#i haven't written in a while and its just my jumbled thoughts

[iminyourbookshelf]

Theory time! Codeflippa isn't intentionally evil, but the excutuion of her actions are evil. Like what she is doing is good for one person, but harms another. I have no idea how explain it so have a little writing thing

Juanaflippa stared down at the code monster talking to her dad. It smiled at him with open arms. His voice was pained and desperate as he thought he'd "reunited" with her. A pang of jealously went through her heart. This 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, was impersonating her. It was taking the affection she could no longer have.

She watched as the day went on, the imposter wasn't even like her. It forgot things. It ate meat, she wouldn’t have. It didn't even speak Spanish, like she would've done with her Papa.. where ever he was.

It took everything she wished so dearly she had in the afterlife. Flippa was just grateful she didn't have to hear her dad sing someone else to sleep. He did still tuck it in. He told it he loved it. Flippa had never heard him say "I love you" or "I'm sorry" so much before. Besides her final goodbye.

She watched him go to sleep. In the same house as the code. Surely nobody would notice if she came down there, right? Her dad couldn't see ghosts.

It took all the energy she had to not just cry out at the monster. It tilted it's head at her, binary code flashing in its eyes as if attempting to calculate her simple apperance.

"Why are you here?" She signed quickly. "What do you want from him."

The code replied with an odd smile. It knew something she didn't.

"Y0u w4nt t0 s33 h1m 4g4in?"

She nodded.

"H3'll b3 w1th y0u s00n."

It pointed to her sleep dad, particularly at his hand. Flippa quietly went over. Her eyes widened in surprise.

A small trail of flickering binary covered part of his hand. It was buzzing, and made his hand twitch. Or more likely, glitch.

"Is it hurting him?" She signed nervously to the code.

It nodded, though with no look of malice.

"Will it kill him?"

It paused, taking a moment to write on its sign. The tension in waiting was making her worry. Codes took long to write.

"I w1ll h4v3 @ d4d, 4nd y0urs w1ll jo1n y0u. Y0u w1ll h4v3 a par3nt aga1n."

It was a conflicting statement. No child wants their parent to die, at least she didn't. But, she missed him. She loved her dad and papa more than anything. Her dad wasn't that happy down there either.. she saw how desperate he was when he thought he got her back.

Maybe he'd be happier up here, with her and Tílin. Like they were.

Before Flippa could reply, the code watched her fade slowly as the apparition dissipated. Ju4n4Fl1pp4 smiled. Once the code took over his body, he'd be up there with the other Juanaflippa. Then she could finally have her own family.

[azullumi]

wanderer — haunted by your ghost ☆彡

summary — you haunt him, his mind, his dreams, his existence. what happens after he wakes up from a nightmare and you're not there besides him?

pairing — wanderer/gender-neutral reader

tags — hurt/comfort, some fluff in the end; one-shot

word count — 688

a/n — i haven't written for my bbg for like days and i just feel like a dehydrated man.

"let's break up."

wanderer jolts himself awake, immediately sitting up as he opens his eyes. enveloped in cold sweat as a drop ran down his forehead, thoughts were all jumbled and scrambled inside his head, rendering him unable to think straight. his mind hasn't processed anything and everything has only faded to white noise, his intellect only wandering to the dream that he had, not knowing if it's real or not.

he couldn't just think of that one day he will wake up without your warmth—your warmth, where is it? where are you?

the side of the bed where you always lay was cold and empty, no trace of your existence was found on the wrinkle of the sheets, and it is only when reality has dawned upon him. his ears still couldn't discern any noise— there was only silence that surrounded him and nothing of you.

so it was real, after all?

he falls apart in his bed, crumbling, so he's alone once more and yet he still isn't used to this feeling. no longer will he feel the world caress and kiss his skin, and no longer will he feel it hold him.

he hates it and he also hates how you have imprinted yourself in his mind, tangled your soul with his, and bound yourself in his heart.

you haunt him in a way that your touch will always ghost over his skin, you haunt him in a way that he will dream of you every night and could only think of you in the morning, you haunt him with the whispers of your confession and never let him find peace in himself because a life without you is nothing but just a cycle of breathing— he will live but he will never be alive.

you haunt him and so he will never forget you and he couldn't tell if he hates the notion of it or not.

"kuni? what's wrong? i heard some noise." his head snapped to the direction of the door where the voice came from and there he saw a familiar face, there he saw you, standing at the entrance of the room with a concerned look on his face. he could tell that you were in the midst of cooking from the way you were dressed in an apron and holding a spatula in hand.

oh, a nightmare.

he relaxed—finally—feeling his expression loosen up to a gentle one. his gaze softened and he could breathe once again. the silence dissipated and he could feel everything around him all at once, the songs the birds were singing outside the window, the aroma of freshly cooked breakfast in the air, and you. like an empty canvas being painted, his surroundings gained back its color, from the muddy stillness turned to vibrant and serene.

a dream.

