definitely an ally, both of him as my brother and of the queer community. So it's not really possible for me to say to my brother "Dad doesn't mean what he says, he also talks about how much he loves and supports you and wants you to be yourself all the time. He just can't stop the things that come out of his mouth." To my brother, Dad wouldn't say those things if he didn't mean them. Which I get, because it's logical. But Dad isn't logical. He's emotional. He gets angry, he remembers the thing that made him angry, he repeats it, but he doesn't want to actually hurt anyone by it, he just wants to express the anger. And then he'll turn out to support all the things under the umbrella of the thing he's angry at, so how is he angry at the umbrella?? Idk, but he is, but he's not angry at what's under it...

Like I can't explain that to my brother, or to any queer individual, because they've suffered a lot from people who are malicious and anyone in that position would be wary of people who say the sort of things my dad does. But it's also true about my dad. His issue is about him and not about the world. But that's also not my brother's problem. And my brother has experienced a lot more of my dad's actual anger than I have. I don't get angry easily, but my dad and brother both do, and I know about a few things that have happened that both of them did, and I'm sure there's more that I don't know. So whether to reconcile or not is my brother's choice. It is really hard as a close family member, but an outsider, because of course I want them to be able to tolerate each other, and in my head it's possible if my brother can understand why my dad is the way he is and how he's really trying to be loving toward the world and just going about it in a paradoxical way. But my brother isn't wrong for making his own choice, for safety and for peace of mind.

I just encourage my dad to keep things simple and not overly sentimental when he reaches out to my brother, and absolutely do not talk about politics. "I miss you, I want you to be happy and be who you are," that should be the one and only message if my dad really wants to earn my brother's trust back. But my dad doesn't really think he should have lost that trust in the first place... so that's another hurdle. I can't explain to my dad how much what he says hurts my brother, because my dad knows what his own intentions are and since they're not malicious, he doesn't think anyone should interpret them that way. It doesn't work like that. People see what you do and hear what you say. If you say, "I love you and want you to be yourself," but also, "[Group that you are a member of] is destroying modern society," then even if you've got this mixed up paradoxical way of thinking, it's still going to hurt others.

On the bright side, my dad did manage to stop himself when he started to go on about Disney and Bud Light and all that. He did wax sentimental about the divorce, but not as badly as before. No tears this time. And he'd seen my uncle recently, and said he's going to get a part time job. So he seemed mostly doing good, which was a relief. He doesn't seem depressed. I know you can't always tell just based on someone's behavior. He seems the same as ever, I guess is what I mean, so that's somewhat reassuring.

#personal

3 notes · View notes

burning-sol · 1 year ago

Text

Probably had the most normal dream in a while where I was playing school soccer. This involved me having to play defence while i watched everyone else just booting around the ball with no thought, and having to explain to the teacher refereeing the rules because otherwise they where going to award a point to a team because the other kicked the ball off the field.

So basically, just like in real life.

This has me thinking about my experience playing soccer now. I always loved soccer as a sport but everyone around me was frankly really stupid and there was usually only one team so whatever players you got you were stuck with. Everyone was stubborn, self centered, whiny, didn't play the game that well, etc. I wasn't perfect either, my technical skill was probably a little lacking, but I still played good enough and passed the ball.

Nobody ever listened to my preference. There was one time where I actually broke down into tears because I was made to play goalkeeper the entire year, nobody even realised I was a midfielder until they just randomly put me there one time, "oh wow, you're really good at this position!!!" :/ Yeah, no shit you stupid fuck!!!

I fucking detested these pieces of shit. I hated that condescending attitude of telling me I was so good at playing goalkeeper, trying to always push me into the position because nobody could tolerate being where they don't like for any amount of time. People would purposefully play worse to not be put in the position again like children (which I guess they were). At most, I would just look bored in the field because I would be <- bored and tired of everyone's shit, but I would still pay attention and play when it came down to it.

I liked playing defence but I also felt forced to play it a little because others were so terrible at it (sometimes on purpose because they were entitled as shit and complained when they didn't get their first choice of position), like I would be in the torture chair as I watched within .2 seconds the other team busting through our defence and scoring a goal as soon as I was taken out.

Maybe a lot of issues were avoided though because the one position I hated the most was striker. The amount of pressure and the awkward position where you have to turn around, me having a pretty unreliable and weaker kick.. I don't know how everyone else was always arguing over it. I was always avoiding it like the plague.

This is all to say eventually between the depression and all the years of being beaten to death by having to play with some of the nastiest, dislikeable people to play sport with.. I just quit. I didn't want to, it was my favourite sport, but it was just year after year of the worst shit I've ever experienced.

You can tell just how bad the experience was by this rant alone, huh.

#📚 my posts #📌 thoughts #like what was it about soccer that made everyone suck so much #in baseball everyone was always the chillest ppl you could meet. very supportive.#soccer is the sport of the devil however and nobody is allowed to have fun

0 notes

rooting-for-the-anti--hero · 1 year ago

Text

RULES

These will make things so much easier for everyone involved. Please read these, and understand that any steps outside of the boundaries made in these rules are grounds for being blocked. With no warning, no explanation, and no remorse.

1. There will be no shipping if there is no build-up to it. OCs and crossover characters are welcome to try and ship but do not just jump in expecting a ship. I will warn of ships I have with certain characters but I will never, ever force a ship.

2. HEAVY warnings for: Gore, blood, canon-typical violence, racism, canon-typical racism, antisemitism, canon-typical antisemitism, incest, vampirism, werewolves, demons, religious themes, traumatized characters, PTSD, regressive coping mechanisms, monsters, mental/physical/sexual abuse, unhealthy relationships, drug abuse, drug use, alcohol use, alcohol abuse, witchcraft, cannibalism, supernatural horror, eating disorders, age gap ships, chronic illnesses, incest ships, potentially pedophilic ships, sexual assault, necrophilia, taxidermy of humans/animals, body horror, minor/minor ships, mpreg, male pregnancy, transmasc pregnancy

Know that I will not limit myself or my muses in any way if not asked by a specific partner. I will not write rape on this blog, though it can/will be talked about if it happens. Everything is tagged with cw -tag-. If you need something tagged I will tag it happily, just let me know.

ANY HATE that I get is going to be deleted. I am not going to tolerate it on this blog. If you dislike what I write, simply go elsewhere. I will block people that overstep my boundaries, I’d like for you to do the same.

My NS/FW tag is (Bedroom Eyes)

IF YOU STILL WANT TO FOLLOW BUT DO NOT WANT TO SEE THESE:

For the incest ships, blacklist: cw incest, cw twincest, cw sibling incest, cw father/son incest, cw father son incest, cw cousin incest

For the minor/minor or adult/minor ships, blacklist: cw underage , cw pedophilia, cw pedophilia mention

For the adult/minor ships, blacklist: cw parent child incest, cw father son incest, cw father daughter incest, cw twincest, cw incest, cw cousincest, cw cousin incest, cw sibling incest, cw underage

For the potentially pedophilic (9 year age gap) ship/the ship that engages in necrophilia, blacklist: cw necrophilia, Maybe This Is Danger And He Just Don’t Know (Firkle ♡ Michael), (Firkle and Michael - SouthxParkxAfterxDark)

PLEASE NOTE: Stuart in particular is a groomer. He has actively had sex with minors as an adult. Please be aware of this when you interact with him! His age gap with Carol alone is 15 years, and she had Kevin when she was 16. He has actively abused Karen, as well as @southxparkxafterxdark‘s Kyle, and likely others. Do not send hate over this as it will be ignored. If you do not want to see it, block this tag: What A Pain Well It’s All A Cryin’ Shame What Left To Do But Complain? (ѕтυαят)

For anything else: Please tell me and I will tag whatever you need me to! Just a reminder that I’m not a monster, and I will happily tag whatever is needed. Also you are always free to ask about what things I tag! I will happily get you a list!

3. If you have an OC, I need to know about them. I would prefer an image and written bio, but at least tell me about them and their relation to my character(s). Unless you have a good backstory and discuss with me about it, no family of them that aren’t canon, please.

4. ABSOLUTELY NO EYE TRAUMA OR DEFECATION. At. All.

5. Any sensual stuff over PG-13 rating will be moved to Discord, put under a read more, or faded to black. I only talk/plot over DM. If you cannot do Discord we will figure something else out.

6. If you have read these rules please say ‘This is a hymn for the hymnless.’

7. Please read the bios for the characters you wish to interact with, as they are all canon divergent. I now have OCs on this blog, as well, and it is important for that to be said.

8. PLEASE no minors. If I follow you and you are a minor, please let me know. I do not have anything against you, but I am not comfortable rping with underage kids as I am 30+.

9. I operate under “reblog karma” rules. If I reblog a meme from you, I will also send at least one ask from said meme to you. I ask that you do the same for me. If you reblog from me constant and never interact, it is an instant block.

#BLOG INFO ➽➽➽#Rules

0 notes

quickdeaths · 11 months ago

Text

"I see." It wasn't exactly an uncomfortable conversation, but it was an awkward one. Shinobu felt her thoughts drifting, as though staying in the moment, on the beach, with the princess, was impossible. It was just as well, they thought. The alternative was forcing herself to stay present, fully focused on herself and her life and where it had ended up, all the decisions that had brought her here, and everyone who she had left in her wake. Even being near Sonia required confronting things she preferred not to, and so to allow her mind to wander away seemed safer.

Again, a hook carved into her hand until it drew blood, the pain jerking her back to reality. If Sonia was here to help the remnants, then the least they could do was not make things difficult for the others by being off-putting. She was no good at socializing - worse even than she'd once been - but if making idle conversation with Sonia Nevermind led to better outcomes for her classmates, there was no possibility of not doing it.

"My mother taught me, I believe." Hadn't that been right? The four of them on the beach, once? "She was an artist. An eccentric one." The others had clear holes in their memory - much of high school was a fuzzy black blur, aside from a number of their interactions together. Most else, though, was intact. Shinobu wasn't quite so lucky. "I..." Waves of pain spread from the center of her forehead out to her temples, prompting a wince and a small grunt. "I'm afraid my memory is particularly terrible. There's a great deal I don't remember." Had it always been so bad, or had the Neo World Program taken her existing memory problems and somehow made them even worse?

They shook their head, resisting the urge to smack at the side of their face in Sonia's presence. "I think she used what we caught for her paintings. Inspiration, perhaps. Or reference. Or, perhaps not." Something else to contribute to how untethered she felt. Her childhood memories were in tatters, and her high school memories were fuzzy and uneven. What did that leave? Middle school, among the most awkward and uncomfortable periods of her life? The years she'd spent as a serial killer? Classroom days with people she'd barely tolerated, at the time? None of those seemed a proper foundation upon which to build some kind of identity.

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter much either way, at this point. Though, should I forget parts of our conversations, Nevermind-san, allow me to present my regrets in advance for doing so." It seemed unlikely, but then again, didn't most things? It was unlikely that all of this had happened in the first place. Her gaze drifted over, not to Sonia, but near her. "And, as far the lures... Mm, I can promise not to use them in such a manner." Nicking her hands with the points was one thing, but they weren't any use for any more serious wounds. Besides, her assigned agents were to keep her alive, not keep her from pain. So long as she didn't perish, what did they care if she drew blood?

About to say something else, their attention was drawn, abruptly, back to their own rod as it began to tighten. The fish was well-sized, bigger than most, and with a fight that made Shinobu simply want to snip her line and let it go. Instead, she focused on the mechanical, rhythmic process of tugging her rod, cranking the reel, adjusting her posture back and forth, and jerking until the thrashing fish was safely in her hands. It was hard to slip her fingers into the gills, owing both to the size of the fish and its relentless desire to free itself from her arms. Even if she could, Shinobu imagined, it would take more force than she could easily manage to snap back its neck. Which, left only one method.

"I'd rather you look away, Nevermind-san," Shinobu murmured as she stood, nails pressed into the fish. "Though I'm in no position to tell you what to do, so, I suppose do as you like." It took a few firm strikes against the metal pole where her collar had once hung to be sure that she'd killed it, and the fish had fought her the entire time. Blood had splattered onto her cheek, and the collar of her shirt, and all across her fingers. The fish nearly slipped as she stepped over to the basket, letting it simply fall in. Another life ended at the hands of the world's most prolific killer.

On shaky legs, tired from the difficult catch, Shinobu waded into the water. "Honestly, Nevermind-san, I think I have few friends here." The Future Foundation guard was watching her intently. She could feel his gaze boring into her from across the beach, though there was no reason to be concerned. Even as Shinobu wanted to submerge herself beneath the waves, she only gathered water in her hands, using it to clean her face. "My classmates and I weren't close, with a handful of exceptions." Anzu, mostly, and Ayaka. "They're simply stuck with me now, after all we've done together. Friendships of... necessity, perhaps. Or convenience." Shared trauma, and shared isolation. No one would have any of them except each other, so it was important to stick together.

After a minute or two, she trudged back to the sand, seawater still dripping from her hair, her face, her hands, as she sat back down. Rather than move to re-bait the lure, or once again cast the line, Shinobu simply sat, eventually looking near Sonia again. "And, as you can tell, I don't have much freedom, so I could hardly see my classmates, even if I wanted to." That, in itself, was a complicated question. Isolation was alluring, especially if she had no future to speak of. "If you want to spend time here, I won't pretend to understand why, but neither will I refuse the company. But, I should hope you don't catch anything. It's wretched to take lives."

Sonia allowed herself a small, easy smile. A lot of her cheer was fixed, if not forced, just to ensure she wasn't unnaturally giddy about any of it. There was a certain amount of teeth she could show, a certain amount of light that could reach her eyes, that kept her from crossing the line into inappropriate good humor. The world had endured a tragedy at the hands of the Remnants of Despair and there would be no minimizing what they'd done. But still, she could not hide the fact that she was pleased about Shinobu's reaction. As Sonia herself had insisted, she hadn't reached to hurt her, to snap her arms like twigs or choke her until no breath remained in her lungs. She'd simply stayed still, as if any sort of benevolence shown towards her was a dream, something impossible in reality.

It probably was, Sonia realized, with a quick glance to the humbled guard, drinking from a bottle of soda and staring daggers into the Princess of Novoselic. "That is what I thought upon meeting you," Sonia replied, turning her full attention back to Shinobu. "You do not wish to commit criminal acts and for now, Jabberwock Island is your home. Therefore, you should not be treated like a criminal here. I will endeavor to advocate as such for all of the former Remnants of Despair, including you."

She guessed that any apparent preferential treatment would go over poorly. It had been her assumption of the Shinobu from before The Tragedy, someone who hadn't liked to be fawned over, particularly by women vying for her particular, focused attention. When Masaru Yaguchi had inquired about her plan to both assist the Remnants and convince Shinobu to be reunited with him, that had been part of her response: she could not be perceived, particularly by Shinobu themselves, to show favoritism to the former Ultimate Archer. She would balk at it, insist she was not worthy of it and then consider Sonia untrustworthy.

And she needed to find Sonia trustworthy. Too many people relied upon it: Masaru Yaguchi, Ji-yeon Iida (reluctantly), Sonia's own conscience.

She listened to Shinobu through sips of her tea, careful to both make it last in the tropical heat but not let it sit out so long it curdled in the sun. Shinobu said what Sonia and her entourage were thinking: she had ragged clothes that were beyond repair and burns that would turn bad if they weren't seen to. But she didn't find herself worthy of treating either yet. Sonia would have to offer, carefully and at the right time: the burns worried her more than the clothes, but if they looked in their heart of hearts, she wondered if they might be disgusted by their attire. They used to pick out their outfits with so much care, from the weight of their jacket fabric to the pieces of jewelry they selected.

Fishing, at least, seemed to be a safe topic to discuss. She took the rod and lure carefully from Shinobu's hands. She didn't even flinch while reaching into the small canister of worms used as bait, picking up one particularly slimy specimen and, with much force, jabbed the dull lure through it. "This is not my first time fishing, actually," She admitted, glancing down at the pierced worm and back to Shinobu with a sheepish expression. "My father enjoys it, especially when the weather is warmer out. He tried to teach me once, and it drove him mad how long it took me to bait a hook. Not to mention I must have lost at least three fishing rods down the river! And I never managed to catch a thing: I was too impatient, I suppose. But it has been years since I have tried again."

Standing still in over half a meter of water likely didn't help matters either: during Novosonian summers, Sonia wanted to swim, to ride, to eat berries and ice cream. The Tragedy had changed all that: even if Novoselic hadn't been invaded, it was seen as distasteful to take summer holidays while the rest of the world suffered. Besides, everyone, from the Royal Family to the most common of laborers, had been busy assisting the disaster relief efforts. With a careful hold on the rod, she cast the line into the water and tried to remember what he'd told her: patience. Steadfastness. Determination. That would, one day, find her lure enticing enough.

Sonia looked to Shinobu: maybe what applied to fish could be the same as for people. "I see how the lures present a problem: they make you exert far more strength and effort than you should, and they are not as effective as traditional ones," She replied, looking out over the cast line into the water. It remained still, with no interest in what she had to offer. "If you will allow it, I would like to replace these with proper lures for you to use. But if the Future Foundation protests, might I offer them the assurance that you do not plan to hurt anyone, including yourself, with them?"

"Regardless of what they say though," She continued, resisting the urge to fidget or cut her time short in order to don a swimsuit and relieve herself of some of the heat and tension. It was, she thought, always going to be hard: seeing Shinobu Yaguchi after everything. The Tragedy, yes, but also that horrible day when they'd told her they never wished to see her again. Something Sonia still didn't understand but had forced herself to accept. "I do not know if it matters to you what I think, but I do not believe your friends here would want you to hurt yourself. I would not wish for that either. I cannot tell you what to do or how to live your life but...I think you have people who want you to heal. Or try to, at the very least, as much as you are able."

She couldn't convince her to heal, or even to feel joy: but she could suggest it as choice. Something that Shinobu could choose for herself to try, just like Sonia now tried, once again, to catch a fish. Harder than it looked. "Would you mind terribly if I joined you for the fishing part of your day, on a more routine basis?" She asked. "I have other assignments to attend to on Jabberwock Island and it is frowned upon that I dine with the rest of you, but if you are okay with it, I should like to keep trying with fishing. If you will have me."

Of course, she felt differently regarding her stance on Shinobu's future. She not only could have one, she was already being granted one: she just needed to decide for herself that it was possible and to take it. "I hope you do not die here. I think you have much to offer the world, even if you do not agree."

#morethanaprincess #c; the sun-slaying arrow #v; despair's fractured mirror #suicide tw #“if you want to sit here and watch me fish while I don't look at you out of guilt”#“I guess that's okay”

19 notes · View notes

trentaafcsblog · 3 years ago

Text

Midnight Memories

Mason Mount

This isn’t like him at all. Trapped in a crowd of drunk and disorderly people who are staggering around to the beat of the music, sloshing their drinks all over one another when the pink and purple strobe lights descend upon their bodies and start flashing in a series of random patterns, enhancing their alcohol-induced illusions and perceptions of the world as they flail their limbs around and claim they’re flying or walking on clouds - a stage that Mason isn’t willing to reach tonight, or any night, for that matter.

A sea of girls in overly tight dresses and heels that barely support them crowding around him and slurring things in his ear. Running their fingers up his bare arms and begging for another drink as he awkwardly shakes his head and tries to break away from them, only for another person to grip onto him from the other side and smear their cheap sticky lipgloss all over his neck in an attempt to add ‘I kissed a footballer’ to their CV. “Just kiss meee” they whine, pouting in his face and trying to pull him closer before giving up and making a move on the next available man, one who’s willing to explore their mouths and buy them endless rounds of multicoloured shots for the rest of the night without gently shoving them away or not-so-subtly avoiding their alcohol-coated lips.

This isn’t your type of place either, although you’re five cocktails deep into the stack of pornstars that your friends insisted on ordering. A stain down the front of your white bodycon dress thanks to an escapee half a passion fruit that decided to leave your triangular glass in order to explore the vomit-tainted floor. Your lips all patchy now that your lipgloss has migrated to decorate the rim of your empty glasses with sparkly nude smudges, although you’re slightly relieved because it means that your hair won’t get coated in it anymore, and it minimises the evidence if you end up kissing someone too, not that you came here to do that, or risk putting yourself in the same category as the girls that are now trying to climb into the VIP section with a bunch of semi-famous people, all because they want a drunk kissing video to plaster across their social media, hoping that it takes them to the front of the papers in the morning for being such-and-such’s ‘mystery girl’.

You’re looking up at the VIP area cordoned off by security guards in black puffer jackets and walkie talkies in their hands, feeling an overwhelming sense of empathy for all of the people that have to tolerate that kind of behaviour. Your eyes start scanning across the section of the club that is far too expensive for just a few hours’ stay, wondering if you can recognise any famous faces, but it’s just the ‘I lasted one day in the Villa and still managed to secure a Pretty Little Thing brand deal’ Love Islanders and the friend of the friend of the friend of a semi-professional footballer that made one twelve minute appearance for Arsenal back in 2010 and thinks he’s God’s gift. All of them either eating each other’s faces or taking boomerangs of them cheers-ing their margaritas before having to retake the same video five times because they’ve lost several lime slices in the process and it’s ruining the aesthetic. Your focus sharpening on someone with their back to you and at least ten girls around them, taking it in turns to have a drunken selfie or begging him to buy them a bottle of champagne with one of those fancy sparkler things on the top that gets brought out by women wearing elaborate carnival-inspired feather headbands and very revealing dresses. And you can’t help but feel sorry for him because you can tell just from the back of his head that he’s incredibly uncomfortable, even more so when he gets offered a blowjob from a girl who’s now threatening to get her boobs out in exchange for a whole bottle of Don Julio, in a bucket of ice, just how she likes it.

He’s turning around to face the rest of the club just as you go to look away at the menu that’s being wafted under your nose by one of your friends, and you can’t help but do a double take at his familiarity. Squinting your eyes so that you can get a better look at his features. ‘Nice drink’ you think when your eyes catch the glass of Diet Coke in his hand, quite obviously not accompanied by a swig of vodka going by his incredibly tense frame and stiff dance moves. Well, it’s not really dancing, it’s more of a ‘I’ll just copy what my friends are doing so I don’t look awkward’ move, aka a two-step shuffle from one side to the other. You can’t help but giggle as you watch him from across the room, your friends completely giving up on trying to entice you with a selection of expensive cocktails as they leave you to stare at some random man on the other side of the club, their need for a second stack of bright coloured drinks clearly overriding the want to look out for their friend.

You’re watching him for a bit longer. Becoming completely fixated on this familiar stranger who you can’t help but sit and giggle at. Part of you wanting to cringe with him at how hellish this night has become, but at the same time, it’s kind of funny watching someone who should be so used to having a large following blush and laugh awkwardly if anyone happens to recognise him. Okay, maybe it’s slightly uncomfortable to sit and watch a swarm of girls attack him with their overdrawn lips whilst he does everything in his will to not shove them into next week, especially when his friends start laughing and taking little videos of the awkward encounters, clearly ready to embarrass him at a later date. But regardless, it’s nice to know that fame hasn’t gone completely to his head, unlike an ex-reality TV star who’s screaming ‘do you know who I am?’ at one of the bouncers who won’t let her hang out with her ‘friends’ in the VIP section.

But you’re quickly forced out of your trance when you feel somebody shoving something into your hand. Looking down at your palm and clocking the ten pound note before your eyes are lifting to the hand that it’s been given from. “Go and get us those cocktails” your friend slurs before slumping back in her seat and falling to one side slightly, her pink lipstick slathered all over her chin from where she’d tried to apply it without a mirror when a man wearing an extremely tight fitting top happened to settle down in the booth next to you, obviously hoping that he’d look her way. “Hurry up, I’m thirstyyy” your other friend whines, making you sigh and mutter something under your breath in reference to them being lazy and ruining your evening, as you slide out of the row of pink arched seats and stand up. Having to grip onto the back of the chairs when your legs go all warm and fuzzy from the one too many cocktails you’d already consumed, pulling your dress down to a more appropriate length before heading off in the direction of the bar. Trying to catch a glimpse of Mason as you swerve in and out of the sea of dancing bodies, but you just end up feeling as though you’re going to fall to the floor when the strobe lights start spinning on the ceiling before dispersing their blue and green beams around the room at the most ridiculous speed. Everybody around you swaying from side to side and elbowing you in the ribs as you try your best to dodge them, kicking yourself for wearing the most stupid pair of heels as your toes crush into each other more and more with each step, cursing when you skid in a puddle of what looks like - or at least you hope is - vodka, and you have to grab onto a stranger’s arm to steady yourself, much to their dismay until they catch a glimpse of your apologetic face and suddenly want to make out with you.

You’re breathing a sigh of relief when you finally make it to the bar, setting your bag down on the counter and ordering what you think your friends want, although you probably should have double-checked with them first considering you were too busy having a nosy at someone across the club to pay any sort of interest to their alcohol preferences. “What?” you’re shouting at the barman when he tells you the total of the drinks, hoping that you’ve misheard him but ten pounds clearly isn’t going to cover the cost of sixteen cosmopolitans with added shots of vodka. Panicking when he repeats the price and turns his back to get started on making them, your hands now frantically searching your bag in the hope that you manage to find the extra money before he starts yelling at you for ordering things without being able to pay. “Fuck” you’re hissing as you turn the contents of your bag out onto the countertop, checking the inside of your phone case and a pressed powder incase they happen to house the remaining money. Your heartbeat pounding louder in your ears the closer it gets to having to admit that you’ve actually only got a quarter of what you need.

“I’ll get it” someone’s saying, clearly sensing the tension between you and the barman as you shrug your shoulders in response to him sticking his hand out for the money. “I’m not a charity” you snap back, your slightly tipsy state giving you a rush of confidence as you continue to search your bag in the hope that the money has magically appeared just so that you can laugh it off and shut everyone up. “I know, but it’s on me” they’re saying again, leaning forward and tapping their card on the machine before you can even consider fighting back a second time. “Thank-” you’re starting before realising who it is that’s just saved you from an incredibly awkward situation. Surely not. Surely Mason Mount hasn’t just bought you, of all people, a load of cocktails for your mates.

“It’s okay” he laughs nervously, making your heart melt because clearly he’s just as awkward around you as he is everybody else in this club. “Prices have gone up, haven’t they?” he smiles as he takes a step closer to you, propping himself up on the countertop with his elbows before asking the barman for a lemonade, with ice, just so it isn’t too fizzy. “Yeah, I don’t normally come out so I underestimated it a bit” you laugh shyly before looking off in the other direction, simultaneously cursing and thanking your friends for leading you to believe that you could get sixteen cocktails for a tenner, because without their stupidity, you wouldn’t be talking to the boy that you’ve been watching all night. “Prefer to stay at home then?” he asks as you turn back and nod your head. “Me too” he’s saying, “I’m normally in bed by now” he giggles as his gaze rises to the clock above the bar, the time reading 00.04am. The slight dark glow under his eyes letting you know that he’s normally tucked up by 9pm in his pyjamas. “What are you doing here then?” you ask. Stupid question really. He’s here for the same reason that you, and probably half of the people here, are - he’s been dragged along and forced to pretend that he’s a right party animal whilst he sips his non-alcoholic drinks and fights off every woman in sight. “My mates made me tag along, I’m kind of glad they did now though” he’s telling you, the second part of his sentence almost becoming inaudible as his voice quietens just as the volume of the music rises with the chorus of ‘My Yé Is Different’, ironic since you’ve just spotted the twenty grand watch decorating his wrist whilst you’re stood there in a passion fruit stained dress. But you’re still managing to hear it, and you can’t work out whether that’s in reference to you, or the fact that he’s been able to drink fizzy drinks when he’d normally only have water. Except you’re not stupid.

“Bet you say that to everyone” you tease, gaining his attention again as he laughs nervously and shakes his head. “Only the special ones” he replies, which is true, but now you can’t help but wonder if his drinks have been accompanied by a few shots of something or another because those words and the sincerity of his tone aren’t a reflection of the awkward man you spotted ten minutes ago, let alone the fact that he clearly considers you to be one of these ‘special ones.’ “Yeah, yeah” you’re saying back, flicking your hair over your shoulder before taking a sip of one of the cocktails that are sat before you, still waiting to be taken back to your friends. “Got quite a few drinks for somebody that doesn’t go out much, no wonder you needed me to pay” he winks as you roll your eyes and blush at the thought of somebody having to give you a helping hand with the price. “This is my last one, I’m off in a minute cose I can’t keep up with everyone else” you’re shouting over the music, watching him throw his head back and laugh because he thought he was the only one in that position. “I’ll join you” he’s replying, thanking the barman for his drink before taking a sip through the straw. “Not the sort of thing you say to a girl after only knowing her two minutes, Mason” you’re teasing, studying his face as his eyes blow wide slightly and he shakes his head, quickly swallowing his lemonade before stuttering on his words. Unsure whether he’s panicking about you jokingly misinterpreting his comment, or if he’s uncomfortable over the fact that yet another girl knows his name, but either way, he’s laughing awkwardly when you tell him that you’re only messing.

“I wouldn’t mind though” you say smugly, causing another nervous giggle to escape his lips. Your alcohol-induced confidence only adding to the butterflies that are already batting their wings against his rib cage, something about your slight feistiness and sarcastic sense of humour attracting him to you, even more so when he takes in how beautiful you still look despite being on the verge of your alcohol limit.

“Where are you going afterwards?” he’s asking once the lights have swivelled around in the opposite direction and the blush on his cheeks isn’t so evident. “I’ll just go to the chippy down the road and then get a taxi home” you’re telling him, looking down into the fluorescent pink concoction in your glass and feeling your stomach churn at how rough it’s going to make you feel in the morning. “Mind if I join you?” he’s asking as you look across at him in disbelief, watching as he downs the last few sips of his drink and stands the glass back on the countertop. Is this a dream or something? “Sorry, that was a bit forward...again” he panics, feeling a surge of anxiety run through his body incase he’s greeted with newspaper headlines in the morning about him unintentionally trying to latch onto girls that aren’t interested in him, even if half of the club know his name.

“No, it’s fine, of course you can” you laugh, your cocktail glass almost slipping out of your grip thanks to the layer of sweat that is now developing across your palm. “I’ll just take these over to the girls and then I’ll be ready” you smile, looping the strap of your bag over your shoulder and grabbing as many glasses as you can, which really isn’t a wise move since you’ve partially lost all sense of coordination thanks to Mason’s ability to wipe any drop of confidence out of your body and replace it with nervous butterflies.

“I’m off” you’re announcing once you’ve made your third trip back to the booth your friends are sitting in, their drunken reactions to your words making you giggle as you reach over them to grab your jacket. “Where are you goinggg?” one of them whines, gripping onto your leg and pouting before another one is drawn to the verge of tears at your confession. “I’m just tired” you nod, blowing them all a kiss and ensuring that they text you when you’re home as you turn around and head off towards the exit, not wanting to keep Mase waiting any longer. Praying that he’s stood just around the corner outside as he’d promised as you stagger across the dance floor and dodge a sea of flailing limbs and slurred shouts of ‘can I get your number?’. A sigh of relief forcing itself out of your nostrils when the ‘exit’ sign hanging above one of the fire doors becomes within touching distance and the bouncer in charge anticipates your departure, pushing down the grey bar across the middle of the door and letting it swing open, enabling you to step out into the night.

“There you are” you smile as you approach the back of his figure, his head kept down and a cap adding a nice accessory to his outfit, although it’s definitely worn as some form of disguise. “Hi” he’s smiling nervously when he realises that it’s you, a swarm of butterflies invading his tummy again when you link your arm through his and gently rest your head on the top of his shoulder - a move that you’re aware might push you into the same category as the other girls that have been after him all night, but your crippled feet and wobbly legs are grateful for the extra stability, even if your motivation to make that move takes you both by surprise.

“Let me get this” you’re saying once you’ve made your way into the kebab shop, your arm dropping away from his as you gesture towards the table up against the front window. “You sure?” he’s asking, dipping his hand into his back pocket ready to pull his wallet out just incase, but you’re nodding and confirming that you’re more than capable of paying four-pound-fifty for a kebab and a couple of drinks - just as well really after the events earlier this evening. Giving him a small smile as he turns and heads off towards the table in the corner, his celebrity instincts kicking when he takes the seat right in front of the glass, conveniently covered by a sticker of the menu, and some extra protection offered from the back of his body.

You’re setting the gold foam kebab box down on your table for two, along with two plastic forks, a bottle of water and a Fruit Shoot because you noticed him eyeing them up in the fridge when you came in. And it turned out to be one of the hardest decisions of your life trying to work out what flavour he wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol that was messing with your brain, making you think that he was more of an citrus guy than a berry one. Or maybe it was the fact that you were buying a child’s drink for a fully grown adult, a famous one too, who probably hasn’t had one for ten years, which only added to the pressure. Or maybe it was because you liked him and you didn’t want to ruin your chances by getting him the wrong flavour. But after flicking your gaze between the stack of bright coloured bottles and his body cowering away in the corner, you settled for the blackcurrant one, just because he looks like the type of person to play it safe - well, he is the type of person to play it safe, going by his Diet Coke and lemonade choices tonight.

“This for me?” he’s asking as he picks the purple bottle up, smiling when you nod to confirm his answer. “How did you know this was my favourite flavour?” he’s questioning, a smug look appearing on your face as you shrug your shoulders and reply with ‘only the ‘special ones’ know that kind of information’. A giggle escaping his mouth at your words before he’s pulling the plastic lid off the drink and taking a sip, humming at the familiarity despite not having one since his seventh birthday party. “Still as good as they used to be” he’s saying, something about the additional happiness that’s now surging through his body after a drop of blackcurrant juice making your tummy fill with butterflies because he really is just the cutest, biggest child.

You’re both sitting in a comfortable silence as you pick at your shared kebab, trying to eat from separate ends so that you don’t cross any boundaries or run the risk trying to stab your forks into the same piece of chicken. But the fuzzy filter that the alcohol has brought to your eyes and the slight delay that it’s caused between your thoughts and your actions means that you find yourself diving into the last piece of pitta bread just at the same time that Mason does. And from his side it’s a poor judgement call. The sugar from his Fruit Shoot clearly giving him an extra boost of energy and causing his arm to extend outwards towards the polystyrene box, clouding his mum’s reminder that ‘you need be a gentleman and let girls eat whatever’s left, even if you want it’. And truth be told, he doesn’t really want it, which is why the pang of anxiety as soon as his plastic fork clashes with yours is stronger than ever. His cheeks turning a violent shade of crimson as he quickly pulls his fork back, leaving just four little holes from where the prongs had been as you panic and do the same.

“Sorry, no you have it” he says quietly, nudging the box towards you in the hope that you get the hint. “No, you eat it” you smile, pushing it back towards him. The two of you just repeating the same movement as the box moves two centimetres one way, and then two centimetres back the other. “Mason, just eat it!” you whine as he sits opposite you and shakes his head. “I said you could have it” he smiles nervously, subtly wiping the sweat off his palms and onto the material of his jeans when he realises that you’re staring straight into his eyes. “Why are you getting all nervous for? Just eat ittt” you groan, a giggle escaping his lips because there’s no way you’re backing down on this one. “Fine” he huffs, stabbing his fork back into the little holes that it made earlier before slowly moving it towards his mouth. Your eyebrows raising more and more as you watch it edge closer to his lips. And then he’s doing the unthinkable and quickly changing the direction of his fork so that it starts heading towards your mouth instead. Involuntarily parting your lips whilst you wait for what’s just happened to register, and the next thing you know, you’re swallowing the piece of pitta bread.

“What a fuss about nothing” he hums as you roll your eyes at him. “You’re quite romantic, aren’t you?” you tease as his eyebrows furrow in the middle, waiting for you to clarify your comment. “Is that all of the alcohol that’s made you so desperate to share the last piece of food with me?” you question, another layer of blush painting itself across the tops of his cheeks. “Oh, sorry, you didn’t have anything to drink, did you? Lightweight” you smirk, making him roll his eyes this time. “I’m just being a gent, plus you’ve been drinking so you need something to sober you up, maybe it’ll stop you being so rude next time I offer to buy you a drink” he says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair. A wave of composure washing over him now that he’s left you slightly speechless and he’s matched your sense of humour. “Next time? You’ll be lucky” you sass as he scoffs at you. “You’re the one that needs to buy me a drink to apologise for snapping at me, so there will be a next time to call it quits, thank you” he smiles, his sudden burst of confidence talking to you allowing his real personality to shine through, and you can’t help but start to get lost in it. “Was I really that rude?” you ask, secretly dying as you think back to your ‘I’m not a charity’ comment at the bar. “No, I’m just messing” he laughs, eliciting the same response from you as you erase that memory out of your brain. “You’re just confident, I like it” he’s saying, the last part of his comment getting lost when a group of people come staggering through the door, drowning out his words for the second time tonight, but you’re ninety-nine percent certain you managed to catch it. And now you’re the nervous one.

You’re quickly moving the conversation on to something else when you feel your chest starting to heat up with anxious prickles. Mason going all funny inside because it’s clear that he has the same effect on you as you do him, but he’s trying to push that to the back of his mind as he listens to you rambling on about your favourite breed of dogs, and how you had a fish finger sandwich for tea before you came out tonight, and how you actually know quite a lot about football but you’re reluctant to bring it up because you don’t want to embarrass him, although your drunken state causes you to let a few football facts slip out, all of them relating to Mase but you’re too caught up in your fuzzy alcoholic state to even recognise. But he does, obviously. Finding it sweet how you know exactly how many appearances he’s made for Chelsea, and what minute he came on in his debut against Manchester United, and what colour boots he wore against last season’s match against Newcastle. Just sitting back and letting you talk in between the occasional swig of water, hardly being able to get a word in edgeways because the alcohol is well and truly running through your veins now, making you come out with all kinds of mismatched comments and slurs. But he doesn’t mind, which takes him by surprise a bit, especially as he’s secretly scared of drunk people and he can count the amount of times he’s felt a bit tipsy on one hand, but there’s something different about you. Maybe it’s your sense of humour and how you’ve got him in stitches, or how your drunken state leads you to be more concerned about the welfare of a stray cat outside than it does anything else on the planet, or maybe it’s how deep beneath that strong outer shell you’re protecting yourself with that he knows you’ve got a heart of gold, an inside of ‘pure mush’ as his mum would say.

“What time is it?” you slur after knocking back your last swig of water. “Nearly one o’clock” Mason’s replying, glancing at his overly-expensive watch as you sit there and wonder how he actually knows what hour of the day it is when all of the numbers have been replaced by diamonds. “Better head off” you mumble, staring blankly into the empty kebab box and trying to process what move you need to make next in order to get yourself back home in one piece. “I’ll order you a cab if you want, or I’ll walk you back, I don’t know how far away you live” he’s saying, forcing you out of your trace as you look up at his tired, bloodshot eyes. Knowing full well that as soon as you’re gone he’ll be running home to bed with a glass of water to tone down the bubbles in his tummy from his fizzy drinks, paranoid incase they give him a fizzy version of a hangover. “I live about half an hour away and I can tell you’re ready for bed so I’ll go with the cab” you smile, making him giggle nervously at the fact that his tiredness has been uncovered, although it’s not difficult to pick up on the fact that the only other time he stays up this late is on New Years Eve, and even then he normally sets an alarm for 11.57pm so that he can wake up from his nap in time.

You’re letting him help you put all of your belongings back into your handbag after you insisted on showing him your favourite lipgloss midway through your earlier conversation. Linking your arm through his and stepping out into the coldness of the night, a breeze nipping across your legs and causing you to let out a little squeal as you start pulling your dress down to try and hide your goosebumps. “Here” Mason’s saying, taking his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders. “Mase” you’re replying. Mase - he likes that, and he likes how naturally it’s left your mouth too. Trying to give it back to him but he’s adamant that you keep it. “Gives me another reason to see you in order to get it back” he winks, making you roll your eyes as you stand snuggled into his side on the edge of the pavement.

“Did you want my number?” he’s asking, already taking his phone out of his pocket and holding it out in your direction before you even have chance to respond. “You’ve not really given me an option have you?” you laugh, making him giggle as he shuffles awkwardly from side to side, waiting for your digits to appear on the screen. “Only because I need to give your jacket back, there’s no other reason for this” you tell him, smiling as he nods his head but you both know that’s a little white lie. “There you go” you’re saying, passing his phone back to him as his eyes study the new contact in his hand. A new number written beneath Y/N.

‘Shit’ he’s thinking. He didn’t even ask for your name before this. Awkward.

“Pretty name” he smiles, trying to play it off cool, but you’re not drunk enough to not notice his mistake. “So pretty that you didn’t even know that’s what I was called until now” you reply, making him giggle and let out an awkward ‘oops’. “I’ll let you off this once” you’re saying as you look up at him stood beneath the lamppost that’s towering above the two of you. A golden glow adding a filter to his face and making him look even more gorgeous than he did when he was sipping his lemonade in the club and shoving lettuce and chicken into his mouth. And you’re desperate to just kiss him, especially since he’s got a bit of dried Fruit Shoot in the corner of his mouth and you know his lips will taste all sweet like they do in the movies. But considering he’s only just learnt your name you don’t think it’s the right time, and there’s also a bunch of Tottenham fans making their way up the street, not wanting to have to make him endure any teasing, especially when he’s already stayed up late in a part of town he wouldn’t usually be seen dead in to spend time with you.

“Thanks for tonight” you whisper as you briefly rest your head on his shoulder, pulling it away when the taxi he’s ordered for you appears at the side of the curb. “My pleasure, thank you” he’s saying back, removing his protective hand from the small of your back and stepping forward to open the back door of the car for you. “Told you that you were a gent” you tease as he mumbles ‘shut up’ and pretends to shove you into the back seat with a giggle. “See you soon for that jacket, yeah?” he winks as you reply with ‘yeah yeah, whatever’, making him let out a little chuckle as he closes the door on you. Giving you an awkward little wave as you head off down the street, standing and waiting for your car to turn the corner before heading home himself. Leaving just a message of ‘thank you again, can’t wait to get my jacket back cose it’s freezing without it ;) x’ that’s just appeared on your screen connecting the two of you. And even if you have been slightly tipsy tonight and now can’t remember half of the things you spoke about, there genuinely doesn’t seem like a better person to sit in a kebab shop with in the early hours of the morning after stumbling across him by pure chance a club that neither of you particularly wanted to spend the night at. Thanking your lucky stars for allowing your paths to cross because you already know this is the start of something special. Very special.

#mason mount #mason mount blurb #mason mount imagine #football blurb #football imagine #dominic calvert lewin #jadon sancho #ruben loftus cheek #marcus rashford #ben chilwell #dele #jesse lingard #tyrone mings #james maddison #trent alexander arnold

480 notes · View notes

gimme-mor · 3 years ago

Text

ACOTAR THINK PIECE: ELAIN ARCHERON, UNTOUCHABLE

*DISCLAIMER*

This will be a long post.

Please take the time to read this post in its entirety and truly reflect on the message I am trying to send before commenting. My goal is to use my background in Gender and Women’s Studies to deconstruct the comments I have seen on Tumblr and Twitter and bring awareness to the ACOTAR fandom.

The reason I am tagging “Elriel” in this post is to call attention to the arguments in the Elriel fandom that: weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions about Elain’s character and her relationship with Lucien; victimize Elain’s character in fandom discussions; and coddle Elain’s character, which limits fandom discussions about her narrative development and prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions in the same way that the fandom holds other characters accountable for their actions and inactions. It is for these reasons that I WILL NOT remove the “Elriel” tag from this post because all of the above points contribute to the toxic discourse surrounding Elain’s character.

I urge those who use these arguments to understand their implications, why they are problematic, regardless of intent, and reexamine their contributions to the ACOTAR fandom. I WILL NOT tolerate anyone who tries to twist my words and say I am attacking people and their personal shipping preferences. In fact, I AM CRITIQUING THE ARGUMENTS THEMSELVES NOT THE PEOPLE USING THE ARGUMENTS.

Also, I highly encourage the Elriel fandom to read this post because it addresses how the concept of choice as an argument enables arguments to exploit social justice and feminist languge in order to vilify Elucien shippers, among other problematic things.

Elain Archeron is one of the most polarizing characters in the ACOTAR fandom. Though opinions about Elain vary, arguments in the Elriel fandom cite society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters as the reason behind the hate, and this belief is used to provide an explanation as to why other characters in the series are favored over her. In the series, Elain is portrayed in a wholly positive light and this image carries over into the Elriel fandom, painting her character as a good and kind female who has been unfairly wronged and a victim of circumstances that were out of her control. When arguments in the Elriel fandom oppose other viewpoints in the fandom, they fall into one of three categories:

Category 1: Weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions

Maybe people who hate Elain are just jealous of her in a weird way similar to when someone hates the pretty, nice, and charming girl in school just because she is too perfect

Disliking Elain is misogynistic

What happened to feminism? What happened to women supporting women? What happened to she can say no? All of that disappears the second you force Elain to be with Lucien

Elain antis are misogynistic

All Eluciens are Elain antis

Antis claiming they’re feminists when in reality they hate on Elain and Feyre but love Nesta

Elain antis are such sore losers. Y’all were that bunch of people who could not get over being rejected from hanging out with the cool kids so y’all are projecting your hatred towards pretty people now to get validation

I don’t get how Elain’s love for gardening equals boring for some people. I’m sorry your misogyny finds traditionally feminine activities boring

Why are you attacking a female? What did Elain do? Where are your feminist voices?

The fandom is misogynistic towards Elain

If people loved Elain they would ship Elriel

If you hate Elain it says a lot about your feelings toward women

If you hate Elain because she has no “development” then you must hate Azriel because otherwise you’re misogynistic

Eluciens are turned off by the idea of a woman that has the autonomy to reject a man for the simple reason that it is her choice

Eluciens are all about feminism and “it’s HER choice” until it comes down to females not wanting a male

Eluciens don’t respect Elain’s feelings when they ship her with someone that was part of her trauma and makes her feel uncomfortable

The way some Elucien shippers completely disregard how uncomfortable Elain is around Lucien is so hilariously not funny. Prioritizing being mates over Elain’s feelings is just regressive

It’s hard as a fan of Elain to see someone ship her with a person who makes her physically uncomfortable to be around. Wouldn’t you want both characters to be happy to be around each other

Imagine if SJM saw all the awful things her “stans” had to say about Elain

It’s true that we know comparatively little about her, but is she really boring or do you just not value stereotypically feminine traits?

So y’all are just gonna tell me you prefer Elucien over Elriel? Even though Lucien treats Elain as if she’s something that belongs to him? The only reason he wants to be with her is because she’s his mate, he doesn’t respect her, doesn’t treat her as his equal, even though that’s what mates should be? He doesn’t bother to look past what’s on the outside to see her for who she is. And Elain is obviously repulsed by the idea that she should belong to anyone or have no choice in who she can be with. Azriel is her friend and the only person who sees her quiet strength. He has so much faith in her, in her abilities; he’s the one who kept her company when no one else did, he’s the only one who bothered to see her for more than her brokenness. You’re going to tell me you still prefer Elucien over Elriel?

The more I see Gwynriels that ship Elucien out of their hate for Elain, the less I can understand Elain stans that ship Elucien. Pls Elain has made it very clear that she doesn’t want Lucien, why would you ship her with him? Do you hate her too? Smh

The real question would be, if you care and understand Elain why would you ship her with Lucien (where she canonically shrinks when he is near)?

People crying over Helion and Lucien’s mom not getting to be with each other and her being forced into a relationship she didn’t want, but also ship Elucien? Just say you hate Elain

When Elain’s book is out, Gwyn stans will look like clowns and I will laugh because they set her up by shipping her with Azriel just because they hate Elain. Watch them play the victims now because Elriels are clapping back the hate they’ve sent towards Elain

As romantic as wanting girl who is visibly uncomfortable around a guy who caused her trauma to end up with the said guy. Guess their standards for romance are in hell

Category 2: Victimize Elain’s character

Gwynriels only want Gwyn with Azriel because they despise Elain

Gwyn stans and Gwynriels are Elain antis

No one in the books dislike Elain, so why are there so many people who do?

Elain hasn’t done anything wrong or questionable to warrant the hate she gets

Not having Elain’s POV makes it easy for people to be swayed a certain way about her character if you already don’t relate to her in some way

It’s been years since this series came out and we haven’t gotten a lick of an Elain POV, but people still hate her for what? We don’t know her thoughts, dreams, or aspirations

We haven’t even had Elain’s perspective yet and people are passing these judgments off on her

Elain antis who say she’s boring are just cruel when she has obvious symptoms of PTSD like Feyre and Nesta

Gwyn is one of the most overhyped characters and that’s only because most people hate Elain and they couldn’t wait to find a random girl to ship Azriel with

Nesta was abusive to her sisters but Elain (who has only ever been kind) is painted as the villain

From the text we know that Elain is the epitome of feminine stereotypes (gentle, gardening, baking, non confrontational for the most part). Yet people still call her boring or deny that she has any interesting character traits?

You can’t love Nesta and hate Elain

People hate Elain because of internalized misogyny and lack of taste. All the girl does is tend to her garden and mind her business and they treat her worse than Tamlin

Does Gwyn deserve all this support? Of course yes! She is amazing! But where’s that support when Elain was in the same situation as she? Where’s that support for her right now? Why do they idolize Gwyn for her interactions with Azriel and hate Elain for having any interaction with him?

It’s not even a ship war anymore, they just hate Elain

People hate Elain for no reason

Some of y’all don’t like feminine traits and it shows

We know less about Eris and Helion but people don’t call them boring. Why would rejecting femininity make Elain more interesting?

Elain has had a lot forced upon her

The main reason I believe most people love Gwyn so much is to get Azriel away from Elain. It’s not a secret that Elain has been a widely hated character for years so suddenly we get a new female who has a minimal amount of interactions with Azriel and BOOM. New ship that once again doesn’t make sense (just like Azriel x Emerie after ACOFAS)

Elain hasn’t done something so terrible for her to get this hate. At this point some of you are just being misogynistic and you don’t want to accept it. Don’t call yourselves feminists and then say bs like this, it’s embarrassing. She’s pretty and everyone agreed to hate on her

Just a personal feeling, but I feel like a lot of the Elain hate stems from internalized misogyny. That to be a strong female lead, you need to pick up a sword and fight. That to be strong, you need to adapt traditionally masculine traits

Elain is feminine. She is beautiful. She loves to bake and garden. She is docile, quiet, observant, and a people-pleaser. All traditionally feminine traits. Yet for some reason, she’s like the worst in these people’s eyes?

I think also maybe a lot of people can’t relate to her femininity? That her being so beautiful and quiet doesn’t allow for the people who dislike her not to self-insert? Most of the hate stems from people not wanting Elain to be with Azriel. It’s mean, but maybe the people who hate Elain literally just can’t self-insert if they have a story and that’s why they’re vehemently against it?

Poor Elain. The Cauldron dealt her a bad deal. Upon emerging as Fae, she is immediately declared by Lucien as his mate, never mind that she was already engaged to a prick. Her love life is not good

It blows my mind how they really think that they can compare all the shit that Elain gets with some dumb jokes about Gwyn on Twitter (and yes, the “hate” towards her started mostly because Elriels are clapping back, it was bound to happen)

I would think of it as anti-feminist with Elain and Lucien because she has consistently stated that she does not want him so if she was forced to embrace the bond that would be taking away her right to have a choice but with Az she feels comfortable around so if they were mates then Elain would be happy and feel safe which again should be the priority for women to feel safe in their relationships with anything and to not be forced into any type of situation aka the mating bond in this

Category 3: Coddle Elain’s character

Elain has value the way she is, in all her domestic girly glory. Not every character has to be badass

We don’t speak of Elain’s flaws frequently because everyone else already speaks badly of her, mainly in an unfair way

There is definitely something deeper going on with Elain but by no means will she ever be evil or any less feminine. That goes against everything we already know about her

It’s ok to critique Elain because she needs growth but y’all keep forgetting the shit her and her sisters went through

The last “bad” thing Elain did in ACOTAR was not help Feyre when they were impoverished and I’m tired of people acting like she’s a terrible character when it was their father’s responsibility. It happened 4 books ago and Feyre has forgiven both Nesta and Elain

Elain’s character and the evil Elain theory are a great example of the trend where people only consider female characters interesting if they reject femininity

We don’t know enough to hate Elain

Many people want Elain to turn evil (which in my opinion seems to come from a place of internalized misogyny)

However we don’t tend to talk about her faults, at least not publicly, as that has been, and still is, done to death, and I--personally, at least--find it much more fun to theorise about potentially interesting aspects of the overall plot, than dwell on negatives

And ultimately, I would be shocked if Elain has a more karmically-charged story than Nesta, considering that Elain’s “wrongs” are so much less severe and bad than Nesta’s, and Elain has already apologized for them (or paid the price in other ways, like through what Graysen did)

I guess I also think Elain has suffered and been punished enough. I hope her story is about finding hope in terrible situations, and learning to love her new life, and choosing her own path after everything that has been done to her. I don’t think she needs to be punished anymore or face any additional trauma

Also, why is she being judged on her decisions as a human at all? Fae are monsters to humans! They enslaved them for thousands of years, and the Wall was erected to keep them out

Like I’m sorry, but think Elain would want to leave her ONLY FAMILY AND FRIENDS for the Spring Court where she has no one because--oh look, lots of flowers!--is the craziest thing I have ever heard

Her sisters are in the Night Court. Her nephew is in the Night Court. Her closest friends (Nuala and Cerridwen) are in the Night Court. Her love interest is in the Night Court. Her extended family is in the Night Court. Her home is in the Night Court

SJM isn’t going to keep two sisters together and split up the third. Especially not keep Feyre and Nesta together and separate Elain. They were either all going to end up in separate places, or together. Not 2 here and 1 there

Compared to the other female characters in the series, Elain is the only character whose femalehood is at the center of conversations; this is because arguments in the Elriel fandom fixate on it when discussing her character. While Elain, Feyre, Nesta, and Mor are all representations of white womanhood and white beauty, Elain epitomizes the most fragile version of white womanhood. It’s easy to blame society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters when it comes to the discourse surrounding Elain’s character because it: falls in line with the fixation on Elain’s femalehood to silence opposing viewpoints; is a simplistic explanation that fails to tackle the underlying issues with Elain as a character, the same issues that are downplayed in-universe; absolves Elain of her wrongdoings; prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions within the series; and diminishes the impact Elain’s actions and inactions have on those around her. It’s not that Elain is hated in the fandom because she’s a traditional female character; it’s the fact that arguments in the Elriel fandom deflect a critical analysis of Elain’s character because she’s a traditional female character who embodies the ideal white woman in need of protection. White fans and white-aligned fans of color, especially white women, have a tendency to vehemently defend, gatekeep, and coddle white female characters in fandom; this makes it difficult for other fans to engage in critical discussions about these white female characters because they’re viewed as flawless and all around perfect characters despite evidence to the contrary. Since Elain is viewed positively by the other characters in the series, it has rendered her character untouchable to any perceived slight or criticism in fandom discussions because those negative opinions challenge what has been said about her character thus far. And as a result, her character has been placed on a pedestal and implicitly hailed as the epitome of white womanhood; and when she’s criticized, it’s seen as a direct attack against white womanhood. Arguments in the Elriel fandom: exploit feminist language and perpetuate white feminist tactics under the guise of defending Elain’s character; center Elain in conversations about female oppression in the ACOTAR world and uphold white feminist ideologies in their critique of ACOTAR’s patriarchal society; and use the fragile white woman narrative to victimize Elain in Lucien’s presence, playing into racial biases that are associated with white supremacy’s defense of white womanhood.

Feminism is a social movement that seeks to promote equality and equity to all genders, and feminists work toward eradicating gender disparities on a macro-level, in addition to challenging gender biases on a micro-level. As feminism became more mainstream, a flat and oversimplified version of feminism emerged: mainstream feminism. The mainstream feminist movement is meant to represent all women, but rarely does it center conversations around issues that concern most women. The problem with mainstream feminism is that it’s just a popularized version of white feminism. White feminism has relied extensively on an individualized understanding of women’s oppression, exclusively from the lens of privileged white women. White feminism only focuses on the oppression experienced by white, able-bodied, affluent, educated, cishet women; and it views gender as the key mode of privileged white women’s oppression, isolated from the privileges granted by their other social identities. White women can be and are oppressed under the patriarchy but only because they are women; their identity as women does not exempt them from the privileges granted by their whiteness. The term white feminist does not mean any feminist who is white, but refers to feminists who prioritize the concerns of privileged white women as though they are representative of all women. However, the term is not exclusive to white people. Because white feminism is so pervasive, people of other racial and ethnic backgrounds often buy into white feminism, believing that if they work hard enough, they may be able to reap its rewards.

Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism only recognizes the identity of being a woman, assumes that all women share common experiences of gender oppression, fails to address other social identities in relation to overlapping systems of oppression, and disregards privilege in relation to various social identities. Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism is palatable because it doesn’t seek to challenge the systems in place, instead its goal is to succeed within them. Essentially, mainstream feminism and white feminism are extensions of performative feminism. Performative feminism is a type of performative activism that’s used to describe feminist views that are surface level and solely for the benefit of one type of person. It’s a pretense which often has nothing to do with genuine activism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom normalize and promote performative feminism because the topic of feminism is only referenced when discussing Elain. This indicates that these arguments are engaging in disingenuous discourse to push a personal agenda within the ACOTAR fandom, and it becomes more apparent when they use white feminist tactics to shut down opposing viewpoints:

White feminists weaponize and exploit feminist language to silence the opinions of other women, especially when they’re called out for their problematic behaviors

White feminists use the phrase “Women supporting women” to defend other white feminists who exhibit problematic behaviors instead of holding them accountable

White feminists weaponize phrases like “Women supporting women” and “You just hate women” to attack other women who disagree with them on any given topic

White feminists use phrases like “All women face challenges” and “Stop pitting women against each other” to sidestep conversations about privilege

White feminists divert conversations away from privilege and towards the Trauma Olympics to equate their struggles to the oppression of marginalized people

White feminists skirt around the realities of other forms of oppression and discrimination, downplaying the experiences of marginalized people

White feminists diminish or ignore the ways in which gender oppression affects other marginalized people

White feminists paint those they harmed as aggressive, mean, or divisive when confronted with the ways they have harmed a marginalized group

White feminists deflect criticism by focusing on the anger or emotions being expressed rather than the issue that is being discussed, invalidating the concerns of marginalized people

White feminists speak over marginalized voices in an attempt to sound “woke”

White feminists get defensive and insist there’s no way they could be a part of the problem because of what they’ve done to help marginalized groups already

White feminists say they don’t see color in an attempt to obscure racial issues that need to be addressed

White feminists center and victimize themselves in conversations about racism, which derails necessary conversations from taking place

White feminists who are white weaponize the intersectionality of their race and gender to avoid accountability

Feminism is not meant to be approached from an individualistic perspective nor is it only about addressing the experiences of privileged white women, it involves addressing the intersections of race, class, gender, sexuality, (dis)ability, and other social identities as well; and it involves addressing how these social identities relate to privilege. Moreover, feminism is not about women upholding complete loyalty to other women because of a shared gender identity, and to claim that it does implies that women should be held to different emotional standards than men. If men are able to dislike and criticize other individual men, real or fictional, without their characters being compromised, why aren’t women granted that same privilege?

It’s clear that SJM set up the ACOTAR world to mirror a patriarchal society, and that the imbalance of power between males and females stems from sexism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom analyze the ACOTAR world through a feminist lens to show how ACOTAR’s patriarchal society, to which the mating bond is innately tied, contributes to female oppression and limits their agency. When choice and free will are emphasized as part of Elain’s arc, they imply that Elain, through the mating bond, experiences female oppression under ACOTAR’s patriarchal society because of her identity as a female with that identity being the focal point of her oppression in the world. Elain is one of the most privileged characters in the ACOTAR world: she’s High Fae; she’s the sister of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, which gives her access to wealth and political influence because of that connection; she’s able-bodied; she was magically blessed by the Cauldron; and she lives in Velaris, a place that grants females autonomy and power because of the beliefs of Rhysand and Feyre. Arguments in the Elriel fandom trivialize female oppression in the ACOTAR world because they disregard the fact that Elain’s privileges prevent her from experiencing female oppression in the same way that other marginalized females in the world do. The mating bond being one such example because those around Elain are not forcing the bond on her, instead they’re allowing Elain to reach a decision about the bond for herself; a privilege that other marginalized females in the world probably wouldn’t have. Just because Elain has endured hardships in her life and is a female in a patriarchal society, they do not erase the privileges she holds within the ACOTAR world. The failure to include Elain’s privileges in discussions about Elain being a female in a patriarchal society feeds into white feminist ideologies because white feminism operates from a very narrow perspective; it doesn’t take other intersecting identities into account when it examines gender oppression, leaving no room for discussions about privilege (or lack thereof) in relation to those intersecting identities. When discussing oppression in hierarchical societies, it’s imperative that privilege is also included in the conversation because privilege and oppression are not mutually exclusive; they equally affect the ways in which people navigate those societies through their social identities.

Rather than attributing Elain’s uncomfortability to her new life as a Fae female or the mating bond itself and her trauma to the Cauldron, the King of Hybern, or Ianthe, they’re placed on Lucien to cast his character in a negative light. Moreover, fandom discussions portray Lucien as a possessive character to further emphasize Elain’s discomfort despite the inaccuracy of this characterization in canon. Arguments in the Elriel fandom play into racial biases when it comes to Lucien (a male character of color) because they mischaracterize his character in order to victimize Elain (a white female character), placing her character in the role of the white damsel in distress. In Western society, the concept of womanhood has been conceptualized from a Eurocentric perspective with femininity and feminine attributes favoring white women. It’s the idea that a certain type of femininity is only inherent to white women as they are seen as the embodiment of an ideal womanhood. White womanhood has been a symbol of innocence and purity, and white women have been viewed as fragile beings in need of protection. The reason white womanhood functions within white supremacy is because it’s the same idea that has motivated white men to kill and beat black and brown men. The so-called protection of white women has been used as a justification for the horrific violence committed by white men because black and brown men were stereotyped as aggressive and seen as a threat to the virtue of white women. The white damsel in distress trope considered white women as worthy of protection because of their perceived innocence and purity; women of color were not granted that same treatment because they did not fit into the ideal image of womanhood. Over the years, this trope became a means for white women to exercise limited power in a patriarchal society with white women weaponizing their status as the damsel much to the detriment of black and brown men. It’s through the white damsel in distress trope that white supremacy sustains its dominance in Western society. The misrepresentation of characters of color in fandom, the dismissal of their importance to the overall story, and using them as tools in arguments centered around white characters are the foundation of fandom racism; they’re examples of how racism moves silently in fandom spaces. Instead of examining their behavior and taking constructive criticism from fans of color, white fans will often double down on their bigotry and center their uncomfortability in the conversation when confronted with their complicity in fandom racism. White fans expect fans of color to swallow fandom racism in its many forms in order to not ruin the experience of fandom, dismissing the fact that racism is prevalent in nearly every aspect of society. This mentality ensures that no one is held accountable for the harm they caused and alienates fans of color in fandom spaces.

To reiterate what I mentioned in my first think piece: terms like “oppression”, “the right to choose”, “feminist”, “feminism”, “anti-feminist”, “anti-feminism”, “internalized misogyny”, “misogyny”, “misogynist”, “sexist”, “sexism”, “racist”, “racism”, “classist”, “classism”, “discrimination”, and “patriarchy” are all used in specific ways to draw attention to the plight of marginalized people and challenge those who deny the existence of systems of oppression. Yet these words and their meanings can be twisted to attack, exclude, and invalidate people with differing opinions on any given topic. When social justice and feminist terms are thrown around antagonistically and carelessly to push a personal agenda, it becomes clear that these terms are being used to engage in disingenuous discourse and pursue personal validation rather than being used out of any deep-seated conviction to dismantle systemic oppression. Being an ally, activist, or feminist is not an identity, it’s a practice. It requires: ongoing self-reflection; holding ourselves accountable; listening to marginalized people; educating ourselves; dismantling implicit biases; challenging those around us who are exhibiting problematic behaviors; and action behind our words.

It’s important to be aware of the language that is used within the fandom when defending or critiquing characters and ships. It’s also important to question how an argument is framed and why it’s framed the way that it is to critically examine the intent behind that argument: is it used as a tool to push a personal agenda that reinforces problematic behaviors, or is it used as an opportunity to share, learn, enlighten, and educate?

-----------

Tagging: @spell-cleavers @bookofmirth @m0bulidae @ilya-boltagon

#elain archeron #elriel #acotar fandom #acotar: fandom critical

336 notes · View notes

enthusiasticharry · 4 years ago

Text

Second Best

summary: you and Harry meet at a party, but he seems to take more interest in your sister than in you, and you won't be Second Best.

author’s note: bonjour mes chéris!! this is the first instalment of hannah being the history/french student she is and merging all three of her worlds and creating her own little fictional one. this is based off of lousia may alcott’s little women (one of may favourite books ever) but with my own little twist on it. this is set in the 1860′s during the civil war but i haven't made it too historical at all. i have done all of the translations myself and even though i'm semi-fluent i still make mistakes so if you spot any let me know. this is so long so i'll shut up now, thanks for all the support bye!! <3

word count: 16k of good old fashioned marriage talk (there’s a lot of it, its all they spoke about tbf??), fluff, angst and a lil’ smut. there is marriage and children at the end (woo, exciting!) not proofread because my eyes are already asleep.

masterlist | speak to me about second best here!

“Stand up straight, don’t slouch. You have a tendency to do so, and these people will not tolerate it.” You sister, Lizzie, says as she pushes her arm between yours, walking you towards the fancy house in front of the two of you, “Whatever you do, don’t speak about your art at all. Nobody can stop you once you’ve started. Do speak if you’re spoken too, and if you’re asked to dance, dance.”

You shake your head, “But I don’t want to dance.”

“You will dance.” Lizzie says again, squeezing your arm slightly, “You may find yourself a husband if you act proper enough.”

“I shouldn’t have to act proper just to find a husband, Lizzie.” You scoff, shaking your head, “If they don’t love me, oil paints and all, then I don’t want them. I don’t think I’ll ever find a husband.”

“Oh shush with you.” She says, tapping your arm slightly. It didn’t hurt, but it did cause your lips to part in shock, “How lovely would it be if father returned and you were married! It would make his life.”

“I think he’d have a heart attack.” You mutter, removing your arm from around hers as you stand outside of the door you were going to walk through in mere minutes, “I’m his little girl, you are also, Lizzie. If we were both to be married I’d think we’d kill him off.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking. I truly believe that would happen.” You deadpan.

She scoffs and slips her arm through yours this time, using her free hand to ring the bell. A man wearing one of the fanciest suits you’ve ever seen in your life opens the door, allowing the two of you to slip through. You help Lizzie remove her shawl, whilst she does the same to you. The man hangs them up amongst the array of other jackets. You lips part in shock at the sight of the house you were in, the first thing your eyes falling upon being the large staircase, with paintings littering the walls. For once, you were speechless, unable to control your excitement and want to gawk at the art upon the wall.

“Lizzie!” You gasp, gripping her arm tightly, “Look at the—”

“Don’t you dare say paintings!”

“Lizzie!” You groan again, pulling her arm so that she’s looking your direction, “Look at them.”

“I’m looking at them.” She lifts her eyes to look at the wall you were looking at, where the pieces hung with such grace and elegance, “They don’t seem too spectacular.”

A shocked gasp escapes your lips, “Take that back, Lizzie! They are beautiful!

“If you say so.”

She removes you from your awe of the paintings and pulls you towards the ballroom. There’s people everywhere, the most amount of people you think you’ve ever seen in your life. You watch as they mingle with glasses of Champagne in their hands, the expensive material of their dresses sparkling in the light from the chandelier. Men stood wooing the women before them, flicking their suit jackets and inviting them to dance. The dresses the women were wearing were something out of dreams. You weren’t the biggest fan of dresses, in fact, you lived in trousers around the house, but you couldn’t help feeling embarrassed about your tattered dress. You’ve had the dress for a year or so, and the holes and rips and anything else you’d manage to do to the material could be seen in the light even if you’d fixed it.

“Lizzie!” The call comes from somebody who you don’t recognise, but Elizabeth certainly did and before the syllables of her name could escape your lips, she’s gone. You watch as your sisters whisked away with the crowd, leaving you stood there with no clue as to what to do.

Gripping the material of your dress, you slip yourself to stand by one of the doorways, away from the hustle and bustle of everyone in the room, but close enough for you to be able to watch. Lizzie stands in the middle, just as she always is, with a group of people around her. She was always the centre of attention, the one that everyone loved — you included. You were only a few years younger than her, but you were the only siblings each of you had, so you were close. You had your disagreements, that was certain, but you always came back stronger. You weren’t shocked when you noticed her spinning around holding some man’s hand, dancing away with a smile on her face that always made your insides happy. If she was happy, you were happy.

“Not one for dancing?” You eyes almost bulge out of your head as you hear a voice next to you, a male one at that.

“Oh, um, not really.” You laugh, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, “I’m not a very good dancer. I don’t really like dancing, to be completely honest.”

“Everyone loves dancing.” The man says, and you’re able to get a good look at him. A black suit, with a crisp-white shirt sits upon his torso. His hair was a fluffy brown, a chestnut that you found yourself in awe of. His green eyes ones of masterpieces, better than any art you could ever see upon any wall in any gallery, “I believe you are just lying.”

“I am not.” You shake you head, “My sister told me that if anyone asked me to dance I must say yes, but I have decided that I mustn’t. I have two left feet and anyone who is to ever dance with me will regret it, I know of it.”

“I highly doubt that.” He shakes his head, sipping from the glass he had in his hand, “Your sister shouldn’t force you do dance either.”

“Oh.” You shake your head, “Lizzie isn’t forcing me to dance, she just wants the best for me. Dancing is how people meet.”

“It’s how we met.” He says after a few seconds.

You let out a small chuckle, running your tongue over your lips slightly, “Sir, pardon me, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Harry.” He smiles, “M’names Harry.”

“Oh!” You exclaim again, “Harry Styles! You’ve just moved in next door with your father! Mother saw you the other day.”

“You must be—”

“—YN YLN.” You hold your hand out for him to shake, immediately shaking your head and pulling it back, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Styles, Lizzie forgot to remind me to not shake hands. It’s not very ladylike, I know.”

“It’s perfectly okay.” He holds his hand out, and you bite your lip and shake it, “And please don’t call me Mr. Styles. I’m not my father. Call me Harry.”

“Harry.” The name slips from your lips, “I think Lizzie would die if she saw me talking to you.”

“If I may, would you show me Lizzie?” He asks and you nod.

You nod and turn back to the crowd, fluttering your eyes across all of the people in hopes to spot your sister. She was wearing red, the colour which suited her the most in your opinion, so she wasn’t too hard to spot. She was dancing in the middle of the room with a man with blonde hair, a suit similar to the one that Harry was wearing upon his body. She looked happy, and the sight caused a smile to flutter across your lips.

“She’s in the middle there.” You say, nodding your head in the girls direction, “The one in the red dress.”

You turn to look at Harry and once his eyes fall upon your sister, you can tell that the whole world stops around him. His lips part, his eyes widen and if you look closely you can see the reflection of the red dress in his eyes. You’re unsure how long he’s staring at her, but you’re staring at him for the exact same amount of time.

“It’s a. . .” He fumbles with his words after a few seconds, lifting his hands to scratch the back of his neck, “It’s a beautiful dress.”

“It is.” You agree, “Mother let her save up her allowance to buy the material. I should’ve done the same but I spent mine on paints.”

“You paint?” His raises his eyebrow, finally looking back at you.

You nod, “I love to.”

“Then you have every right to spend your money on paints.” He says, and you try to hide the heat that falls upon your cheeks, “You dress is perfectly swell

“It’s not beautiful though.”

“It’s swell, YN.” He reminds you again, “I’m sure you’ll get a beautiful dress at some point.”

Then you’ve lost him. You’re not surprised, though. Everyone prefers Lizzie to you, it’s just how it’s always been. You watch the back of him as he walks towards your sister, taking the world in his stride behind him as he does so. You watch as she courtesy’s for the man she has just danced with, and before Lizzie can go anywhere, she’s scooped up to dance with Harry. Maybe if you had bought the Emerald material your mother had wanted you to, Harry would be dancing with you right now instead of Lizzie. Maybe if you hadn’t been so against dancing in the first place he might’ve asked you to dance.

No, you wouldn’t stoop to that level for a man of all people. If Harry didn’t want to dance with you, ‘swell dress’ and all then you weren’t going to change yourself, no matter how much you wanted to, for a mere man.

“YN!” Lizzie delightful glee of your name came after their dance had died down. Lizzie came bouncing towards you, a just as bashful Harry following behind her, “Harry has offered to take us home in his carriage!”

“Now?” You ask, your heart hopeful that they’d both say yes.

Lizzie turns to look at Harry who shrugs his shoulders slightly, “If the two of you want to, we can.”

“Oh no.” Lizzie places her hand upon his shoulder, “We couldn’t dare take you away from the festivities. We will wait until you’re finished.”

“I’m ready to leave myself, Miss YLN.” He says to Lizzie, the same heat falling upon her cheeks as you had felt earlier.

“Please. Call me Lizzie.”

“Okay, Lizzie.” He grins, “I’ll just go fetch the carriage, see you by the front door?”

Lizzie nods, and you give him a small smile and watch as he walks towards the door. You try not to stare as he shrugs on his coat but it’s hard to, and you know that Lizzie is feeling the exact same way that you are.

“Oh YN.” She gushes, turning to you and placing her hands upon your shoulder, “He’s a perfect gentlemen.”

“Is that so?” You ask, walking towards the door also to fetch your shawl, shrugging it on your shoulders.

“It is.” She copies your actions with her own, “He asked to dance, saying that you were the one to introduce me to him. I can’t thank you enough, dear sister.”

“It’s no issue.” You shake off, turning away from her so that she can’t see the fall in your face, “He seemed to take a fancy to you once I’d pointed you out from the crowd.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.” You nod your head, turning to look at her. Her shawl was scraggly thrown upon her body, probably from how distracted she was, and you lean forward to sort it for her whilst she gleams over your shoulder at nothing. You wonder if this is what it was like to meet your husband, butterflies and distractions from that moment on. It hadn’t happened yet for you, and seeing the way Lizzie was acting, you decided that you didn’t really want it happen, “Couldn’t take his eyes off you, sweet one.”

She squeals and wraps her arms around you, squeezing you slightly. You were happy that she was happy, and you wouldn’t take that away from her.

The door opened, revealing a blushed faced Harry due to the cold outside, “Ready?”

“YN!” Your mother calls from the floor below you, “Can you please come and set the table?”

You groan and remove your paintbrush from your canvas. The day prior you had been given a small sum of money from your Aunt Jemima after visiting and immediately gone to the store in town to pick up some new canvases. It was heaven to receive little amounts of money like these and you almost always spent it on canvases so you wouldn’t have to use paper, which was the cheaper alternative that you had to buy.

“I’m a little busy!” You call back, moving so that you can shout out of your door, “Can you ask Lizzie?”

“She isn’t here!” Your mother calls back and you groan. You place your palette down on the table beside you, as well as your brushes in the pot of water you had brought up with you. You wipe your hands on your apron before pulling it over your head and off your body. You drape it over your bed carefully, being careful to not get anything on the linen.

You bounce down the steps, tucking your hair that falls down in ringlets by the side of your face behind your ear. Entering the kitchen, you place a kiss to your mother’s cheek. She stands over the side, chopping some vegetables that she’s going to bring to boil for your dinner. She greets you with a smile and continues chopping.

“Is Lizzie with Harry?” You ask, placing the cutlery beside each mat on the table, noticing that there were four like there had started to be now.

“Of course she is.” Your mother shakes her head, “They’re always somewhere causing trouble.”

You had to suppress your grin. Lizzie had been the good girl of the family for so long, always doing everything that was asked of her and your were the one who tended to ignore requests so that you could continue doing whatever you wanted to. Since Lizzie had met Harry, that had been completely flipped upside down. You were the good girl of the family who did everything that was asked of you, and Lizzie was the one always getting out of doing things by sneaking off with Harry.

Since the two had met just over two months ago, they had been inseparable. When the two of you weren’t being taught how to read and write by your mother, Lizzie was always somewhere doing something with Harry. The other week he had taken her to the theatre and words couldn’t explain how jealous you were. You and Lizzie did everything together, and you always had done, but now you felt second best to someone who she hardly knew. You knew a part of you was jealous, but you would never admit that. What you did admit to yourself was that you were lonely and missing your sister.

“Is Harry staying for supper?” You ask, filling up the water jug to be placed upon the table.

“I’m guessing so.” Your mother says, moving to bend down by the fire to check on the meat, “It’s ready. Will you go get them? I think they’re by the river.”

You nod your head, moving to the front door to retrieve your shawl and boots. They were always at the river, as though it was there place. You couldn’t understand for the life of you why they’d chosen that place out of all, especially during the winter months. Snow was just around the corner and the two of them decided to spend their days moments away from catching a cold by the river.

The walk itself was five or so minutes through the woods behind your house, watching your step for fallen branches and wild animals. Lizzie was usually the one who brought you to the lake, so it was a given that you hadn’t been in a while.

Once the trees start to disperse, you stand in the middle of the opening to try and spot them. You do, quite quickly in fact. They’re stood by the water, picking up stones every now and then to skim across it, rippling the stillness with their movements. Skimming stones felt like a normal thing to see people doing, but once you watch Lizzie throw her arms around his neck, you feel like a little portion of you crumbles inside. You hadn’t seen them like this before, and you never ever wanted to see them like that again.

“Lizzie!” You call, snapping them out of their trance so that they turn to look at you. Lizzie immediately removes her arms from around Harry’s neck.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No.” You shake your head, “Mother just asked me to collect the two of you for supper.”

The two nod and move around where they were stood to collect their things but you don’t wait for them. Instead, you turn around and walk back towards the house. You can hear them laughing but you refuse to look back, because you know that you won’t be able to handle it. The temperature drops dramatically as you walk back, and you pull your shawl closer to you to help preserve some heat. You had a suspicion that at some point this evening it would start snowing, which you weren’t too unhappy about. It would give you time to finish the painting you started today, and hopefully create some more.

They aren’t close behind you as you reach the door, so you enter and immediately walk towards the table which is looking a lot fuller than it had been.

“Are they coming?” Your mother asks and you nod, sitting down at the table. They enter a few minutes later, Harry greeting your mother with a kiss on the cheek.

The three join you at the table, Harry next to you, Lizzie next to him and your mother sat next to the spare seat — where your father usually sat. You all join hands in saying grace, your hand feeling completely natural sat in his. The way his encompassed yours was something that will be etched into your brain for the rest of the day, and for the days after that. It isn’t a light hold either, it’s a prominent one, and his fingers squeeze yours tightly. You drop your eyes to your plate, unable to look up at him because you’re unsure of what his features may hold.

You don’t say anything over the dinner, you just listen to their words. It’s all about Harry’s time in London, like it usually was, and the rest about what the two had been up too. Your mother asks the dreaded question, and yet again, you ignore any word that comes out of their mouths.

It was inevitable at this point that Harry and Lizzie, at some point, were going to marry each other. You were surprised that Harry hadn’t proposed yet, if you were honest. If soulmates were a thing, no matter how much it pained you to believe, you wouldn’t be surprised if they were the example. You wouldn’t ever say anything to anyone about this, but you do think a part of you wished that was you in her place. You wished that you were the one that he smiled at, held hands with, kissed upon the cheek as she left.

After the dinner had finished, you had returned up to your room and lit your candle, leaning against the window frame to peer outside. They stood by the gate, Harry’s hand holding hers and her hand holding is. They looked as though they truly loved each other and what you expected to be a measly kiss on the cheek like it usually was, wasn’t that at all. A little part of you died inside when you saw him lean forward and place a kiss upon her lips, his hand lifting up to rest against her cheek. You managed to draw yourself away from the window after you’d watched for a while or so, slipping under your sheets and into your linen, turning so that you’re facing the wall. A few minutes or so later, you hear the door open and the rustling of clothes and you suspect Lizzie gets ready for bed. You try not cry but you can already feel the tears starting to fall down your face.

“YN.” You hear the soft whisper of your voice over the crackle of the candle that was still on in the room, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” You manage out through the hesitation within your voice.

After a few seconds, and a slight giggles escaping her lips, “He kissed me, YN.”

“Oh.” You try not to sound like you’re upset, “Are you going to marry him?”

“He hasn’t asked me.” She’s quick to say, “But I think he might.”

A month or so later, you’re stood in front of a carriage, one that sits Lizzie inside on her way to Etiquette Lessons. Every young lady in the village had to go to them when they reached a certain age to make sure that they are properly prepared for how to look after their husbands when the day comes. You weren’t quite at the age yet, but Lizzie was.

You had given her a hug, and watched your mother kiss her cheeks and hug her, but you now found yourself watching something that you had seen so many times now. Harry and Lizzie stood by the door of the open carriage, her hands in his as they whisper and chuckle at whatever they’re talking about. You can’t hear what they say, but you can tell it’s emotional from the tears that are running down his face.

You mother wraps her arm around your shoulder, squeezing your shoulder. You wondered if she knew. You hadn’t said anything to her, but she always seemed to know what was going on in your life even if you hadn’t told her anything.

Harry helped Lizzie into the carriage, and closed the door for her before coming to stand next to you. Your eyes fluttered up to look at him for a second, but he didn’t even look anywhere near you, he was watching the carriage as it left. The love of his life was leaving in it, so I’m not surprised he did so.

“Mother.” You say quickly once the carriage had turn off the path, “Can I return and paint?”

“Of course you can.” She places a hand on one of your cheeks and a kiss to the other, “Take Harry with you. He’ll need the company.”

You turn to look at him, and he just shrugs, so you nod. You return back to the house with Harry trailing behind you, looking like a lost puppy. The way his eyes seemed to droop, as well as his hair, all hinted to the fact that he was actually upset that she was leaving. He follows you into the room, and sits on the end of Lizzie’s bed whilst you pulled your paints out of your drawer.

“I’ve only been in here once before.” He says after a few seconds, running his hand over the linen of her sheets, “You were out. Something about Aunt Jemima.”

“Oh.” You start to face place some of your paints upon your palette, “I read to her, sometimes, and she pays me so I can buy paints. I’m hoping that one day she’ll take me to Europe with her.”

“Europe?” He asks, “You want to go?”

“More than anything.” You sigh, swirling your brush in the green paint you had just placed upon your palette, “More specifically I’m hoping she takes me France. I’ll be able properly practice my art then.”

“Can you not do that here?”

You hesitate for a second, hovering your brush over the canvas slightly, “I’ll be better suited if I go there. People will care more about my work.”

“It’s beautiful work.” He says after a few seconds, “I don’t know how France would change that.”

You think for a second about how to explain this to him, “Think of it like Etiquette school. The girls go and return as better wives than if they hadn’t gone. They would’ve been good wives, but not as good without the school.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“My art is good without France, just like the wives are without Etiquette class, but they are better with it. My art will be better with France.”

You turn around to see him nod his head, “I think I understand.”

“A part of it is also me wanting to leave this town.” You say, turning back around so that you can place your paintbrush back upon your canvas.

“I cannot fault you for that.” He says, and you turn to him again, only to see that he’s laid back upon the bed, a hand over his eyes, “Sometimes I wish I could leave.”

“Why don’t you?” You ask, “If one of us had the beings necessary to leave it would be you?”

“Beings necessary?” He pushes himself up on his elbow so that he’s looking directly at you, “And what would be those necessary beings?”

“Money, for one.” You say, moving so that you’re sat on your bed, looking straight at him, “Carriages. Knowledge of the world. The furthest I’ve ever gone is the neighbouring town and that was to drop something off for my mother.”

“Why don’t you leave then?”

You chuckle, raising your eyebrows, “I plan on it.”

“Ice Skating.” Harry says as he walks through your bedroom door, holding two pairs of ice skates in your hands.

“Harry!” You exclaim, placing your hand upon your chest at the shocked sight of him, “I could’ve been indecent and you would have never known!”

“But you aren’t.” He tips his head to the side, “Ice Skating. We’re going ice skating. The lake has frozen over and it’s perfect.”

“Are we now?” You ask, placing your palette down upon the table next to your easel, “Is Mr. Styles bored of his mansion.”

“I’m going to loose my mind.” He drops down on your sisters bed, the skates clattering to the floor as he does so, “Please come ice skating with me.”

“Harry.” You sigh, pulling your painting apron off, “I don’t even know how to ice skate.”

“Then I will teach you.” He says.

After a few seconds of contemplation, you nod your head, “I’ll do it if you let me paint you.”

“Deal.”

Over the past two weeks you and Harry had grown close. Not as close as Harry and your sister, but close enough for you to class him as one of your good friends. The two of you had started to do everything together, similarly to him and Lizzie but with some barriers. You hugged each other but you certainly weren’t as touchy deeply as they were with each other. You couldn’t do it to your sister, so you avoided doing anything that would be seen as wrong.

You did feel sorry for Harry. He had told you that he had sent three letters to Lizzie during this time and she hadn’t even replied to one. You weren’t quite sure why, but that was quite despicable on her part. The poor man was making himself sick with how much he was worrying about her, and you were the one who had seen it, and been the one to try and get him out of it. One of the things that you had begged him to let you do was paint him, but he kept rejecting your proposal. Instead, he told you that he liked to enjoy watching you paint rather than having you paint him.

You were excited to say the least that he had agreed to let you paint him, and you certainly weren’t going to miss that opportunity.

“Slow down.” You call to Harry, who’s around ten strides a head of you as you waddle your way with your dress in your hands through the snow, “I can’t keep up with you.”

“Walk faster then.” He says, turning to look at you with a grin across his face.

You groan and try to pick up the pace, nearly slipping a few times on some particularly icy parts of the ground but you make it to the lake in once piece. Harry passes you the skates he had picked up for you and you thank him for passing them to you. You kick your shoes off and fasten the skates, just as he does the same.

“Stay away from the middle.” He says, “It’s thinner than the edge.”

“I think you’re forgetting something.” You say as you try to stable yourself on the blades, “I have not idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s like walking, but on ice.” He deadpans and you resist the urge to roll your eyes, “I’ll let you hold my hand if you want.”

He holds his hand out and without really thinking you place your hand in his, allowing him to guide you onto the ice. His hand was cold, but so was yours, but having his in yours sent little flames across the entirety of your body.

At first you were unsteady on your feet, and you’re sure that you could’ve nearly broke Harry’s hand with how tightly you were squeezing it. He chuckled and made sure that you were continuously upright. After five minutes or so, you found the swing of what you were doing, and managed to move forward without any wobbles.

“I’m letting go of you.”

“No!” You exclaim, gripping his hand tighter so that he wouldn’t be able to pull away from you, “I’ll fall.”

“You won’t fall.” He chuckles, trying to pull his hand away again. “I will.” You shake your head, “Please, don’t.”

“You’re not going to fall.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

He somehow manages to release his hand from yours and skate backwards away from you, leaving you on your own. You hold your hands out, straightening them as though that’s going to help balance you out. With the little momentum you had left, you moved forward slightly until you came to a halt, where you pick up one of your feet to push forward and move forward. You manage to do it, without falling which surprises you.

“Harry!” You exclaimed, beaming at him, “I’m doing it.”

“I told you that you would.” He smiles, tilting his head to the side, “Shall we?”

“We shall.” You smile, and the two of you continue off across the ice.

Everything seems to be going well and good until you manage to catch your blade in a slit in the ice and go tumbling forward, going over on your ankle as you do so. You drop to the ground with a thud, a throbbing immediately falling upon your ankle.

“Harry. . .” His name escapes your lips through the the hiss of pain you let out.

“Are you injured?” He’s quick to ask, skating over to you as quickly as he possible could.

“My ankle.” You say, “I think I’ve sprained it.”

“You probably have.” He’s quick to say, “Lift up slightly, I’ll carry you back home.”

You shake your head, “You don’t have to do that.”

“What are you going to?” He laughs, “Crawl?”

“I might.”

“You wouldn’t make it home for Christmas.” He bends down, “Come here.”

You lift your hand up and wrap your hands around his neck, allowing him to place his hands underneath your knees. He looks at you with a small smile on his face and skates back to the edge of the lake, placing you on the floor for a second so that you could both remove your skates.

“How did you get so good at skating?” You ask, returning to your prior position his arms.

“Home.” He says, “In England. It’s cold year round there, and the lakes are often frozen. My mother taught me.”

“You don’t talk about you mother.”

“She died when I was young.” He says, not looking at you the way that he had been, “I don’t remember a lot about her.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t.” He shakes his head, “You were merely curious.”

You drop your eyes to the white around the two of you, “My mother says that my curiosity may get me in trouble one of these days.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He chuckles, “But that’s something that makes you, you.”

Without really thinking, you say the next few words, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t me.”

He shakes his head, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You nod your head, “There’s nothing special about me. I’m no Lizzie YLN.”

“No.” He shakes his head, “You aren’t Lizzie, but you are YN. This world doesn’t need anymore Lizzie’s in it.”

“I thought maybe you’d have a thousands Lizzie’s if you could.”

“I wouldn’t need a thousand if I could have the one.”

“You do have you.”

He shakes his head, “I told her before she went that there was no need for Etiquette classes because to be my wife all I wanted was her. Lizzie wanted to go to get the best experience she possibly could.”

“You respected that?”

He looks directly over you again, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“We all know what actually happens at Etiquette classes, Harry.”

Harry only nods his head once, not saying anything else. He still carries you home, one of his arms rested comfortable under his knee whilst the other rests behind your back. You hoped you hadn’t offended him, but there was no way for you to know.

Etiquette classes, as a whole, were to teach young women the proper ways of being a wife during the day, and through the night thy would attend balls and such. The balls were so the women could hopefully meet eligible, rich men who they were hopefully going to marry. If you were already meant to marry someone else, it didn’t seem like a right thing to go to this place where the people were always after one thing.

As your feelings grew for Harry, you wondered whether Lizzie’s had diminished and that was why she decided to go to the classes. You certainly shouldn’t want that, but you couldn’t lie and say that a part of you did.

“Mrs. YLN?” You mother comes running towards the two of you at Harry’s call of her name, “We’ve had a little accident.”

“What have you done now?”

“I went over on my ankle.” You deadpan.

“Harry will you get me some ice?” He nodded and moved towards the kitchen whilst you mother freed your ankle and rested it upon her knee.

He came back with ice wrapped in a cloth and passed it to your mother who placed it upon your ankle.

“Thank you for bringing her home, Harry.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“I shouldn’t.” He shakes his head, “Thank you for the offer, though. But I should be returning home.”

“Pass my love onto your father.”

“I will.”

He throws you once last look, one that you can’t quite pinpoint the emotion of. After a few seconds he drops his eyes, and walks out of the door without looking back. You turn to look at your mother, who’s got a skeptical look upon her face as she looks at you.

“What is it?”

“Does he know?”

“Does he know what?”

A small smile crosses her lips, “That you love him.”

You lips part in shock before you clamp them shut, “I. . . I feel no such thing.”

“You had just lied to me, child.” She shakes her head, “I know love when I see it.”

“Mother.” You shake your head, “He loves Lizzie.”

“I know.” She places her hand upon your cheek, “You’ll be the one to pick up the pieces when she breaks his heart.”

Lizzie was due to return home today, on Christmas Eve of all days, and the house certainly looked as though it was ready for her.

You, your mother and Harry had spent quite a while this year decorating the house to be as Christmassy as possible. The thing that you still think about to this day was jumping on Harry’s back so he could lift you up to reach the star, your mother smiling as she watched the two of you.

The carriage returned at around midday. You were stood next to Harry at the end of the garden, with you mother next to him. The carriage came to a halt and the driver was the one to open the door, Lizzie immediately tumbling out and throwing her arms around your mother who had taken a few steps forward.

She didn’t look like Lizzie, in your opinion. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun, the dress upon her body looking more expensive than the ones that she had gone with. The material was a blushed pink colour, with fancy detailing upon the corset and a puffy skirt that was one of the biggest that you had ever seen in your life. Lizzie looks happy to see your mother to say the least, but you’re quite surprised when she moves to you next instead of Harry.

“Hello!” She throws her arms around your shoulder, placing her head on your shoulder whilst you placed yours on hers, the material of her fancy coat hitting your cheek. You hadn’t seen anything quite like it before, never mind felt anything quite like it before, “I’ve missed you so much. How are you?”

“Well, thank you.” You pull away. clearing your throat and wiping your hands upon your skirt slightly, “The same old. It’s you who I should be asking that question to.”

She smiles and pulls away, holding her small bag close to herself as she looks at the person stood next to you. Harry looks as though he’s about to cry, and so does Lizzie if you’re being brutally honest. The two of them needed to be alone, and you understood that. When your mother motioned you to follow her back into the house, you didn’t hesitate with your movements, following her back into the house.

“I feel as though dinner might be late tonight.” You mother says as she closes the door behind you, fumbling to take off her scarf, “I feel like they might be out there for a while. Why don’t you go up and finish your painting?”

You nod your head, not wanting to say anything. You remove your outdoor gear and race up the stairs. You know you shouldn’t, but you immediately run to the window to see whether you can see the two of them, but you’re unable to.

Lizzie looked like a different person, but she sounded like Lizzie when she opened her mouth. The clothes that she wore might have changed but she was still your sister, the same sister who had the man you loved following her around like a lost puppy. Lizzie was the same Lizzie as she always had been, and that meant that she probably did feel the same way about Harry as she did before she left. There was a selfish streak in you that wished that wasn’t the case, and she had completely forgot about her feelings for Harry and had met someone else, but until you properly had a conversation with the girl, you couldn’t be too sure that was the case. You couldn’t be sure either that if that had happened, Harry would want you in that way.

You found yourself unable to paint, so you dropped down upon your bed and sat with your back against the wall, watching the outside world as your thoughts danced around within your head. You found the thoughts spiralling through your head that you were still a young woman at the end of the day, one who could have a line of men wanting to marry you but you instead found yourself second best to your sister, and that shouldn’t be happening. No matter how much you loved the man, or had grown to be accustomed to his company, being second best wasn’t something that you had set your heart on being, and you wouldn’t be for him.

You were the first YLN he had met, yet he had chosen your sister first and he was going to lay in that bed now.

“YN!” You mother called from downstairs, “They’re here.”

Christmas Eve dinner, to say the least, was one that you’d never forget. Harry looked as though he was either going to burst out crying or kill someone at any moment, Lizzie looked exhausted and your mother and yourself were sat in the middle of the two of you trying to make ends meet of what had happened. Harry’s eyes caught yours once, but he was quick to flutter them away and take another forkful of vegetables and place it in his mouth.

“Lizzie, you haven’t told YN and I anything about your time away.” Your mother started, probably not the best topic of conversation but one that would split up the silence hopefully, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did.” She wipes her mouth upon her napkin, “I had an amazing time. Met some amazing people. Actually, there is one person that I’ve invited for you to meet for the new year.”

“You have?” Your mother raises her eyebrow, “How wonderful.”

“His name is Theodore.”

That’s all it takes for Harry’s fork to clatter to the plate, his chair screech across the floor and his body to stand up.

“I’m, uh, truly sorry Mrs. YLN.” He says, “The meal was lovely but I’m not feeling very well so I think it’s best that I go home.”

“Are you alright?”

“I will be.” He nods his head, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck, “So sorry again, have an amazing Christmas.”

“You too, Harry.”

Once the doors closed, Lizzie’s the next person to drop her cutlery and sulk off upstairs. The slamming of the bedroom door shakes the whole house. You place another bit of potato into your mouth and slowly chew whilst looking at your mother.

She sighs, “Will you go check on your sister for me?”

“But—”

“You’ll get to see him later, don’t worry.” She says, “I’m going to plate him and his father some food. God knows they won’t eat without it, and you can take it over for me.”

You nod your head, taking a sip from your glass of water before standing up and making your way upstairs. You cam hear Lizzie’s cries before you open the door, and you know that its because of what had obviously happened before the two of them had come to lunch. You push the door open, to see her laid on her bed face down, her head deep within her pillow. You push the door closed behind you and back up until your back is directly placed upon the solid wood.

“Are you engaged to him?” You say, looking down at your shoes so that you don’t have to make eye contact with her.

You can hear the bed creek beneath her as she moves, but you still don’t look up, “To who?”

“To Theodore.”

“No.” You lift your eyes up just as she shakes her head, “I’m not.”

“But you want to be.”

“What makes you think that?”

You scoff and shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest, “You forget that I’m your sister, Lizzie. I know you better than you know yourself.”

After a few seconds, she speaks again, “He’s going to propose.”

“He is?” You take a few steps forward until you’re sat upon your bed, directly across from her, “Why, Lizzie?”

“We’re in love.” She quickly says, her eyes bulging out the way that they do when she starts to get upset, “When you’re in love, you get married YN.”

“I thought you were in love with Harry.”

“I love Harry.” She says, shaking her head, “But I’m not in love with him. I love him as a best friend.”

“He loves you.”

“I know.” She shakes her head, “I just didn’t love him the way I love Theodore. He’s just so kind, and so gentle and he makes me feel things that I just haven’t felt before.”

The way that she stands up immediately makes your mind immediately fall to a place that you know isn’t where it should be. Your eyes widen and she looks at you the exact way that you know that what you thought is right.

“Lizzie.” You voice comes out as a whisper, and you shake your head, “You didn’t.”

“I love him, YN.” She shakes her head, “And he loves me.”

“We always said we’d save that until marriage.” You shake your head, “You told me that’s what you have to do.”

She sits down on the bed next to you, reaching so that her hands are placed upon both of your shoulders, “And you do. Promise me you will, YN.”

“I will.” You quickly say, “I promise, I will.”

“Good.” She sighs, dropping her hands from your shoulders, “You will not end up like me, I won’t let you.”

“How have you ended up?”

She looks at you with tears in her eyes, “I think I’m pregnant, YN.”

You were holding a basket of food that your mother had collated for Harry and his father. You had knocked upon the door once and now you were stood, waiting for someone to open the door and let you in from the cold. The temperature had certainly dropped since you had been outside earlier, but you weren’t surprised at that fact.

“Miss. YLN.” Harry’s father opens the door. You’ve only ever met him once, and from what Harry has told you, he’s quite a cold man, “May I ask why you’re here?”

“Uh, my mother sent you and Harry some food over.” You say, holding up the basket within your hands, “I just came to deliver it.”

“Please.” He says, “Come in.”

You step through the threshold of the house, entering one that was three times the size of your own but just as empty as yours.

“I’ll take that to the kitchen for you.” He says, holding his hands out so you can place the basket within them, “H is upstairs, in the library. Third door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

The stairs themselves were probably bigger than your entire house, and as you ran your hand across the wood of the banister you couldn’t believe how expensive it felt beneath your fingers. You followed Mr. Styles’ instruction and walked along the grand hallway until you found the third door on the left. It was slightly ajar, so you placed your hand upon the wood and push it open, the door creaking as you did so.

Your mouth drops open at the sight of the room in front of you. When Mr. Styles said Library you thought it may have been a small room with bookshelves in it, but it wasn’t, it was a full library at the most. It was full of the most books you’ve ever seen anywhere, floor to ceiling bookshelves. You couldn’t help your want to run your fingers across every single cover.

You spot Harry sat at the window, his knees bent and a book placed open upon them. You cross your hands in front of you, taking a few steps towards Harry. The sound of your shoes against the wooden floor notifies Harry that you’re there, and he lifts his eyes to look at you.

“Are you okay?” He asks, closing the book that he had open.

You take a few more steps towards him, sitting at the opposite side of windowsill to him, “I should be asking you that question.”

He chuckles, lifting his leg up again so that it’s on the windowsill, “I’m okay.”

“I don’t believe that.” You shake your head, coping him so your feet are up also and you’re facing him, “Tell me truthfully. How are you?”

He shakes his head, dropping his eyes down to his knees, “She doesn’t want to marry me.”

“You asked?”

“Today.” He nods, looking back at you again, “I had a ring.”

After a few seconds you whisper, “Can I see it?”

“See what?”

“The ring.”

He opens his jacket and fumbles around in the inside pocket, bringing out a small blue velvet box which he throws towards you. You catch it, nearly dropping it but you manage to keep it in your hands. You raise your eyebrow at him and he offers a small smile, one that you knew wasn’t the most truthful of how he’s feeling.

You open the box and see a beautiful ring in the box. The ring itself was silver, but the thing that drew your and probably Harry to it was the gem. It looked to be diamond, not a large one at that but one that was a lovely sized. The light from the window caused the diamond to glimmer slightly, a gasp escaping from your lips.

“Harry.” You shake your head, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought so too.” He says, running his thumb across his bottom lip before shrugging his shoulders, “Lizzie didn’t think so.”

“It’s not because of you, Harry.” You quickly say, “Nothing to do with you.”

“It must’ve been, YN.” He says, “You’re sister doesn’t want to marry me. Me! Not anyone else.”

“She can’t marry you, Harry.” You say, the tears starting to collect in your eyes, “I don’t know whether if situations were different she would marry you, but in this situation it isn’t your fault. I can promise you that.”

You watch a tear fall down is cheek, “Has she met someone else?”

You look away, pursing your lips and closing your eyes to try and stop the tears from falling down your cheeks, “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“Is it Theodore? Is she engaged to him?”

“She will be.” You say, standing up and moving so that you’re in front of him, placing your hand upon his knee, “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“She’s my sister.”

“You’re not in charge of her.”

You reach forward and place your hand upon his cheek, using your thumb to delicately wipe the next year that falls out of his eye. His tilts his head slightly so that it’s nicely rested within your hand, and you smile at him, which his returns.

“Did she ever love me?”

“She did.” You say, nodding your head, “She loves you. She’s just not in love with you.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

You shake your head, “I don’t think anything will at this point. You just need to wait, time will heal. I’ll be here for you.”

“I think.” He says, dropping his knees so that he can move closer to you, “I think you might be able to.”

“Whatever you need, H.” You say.

He moves closer, you can feel him closer to you, but you certainly hadn’t expected for him to place his lips upon yours. The kiss at first in gentle, his lips pressed against yours so gently that at the start you couldn’t quite feel him upon you. Then it’s more urgent, with his hand placed upon your cheek, his lips moving against yours at a quick pace.

“H.” You whisper, pulling away slightly as he removes his lips from yours, using them to dance down your cheek, to your jaw and then resting against the skin of your neck.

He removed his hand from your cheek and hooking it underneath your thigh so he can manoeuvre you to be on his lap.

This is the first time you’ve ever kissed a boy, and you can’t believe that the boy of all people is Harry Styles. You hadn’t been this close to anyone before, straddled across his lap with your knees each side of his waist, your skirt bunched up at your waist. The second you were comfortable, his lips attached to your again, his hands rested upon the small of your back. A feeling brewed within you, causing your hips to involuntary buck towards his. You felt him smile against your lips, and that was when you snapped out of the daze that you were in.

Without really thinking, you pulled away and clambered off of his lap. He looked flushed as you pulled away, his hair a little messy and his lips red from the kissing.

“No.” You hold your hand out at him, shaking your head, “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He said, standing up and taking a few steps towards you.

“Because. . . because you just can’t.” You shake your head, lifting your hands to run through your hair.

“I thought.” He looks at you quizzically, “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Maybe I did, a little bit.” You say, shaking your head, “But you didn’t want it to be me. You wanted it to be Lizzie.”

“No.” He shakes his head, holding his hand out as if to touch yours, “I didn’t want that.”

“You did, I know you Harry, and you did.” You sniffle slightly, shaking your head, “I’m not Lizzie and I’ll never be Lizzie, and I’ve accepted that. You’ll never love me like you love Lizzie, and I know that. But, Harry, I won’t be second best. I don’t deserve to be second best.”

“You aren’t second best, YN!”

You can’t help but let out a small sob at his words, “I am, Harry. From the first day that we met each other, Lizzie came first. She was the one who you couldn’t bore your eyes away from, not me. I don’t think I had a full conversation with you until Lizzie left for her classes.”

“That’s not true, YN.” He shakes his head, “I swear to you, it isn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” You take a few steps back, “I won’t be second best.”

With that you turn away, leaving the house and leaving Harry. You couldn’t help the tears that fell as you walked across to your house.

You had made the decision that day that you weren’t to stay in America, that you were going to leave and you knew that Aunt Jemima was the person you knew would be able to help you with that.

Your Aunt Jemima was getting older, but before she died she wanted to go to Europe on last time, more specifically France. She had asked you years ago to be her companion on the trip, and you had agreed, but that was the last time you’d ever spoken to her about it. On Christmas day, you had been the one to bring the idea back up in conversation, dropping in little hints until Aunt Jemima picked up what you were saying. She had been the one to say that in the new year you were going and that you had to be ready to leave on January second with no complaints, not that you had any anywhere.

When Aunt Jemima’s carriage came, you said your farewell’s to your mother and you sister, and Theodore who had proposed to your sister the day prior — and left. As you sat in the carriage, you couldn’t help but look at Harry’s house, and you weren��t shocked to see him at the window watching your every move. You didn’t look away from the window until you could no longer see the house, when you turned to look straight in front of your, your gloved hands resting upon your knee.

“Forget him.” Aunt Jemima says, sighing slightly and shaking her head, “He isn’t right for you.”

“I have no idea what you are on about.” You shake your head, looking out of the small carriage window so that you don’t have to look at your Aunt.

“That Styles boy.” She says, and you immediately snap your eyes towards her, “Don’t think I don’t know about the two of you.”

“There isn’t anything to know.” You shake your head at her.

“There obviously is.” She says, “Or you wouldn’t be sulking the way that you are.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“I haven’t brought a liar with me have I ?” She asks, raising her eyebrow at you.

“You haven’t.” She shakes her head, “I am sulking, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” She says, pursing her lips, “Are you going to tell me about him, then?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“You’re about to cry, my dear.” She flutters her eyes to you slightly, “I could sense your heartbreak from a mile away. He’s the reason you wanted to come, isn’t he?”

“I wanted to come.” You say, messing with your fingers that sat on your lap, “He just. . . gave me a reason to finally do it.”

“I think he’s the idiot in this situation.” She says after a few seconds and your lips part in shock, before you clamp them back together, “He’s the one who got involved with you and your sister. I wonder if he can even get out of bed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well. First of all your sister broke his heart by not marrying him and marrying that other man, I’ve already forgotten his name.” She shakes her head, “Then you broke his heart by doing whatever you did when you went to go see him on Christmas Eve and you’ve been depressed ever since you left.”

“Who told you that?”

“Who do you think?” Aunt Jemima clicks her tongue and shakes her head, “My daughter told me. Wouldn’t stop crying saying that you’re leaving the love of your life and her other daughters pregnant by some pretentious nobody.”

You run your hand over your forehead, scrunching your face at the fact that everyone knew, “My mother knows too much.”

“Your mother just knows you.” Aunt Jemima shakes her head, “At least you haven’t ruined your life before it’s even begun, with a child of all things.”

“You’re just saying that because you never had children.”

“Why would I want an offspring of myself and some other man?”

“It’s about love, Aunt Jemima.” You can tell that you’re about to cry, so again you turn your head, “When you love someone, that’s something to bring that love into a being.”

“I just don’t see why.” She says, curling up her nose, “But then again, that’s why I’m seventy, unmarried and childless. Don’t think about the Styles boy too much. You’re going to a different country for heavens sake, think of all of the people that you’ll meet whilst you’re there. You’ll forget him soon, my dear, and he’ll forget you. That’s what we’ll hope for anyway.”

The tears do start to fall now, in quick streams down down your cheeks. You couldn’t stop them. Aunt Jemima, no matter how much you despised her sometimes, she certainly knew what she was talking about. You turned your head so that you were looking away from your aunt, looking out of the window and trying your hardest not to let any sobs fall out of your lips.

You did love Harry and if he had stopped your from getting into the carriage, your probably would. If he had asked to marry you, you probably would have said yes without any hesitation but at the same time you also felt as though you were second best, and that wasn’t a place that you ever thought you’d be.

No matter how much you loved him, and yearned to be with him, you knew for the sake of your sanity and for the sake of staying as a strong independent woman. You were taught from being young from your mother that no matter how many people try to say that all you were worth is more than just being the wife of some rich man. Your mother also said that you had a talent and that you had to use it.

France was going to be the place that you were going to use your talents, and be a better person for doing so.

Four Years Later

“Pierre.” You say, smiling at the man as he held his hand out to you, “Puis-je vous demander ce que vous faites?” May I ask what you’re doing?

“Je demande à la plus belle fille de la pièce de danser.” You can’t help the blush that falls across your cheeks. You nod your head and slip your hand into his, standing up and following him into the middle of the dance floor. I’m asking the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.

The music changes around them to one of the most popular songs in Paris to dance to. He lifts his arm up, just as you do to his, and start the movements in the same way that everyone else in the room had.

You had arrived in France with Aunt Jemima four years ago, fresh faced after the journey and ready to start your new life there. At first it took a while for you to get used to the new life that you now lived. Aunt Jemima’s French house, if it was even possible, was bigger that her house back home with more nooks and crannies to explore but more importantly, a bigger garden that you could paint every corner of. The main thing that you focused on during the first few months of your arrival was settling in and learning the language which you knew would be hard, but it was something that you needed to do.

Pierre was the person who had helped you do that.

Aunt Jemima had hired him to be your French tutor. She said that he was one of the best for you, and that he certainly was. You learnt the basics within the first few months until you were able to finally communicate with the people around you in their native language. At first, you despised Pierre and his pretentious way of making you feel small, but here you were, fours years later, dancing with him and waiting for his proposal at some point.

Aunt Jemima would be turning within her grave if she knew you were planning to marry Pierre. Even though she hired him when you first arrived to teach you, but she found him incompetent to do anything else. She could tell that you were falling for him, and told you multiple times to not settle for him but you were ignoring her.

If you listened to every one who your Aunt Jemima told you to not settle for, you’d never marry at all.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” He asks, in English this time, his accent seeping through with every word that he spoke.

“Plans?” You raise your eyebrow, “To paint, yes, but I suppose I can clear my schedule.”

After learning the French language, that was when you had started your painting classes. You started taking everything in, listening to every single word the teacher said to you until you were good enough to start on your own. The first time one of your pieces was shown in an exhibit, people loved it, and you found yourself creating more and more works and creating more and more links with people around.

“Do.” He says, nodding his head, “Je veux t’emmener quelque part. Quelque part spécial.” I want to take you somewhere. Somewhere special.

You bite your lip, nodding your head whilst trying to suppress the large smile that’s ready to cross your entire face.

Pierre was a hopeless romantic, always showering you in large gestures that caused your heart to flutter within your chest. He hadn’t kissed you, and even though you knew that you knew deep down that you shouldn’t compare it, you found yourself not feeling the way that you did the last time you found yourself with a man.

At twenty-three you were late to get married, and if you ever wanted kids you would have to do so quicker than anything you had ever done in your life because you knew that your days were going to start become numbered.

“What time should I be ready?”

“I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

The song ends, your courtesy and he bows and that’s when you walk back towards the table you were sat at, picking up your glass of Champagne and taking a sip.

“YN.” You stop drinking immediately, nearly choking on the liquid that you had already started to sip. You know that voice anywhere, etched into your brain from when you were just a mere eighteen year old with a heart twice the size of the one you had now, “As I live and breathe.”

You turn around, immediately seeing a man that you had left years ago stood in front of you. He looked exactly the same as when you knew him all those years ago, except his features were a tad harder and his hair curler that it was before if it was even possible which you weren’t too sure about.

“Harry.” You swallow the lump in your throat, placing your glass down on the table and turning so that you were facing him, “It’s been a while.”

“It certainly has.” He says, lifting his own glass to his lips, “You look good. Happy.”

“I am.” You nod your head. You look at him, his eyes emptier that you had ever seen them before, not even when Lizzie refused to marry him, “I wish I could say the same for you, but. . .”

“I look exhausted.”

“You do.” You say, watching as his lips curled up into a smile as do yours, “How are you? Genuinely.”

“I’m. . .”

“Ma chérie.” You feel an arm slip around your waist, rest upon the small of it as he stands next to you, “Qui est-ce?” My darling. Who is this?

“Ah.” You brush a piece of your hair that had fallen out of place away from your face, “Pierre, this is Harry. Harry this is Pierre.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, lifting the glass to his lips to drink the rest of it. As you watch, it doesn’t seem to even hits the sides with how quickly he drinks it.

“Bonjour.” Pierre holds his hand out to Harry, “Comment allez vous?”

Harry looks at Pierre’s hand but he doesn’t shake it, and that’s when you lift your fingers to run against your forehead, “Are you two, marié?” Married.

“No.” You shake your head, stepping to the side slightly so that Pierre’s hand isn’t upon your waist anymore, “We are. . .”

“Courting.” Pierre’s quick to interject, “I think that’s what to call it.”

You watch as Harry’s eyebrows raise, and without saying anything to the two of you, he turns around and mutters, “I need another drink.”

As he walks away, you can see the slight stagger in his walk, one that many intoxicated people hold and you know that him being not himself treads deeper than just seeing you there today.

“YN.” Pierre places a hand upon your shoulder, “How do you know that man?”

“He’s someone from home.” You say, watching as Harry drinks another full glass of Champagne where he’s staggered off to, “He’s an old friend.”

He leans down until you can feel his breath at your ear, “Just a friend.”

You nod, leaning into him as he places a kiss to your neck, “Bien.” Good.

Since Pierre wasn’t picking you up until eleven, you decide that you have the time to at least start your next painting. In the garden of your Aunts house that you had inherited, you had built a gazebo with the money that you had made from selling your art pieces to exhibits that overlooked the garden and the pond from the four different directions that it had around it.

You had decided that the swans that swum in the pond were looking particularly delightful today and you decide that is the direction that you want to start your painting. You set up your easel and your canvas, as well as your paints that you brought on a palette and start figuring out the dimensions of the painting and what you wanted it to look like.

You hold up your paintbrush, closing one of your eyes as you move it from portrait to landscape and back again.

“You always were a perfectionist.” The paintbrush in your hand clatters you the ground as it slips through your fingers, due to you jumping. You weren’t expecting anyone to be here, and you certainly weren’t expecting to hear his voice.

“And you always had a tendency to shock people.” He laughs, his dress shoes hitting the decking with loud pats.

“My apologies.” He says, slipping one of his hands into the pocket of his trousers, taking another step closer to you, “I didn’t mean to shock you, love.”

You place your palette down, brushing your hands off slightly on your apron. You’d usually wear your comfortable clothes to paint in, the attire usually not even being a skirt but often trousers, but because you were meeting Pierre later, you knew that you had to dress up. It wasn’t the fanciest dress you owned, but the light blue material complimented your features in a way that you just couldn’t resist when you saw it in the shop.

“Yes you did.” You lips curl up into a smile, “You forget that I know you Harry, even after all these years.”

“Lots of things can change in four years, YN.”

“You haven’t.”

“You haven’t, either.” He smiles.

You tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear and take a step closer to him, clearing your throat slightly as you do so, “I want to apologise for last night. Pierre can be a little. . .”

“Intrusive.” Harry leans against the pillar nearest to him and you nod, knowing that is exactly what he is.

“I’m very sorry. I would have loved to have caught up with you.”

“I probably wouldn’t have been in the best frame of mind to do so.” He runs his fingers through his hair, “I was drunk, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I could.”

“Now.” He lifts his hand up and motions to the garden around you, “Are you going to tell me what I’ve missed in the last four years?”

“Uh.” You move so you’re stood next to him, leant against the barrier, “I moved with Aunt Jemima. This was her house but she died a year ago, if I remember correctly. She left me the house in her will, and I decided that I wanted to stay.”

“Have you been at home at all during the last four years?”

You nod your head, “I went home when Lizzie got married, that was when I met Anna for the first time. Then I went back for Aunt Jemima’s funeral because she decided she didn’t want to be buried here.”

“I must have missed you.” He says, “I spent a lot of the last four years in England with my grandparents.”

“Lizzie told me.” You say, “She said that she did invite you to the wedding but your father explained that you were in England.”

He nods his head, “I left a few months after you. I think my father was fed up of my moping.”

It shouldn’t have hurt you, but his words did. Your chest squeezed slightly at his words. Even though you knew you were doing what you were doing to benefit yourself, you couldn’t lie and say that you hadn’t missed him. You had lost a friend when you left, as well as your first love.

“Are you married?” You ask, not really knowing why the words escape from your lips in the way that they do.

He shakes his head, holding his hand up to reveal his completely ring free hand, “Nope. I can’t really say that I’ve been looking.”

“I’m sure you’ve had opportunities.” You say, “You’re the perfect gentlemen, Harry. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve had women queuing to marry you.”

He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck, “People have tried but I haven’t been interested.”

“Why not?”

“Some may say that I’m still hung up on somebody.” His eyes flutter away from yours, and you take it as the opportunity to look down at your hands, “But that doesn’t matter. What about you and Mr. Intrusive.”

You chuckle, lifting your eyes up to look at his, “He was my French language teacher. I didn’t like him, despised him to be fair but here were are a few years later and I think he’s going to propose to me later today.”

“Do you want to marry him?”

If you were asked this question but anybody else, you probably would have immediately said yes and that was enough for you to know that you should marry him. But seeing Harry stood there, the way that he is, waiting for you to answer what should be one of the easiest questions ever, reminds you that this may have gotten a lot more confusing now with Harry’s reappearance.

“I. . .” You hesitate and drop your eyes down to the ground again, “I think so.”

“You think?” He says, “I can’t say that I believe that you do if you only think that you want to marry him.”

“I do.” You say, quickly.

Harry stands up and takes a few steps towards the opposite end of the gazebo, “Do you love him?”

This answer, so it should be another one, was easy to answer, “No.”

“Then why are you marrying him.”

“I’m twenty-three, Harry.” You say, your heels tapping the wood as you move to stand next to him, looking at the pond in front of you, “I’m certainly not getting any younger. If I returned home to mother and father without a husband and children I believe they would disown me.”

“They wouldn’t.” He shakes his head, “They love you too much.”

“I’ve had three letters from them asking about grandchildren.” You deadpan, looking at him with a stoic look on their face.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t want to marry someone who you don’t love.” He says.

“If I don’t marry Pierre, who will I marry?”

After a few seconds, the smallest whispers escapes his lips, “You could marry me.”

The whole world seems to slow down around you, and you turn to look at him. He’s already looking at you, with those green eyes that you became so accustomed to all those years ago. You knew each other in all for three months, but you spent every second of every day with each other when Lizzie was away, and it certainly showed with how close you became. Marrying Harry could be the thing that you need, have always needed. You haven’t been as happy as you were when you were back him with him in a long time.

“Harry.” You say, the words coming out in a small whisper, “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” He says, quickly to say the least, “I haven’t been more sure about anything in my life before.”

“Harry—”

“Madame.” One of the groundskeepers say, walking towards the two of you, “Monsieur Perney est là.” Mr. Perney is here.

“Merci, Alfred.” You clear your throat to try and mask the uncertainty in your voice, “Ça ne prendra qu’un seconde.” Thank you, Alfred. I will only be a second.

The man nods and walks away, and you turn back to look at Harry, who has the same look on his face as you do on yours. There’s a level of defeat between the two of you.

“I need to, um, go meet with Pierre.” You say, hands gripping the material of your dress.

“Is that a no?” He takes a step towards you.

You sigh, “It’s a, I have to think about it.”

He nods, “When will you know? This is probably a good time to tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow.”

That changed everything. It wasn’t as though now you had a few days to think through and make your decision, you had to make it quickly before he goes.

“Tomorrow?”

He nods, “Father’s ill. Paris was my last hooray before I go back home to be an adult.”

You take a few moments to think, “Will you be able to return back here this evening?”

“For you? Of course.” He says as though he doesn’t even have to think about it.

You nod your head and take a few steps towards him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Goodbye Harry.”

“I’ll see you later, love.”

“C’est une belle journée.” Pierre says as the two of you walk side by side around a park, the spring heat light upon your skin as you do so. It’s a beautiful day.

“It is.” You say, not being able to pull your eyes away from the ground below you.

You knew that you shouldn’t be thinking about this at all, that it wasn’t fair to Pierre, but all you could think about was Harry. You couldn’t get the look of his face out of your head as you kissed his cheek and walked away, as though he felt like that was it between the two of you. You were still unsure of the decision that you were going to make, but once you found yourself stood at the top of some steps, looking out at the park below, you knew that you were to make your decision sooner of later.

“Is something bothering you?”

“No.” You shake your head, finally lifting your eyes to look at his, “Everything is swell, thank you.”

“Good.” He takes a step closer so that his fingers are brushing yours, “YN?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve known each other for a long time.” He says, and the two of you turn so that you’re facing each other, his hands gripping yours, “A very long time, and I was wondering whether I could ask you something?”

“We have.” You know what the question is before the words have left his lips, and you’re already beginning to prepare yourself for what you’re going to hear the next time he open his lips, “And you can.”

He clears his throat and fumbles within his inside pocket, drawing out what you know is a ring box. He lets go of your hand which he was still holding with his free one and drops down to his knee, using his other hand to open the small box.

“YN YLN.” He sighs, “Ma chérie. Will you marry me?”

The same feeling that you felt before overcomes you, when the whole world around you seems to be moving in slow motion. He looks so happy, his cheeks lifting in a wide grin that you can’t seem to shake from your sight. You can’t even bring yourself to look at the ring he had chosen for you, because it was at that time, seeing him on his knee, that you know what your answer is.

“I’m so sorry, Pierre.” You slip your bottom lip between your teeth, “I don’t think I can.”

“What?” His whole face drops, and guilt starts to wash over you. He immediately stands up, looking at you with wide eyes, “No?”

You shake your head, “I’m so sorry, Pierre.”

“I thought that you wanted to marry me.” He shakes his head, “Comment ai je pu être si stupide?” How could I have been so stupid?

“You haven’t. I promise you, Pierre.” You reach your hand forward to touch his arm, but he moves away from you, not wanting you to touch him you suppose, “I did want to marry you.”

“What has changed?” You look at him with sad eyes, tears threatening to spill and you watch the realisation flutter across his features, “He has.”

You drop your head, lifting your hand to wipe away the tears that had started to spill, “I’m so sorry.”

“Who is he?” His features switch to angry ones next, and his voice deepens and it shocks you to say the least, “You have never mentioned him and now you will not marry me because of him?”

“He’s an old friend from hime, like I said.” You repeat your words from the party last night, “I haven’t seen him since I moved here.”

“Do you love him?” The words are quick to leave his lips and you once again drop your head, in shame if you are completely honest, “Do you? I want to hear you say it?”

“I do.” His hostile tone scared you into answering, “I always have.”

“Did you ever love me?”

You shake your head, the little movement causing him to throw you one of the worst looks you’ve ever seen in your life and stalk away from you. Tears stream down your face, and you know that you probably look the worst you’ve ever looked in your life at this given moment but you couldn’t care less. You thought that you’d feel worse than you do, but you you feel more relieved than anything. You feel bad that you’ve had to break his heart, but the idea of going back home with Harry, seeing your family and saying that he is the man that you’re going to marry was enough for your heart to burst with excitement.

In your opinion, you couldn’t return home quick enough. The second you return to the house you’re fluttering around as quickly as possible, packing all the belongings that you’d need immediately when you returned but you knew that you could get the rest of your belongings shipped in at a later date.

The evening rolled around quicker that you had imagined it would, but you supposed time went quickly when you’re packing to go across the world with the love of your life. When you hear the knock at your door, you race to open it, not caring what people think because all you want is to see him.

You throw the door open, and there he is, stood in the exact same suit that you’d seen him in earlier. He did look tireder then he did earlier, but if you had spent the day worrying you probably would’ve looked worse than he did.

“Come in.” You open the door wider, so that he can step in, “Please.”

He takes a few seconds to look around at the entrance way to the house, his lips parting at the sheer size of it as you did when you first arrived. Aunt Jemima was an odd woman, you couldn’t lie, but she certainly knew how to pick a lovely house. You’d probably sell it now that you were going back to America.

He looked around for a while before he noticed your pile of belongings in the corner, all packed away and ready to leave.

His eyes meet yours and he looks as though he’s going to cry at any given moment, “Really?”

You nod your head, “I want to marry you, Harry. Always have.”

He takes two steps forward and places his lips on yours, his hands falling to your cheeks. It sent you back to four years ago, stood in the library after you’d just kissed him. You couldn’t believe that he was back with you, kissing your lips in the way that you had yearned for him too for so many years.

He pulls away and rests his head upon yours with a sigh, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Ever since that day. I should’ve done more.”

“It was my fault.” You thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “I shouldn’t have left. I should have sulked for a while but gone back to you. I missed you so terribly.”

“I know why you did it.” He says, pressing another quick kiss to your lips, “I shouldn’t have proposed to your sister when it was you who made me happy. I knew that I shouldn’t have the second I said it, and I’m sorry for that.”

“We’ll start a fresh.” You whisper, resting your forehead upon his, “Forget everything that happened four years ago and start fresh. I love you, Harry. I always have.”

“I love you too.”

You lean forward and place your lips on his again, his hands resting comfortably upon your waist. It felt so familiar for you to be in his arms, his lips upon yours. He was the only person you had ever kissed, and now he’d be the only person that you’d ever kiss, and you certainly weren’t complaining about that.

“You may now kiss the bride!”

Harry smiles at you, and you beam up at him before the two of you lean forward and kiss each other. Cheers and applause erupt around the two of you, as well as confetti and flowers being thrown across the two of you as you walk down the aisle.

You had arrived a few months ago from Paris, and immediately thrown into trying to nurse Harry’s father back to health, which didn’t go to plan. It was hard on Harry, but he had you and that was the most important thing to him. His Father gave you his blessing for the marriage, saying that it was the best thing he’d heard in a while. The funeral was a few weeks later, and the two of you decided to have the wedding two months afterwards.

The two of you were moving into Harry’s house, across the road from the house that your mother and father still lived in. You had so many plans for what you wanted to do to with the place, seeing as though it was way too big for the two of you to live in on your own.

It was your wedding night, and you were walking up towards the front door of the house when you felt Harry’s arm slipping under your thighs. You squeal as he picks you up, wrapping your arms around Harry’s neck. Giggling, you lean forward and place a kiss to his cheek, causing the dimples to show within his cheeks.

“I love you, husband.” You say, smiling as he places you down in the entry way.

“I love you too.” He leans forward and places a kiss to your lips, “Wife.”

It was as though the atmosphere within the room changed the second he said that word. His hands found your hips, resting on the material of your dress. You took a step backwards, causing you to press your back against the inside of the door, your lips immediately attacked by his. Your hips involuntarily buck up to Harry’s, causing a groan to escape from his lips. After a few seconds, he pulls away, kissing down your neck.

“Harry.” You whisper, feeling a moan ready to tumble from your lips at the feeling of his teeth grazing your neck, “Take me upstairs.”

“Are you sure?” You nod your head and he’s quick to pick you up again, this time carrying you over his shoulder. You squeal and grip his shoulders to steady yourself, “Better give my wife what she wants.”

Once you were up the stairs safely, he placed you down and connected your lips again. The first thing you did once your feet touched the ground again, you gripped the edge of his suit jacket and pushed it off his shoulders, listening to the material tumble to the ground and drop.

“Can I take your shirt off?” You mumble against his lips and he hums, allowing you to unbutton his shirt and shrugging that material off of his shoulders. This was the most you’d seen of Harry naked, and another human being at that.

“What about you?” He says, walking you both back until he’s sat on the bed, “Can I see you?”

“You’ll have to help.” You giggle, turning around. He starts to unbutton your dress, letting the material slip from your body into a pile upon the floor. He starts to unfasten your corset next, allowing that to slip from your body also. You were very exposed now, and you knew that, but the way that Harry looked at you sent all of your worries flying from your head.

He leaned back on his arms and clambered back into his lap, similarly to the way you had done all those years ago when you first kissed in the library of this very house. You wrapped your arms around his neck, just has his rested upon the exposed skin of your waist.

“YN?” You hum against his lips, “Can I make you feel good?”

You pull away and nod, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. It made you feel nervous that he was going to see you in the way that he was but this was Harry, your husband and the person you had wished to be touching you and near to the years that you had been apart. He helps remove the rest of your undergarments until you’re completely naked in front of him, laying and waiting for whatever he is going to do to you. He removes his trousers and underwear as you do so. There’s something about seeing him like that causes your hear to flutter and the rest of you to follow it.

He hovers over you, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before moving down your neck and to your chest until he reaches your breasts, pressing kiss to the plushy skin around it until he wraps his lips around your nipple, lifting his hand up to pinch the other one between his fingers.

“Fuck, love.” He smiles up at you as you whither beneath him, feeling all of your senses heightened at the feeling of him on your skin.

He kisses down from your breasts to your stomach until his face is directly where you want it the most, where you’re literally throbbing for him. Without any warning, he leans forward and starts to attack your clit with his tongue, causing your hips to buck up from the bed and moans threatening to spill from your lips. Your hand drops to the top of his head, tugging at the curls that rest there. You’ve never felt like this, ever, in your life and you believe that if you feel it too much you will become accustomed to it. Your thighs try to clamp around his head but he stops you from doing so by gripping your thighs with his hands. After a particularly hard tug of his curls, a moan erupts from Harry and vibrates against your clit causing you to shudder.

He moved one of his hands up from your thigh to run over your wet slit, “Can I?”

“Please.” You’re quite embarrassed about how breathy it comes out but once he slips one of his fingers in, and a whine escapes his lips you can’t be bothered to care about the sounds that are leaving your lips.

“I need to stretch you out.” He says, curling his finger in you, “Can I?”

You nod your head, “Please.”

He pushes another finger into you, leaning his head back down to attack your clit again. He’s quite gentle with his tongue, using it to make a skilled attack on your clit, using it and his fingers to coax you closer and closer to the first ever orgasm you are to experience.

“Harry.” You whine his name and the feeling washes over you quicker than you had expected it too, but at the same time the man knew what he was doing and you to bring you to that peak. He continued to move his fingers and kitten lick at your clit until your thighs stop shaking. Once you have, he moves up your body again and kisses you.

“Good?”

“Really good.” You laugh, wrapping your arm around his neck, “I want to feel you, H.”

“Certain? Because we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I do.” You place your hand on his cheek, pecking his lips, “I want to.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smile, “It’s going to hurt whether we do it now or later. I want to.”

It’s uncomfortable to say the least, the feeling contrasting the one that you had felt earlier. You weren’t in a lot of pain, but it made it a little harder to feel the pleasure that you know you can feel from this act, Lizzie had told you plenty about it when you were younger. Harry grunted as he pushed into you, scrunching up his features. From the way that little groans and deep breaths escaped his lips, you knew that he was feeling an immense amount of pleasure.

“Feel good?” He grunts against your neck, pressing a small kiss to the skin as you smile, running your nails down his back. You knew that he was close, from the way he twitched inside of you, and your tried everything to coax it out of him.

“Feel so good, love.” He comes soon after his words, spilling into you and filling you up.

He collapses on top of you and you hold him close to you, pushing his curls off of his forehead that have stuck. You giggle as his pouts his lips, leaning down to play a kiss to them.

“I love you so much.” You smile.

“And I, you.” He pulls you close, “You were never second best, I hope you know that.”

“I do now.”

Three Years Later

“Mary.” You smile, placing your hand on the back of the little girls shoulder, “That looks beautiful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Styles.” She says, continuing to add the green paint to her painting.

You and Harry figured out not that long after what do with the large house you had been left by his father. With your art and French skills, and Harry’s love for reading and slight knowledge of simple maths, you decided to convert the house into a school for the kids in the village. It was a place for them to come without having to worry and learn and focus on new skills.

At this point you had just finished one of your art classes and left the kids to let their creativity flow with some paper and paints, as well as pencils and other materials for them to use. You were making your way outside, smiling at the sight of Harry sat in the garden with a group of children sat around him, listening to every word he spoke as he read from a book.

The next thing you saw was your sister, stood with her husband and her children. You were surprised to see your little boy, Oscar, sat comfortably in her arms. The second he sees you, he’s making grabby arms in your direction.

He had just turned one and was now in a phase of not wanting to walk but be carried everywhere. He was certainly his father’s son, in more ways than one. He looked identical to his father, with green eyes and unruly brown curls and dimples, but he was also the exact same person as your husband, and if you thought it was a struggle to live with one Harry Styles, having an Oscar Styles as well was just as hard.

“Hi baby.” You pick him up and place him on your hip, his hand resting on your neck lovingly. From the way he drops his head to your shoulder, you can tell he’s almost ready for his nap. You smile and press a kiss to his cheek.

Harry comes over a few seconds later and kisses you on the lips briefly and places a kiss to Oscar’s cheeks. The two of you look over at what you have created for the kids around you and smile at each other.

“I’m glad I didn’t give up on you.”

“Me neither.” You smile, “I love you, mon chéri.”

“I love you too.”

Oscar looks up at the two of you with a pout on his lips, causing Harry to chuckle, “And we love you too, little man.”

#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #harry styles x yn #harry styles x you #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles smut fic #harry styles writing #harry styles au

1K notes · View notes