"is something wrong? maybe you're sick…" he didn't even notice you approach and sit down in front of him not until you spoke as he was way too focused with the overwhelming feeling of his surroundings that has started to come to life. he feels you press the back of your hand against his forehead, feeling his temperature before continuing, "...you don't have a fever but you do feel cold. did you perhaps had another nigh—"

before you could even finish your sentence, you were interrupted as he pulled you into a tight embrace, protective but at the same time, helpless.

"let's stay like this for a while please," he whispers, pulling you much closer in his embrace as he speaks and you could sense the dread in his voice, confirming the thought that he relived yet through another horrible experience or something that he fears of happening in his dreams. so you eased in his arms, wrapping yours around his back and patting it as a means to comfort him.

he just wants to feel you against him, to confirm your existence, your presence, in his arms. he just needs to know that it's you and everything that he thought that happened was simply nothing but just a figment of his imagination.

"i'm here, it's okay."

— navigation | masterlist

[wanderersbell]

between the pages

wanderer x gn!reader

genre: modern!au, meet-cute, fluff

warnings: none

word count: 2206

✧.* a/n: sorry i haven't posted in forever teehee i had to use all of my effort to squeeze this out of my brain ૮ ◞ ﻌ �� ა

try as you might, it’s impossible not to notice the new customer perusing the bookshelves in the old, worn down shop you’ve taken a job at over the summer. compared to the aged shelves and creaky floors, it’s like seeing a shiny new car in the middle of a junkyard, pristine and vivid against the washed out backdrop. 

it’s pleasantly cool inside away from the sweltering july heat so for a moment you’re sure he only ducked in to cool off, but he actually appears to be looking for something as he approaches one of the towering displays. 

you watch discreetly from the counter as the boy slides a book out and opens to a random page, little specks of dust floating up from the pages and around him, visible only because of the sunlight from the window in the back that casts its glow right above him. 

you cringe a bit at the sight. no matter how often you dust, it never seems to go away, which you suppose is to be expected of such an old little shop. he doesn’t seem to mind though, hardly even seems to notice it as his violet eyes stay fixed on the words in front of him. 

he’s beautiful, so much so that you almost wonder if you’re hallucinating the first time he pushes through the door and takes in the towering shelves lined from wall to wall. he has an air of grace that shows through his calculated movements, almost like a robot that’s programmed to be perfect. 

but he’s very much real when he finally finds what he’s looking for and brings it up to checkout. 

“borrowing or purchasing?” you ask automatically, praying silently that your voice doesn’t sound weird. up close, you realize he can’t be much older than you, and that somehow makes him all the more intimidating. 

his eyes are sharp and cold as he meets yours, practically the textbook definition of unapproachable. 

“borrowing.” he replies. his voice is a bit softer and higher pitched than you were expecting, but there’s a hint of roughness to it that almost makes your skin prick with goosebumps in a way that you try to ignore. 

as you turn away to find the notepad for him to write his information down on, his eyes drift to the whiteboard next to the counter. ‘book of the week’ is written at the top in blue marker, with the title of a novel underneath. 

there’s a half written annotation on the board that you were in the middle of jotting down before he walked in. in your opinion it’s messy, unorganized, and impossible to understand. just a jumble of thoughts that you scribbled down as they came to you. 

you’re the only one who ever adds anything every week and most people coming in hardly spare it a glance, but when you find what you’re looking for and slide it over to the customer you notice his eyes flitting over your scribbles. 

it almost makes you feel self conscious of what you’ve written. it could be worded so much better, and your handwriting looks so much nicer when you slow down a bit, but you hadn’t anticipated anyone actually bothering to read it. 

he shifts his attention back to you as soon as he realizes you’re looking at him and he takes the notepad and pen from you without a word. 

you fidget with a stapler while he fills it out, suddenly becoming aware of how fast your heart is pounding behind your ribcage. when he’s done he hands it back to you, you hand him the book, and then he turns to leave without another word. 

your usual ‘have a good day’ gets caught in your throat for some reason so all you can manage is a small, awkward wave that he doesn’t even notice as the door swings shut behind him. 

when you glance down at the ‘borrow’ list, the first thing you notice is his handwriting, somehow equal parts neat and messy. the tops of his letters nearly loop together but blunt angles prevent it from being considered neat. the other thing, is his name. 

‘kuni.’

he seems to have chosen not to write his full name, which technically isn’t allowed but also isn’t really that big of a deal at the end of the day, because his phone number is still written where it should be and your boss never checks the list anyway. 

the entire thing was such a normal, boring interaction that had it been anybody else you probably would’ve forgotten about it by the next day—but this lingered on your mind throughout the rest of the week. 

the following week when he returns the book, he exchanges it for another one. there’s a new novel listed this week, and you don’t even process the fact that kuni pulls his phone out to write down the name of it because your eyes are glued to the red eyeliner lining his lower eyelashes. it’s stark against his pale skin, so perfectly drawn that you once again find yourself questioning whether or not he’s even real.

you almost choke on your spit when his gaze flicks up to meet yours and you quickly slide the ‘borrow’ list over to him, completely missing the way one of his eyebrows quirks up in mild amusement at your reaction. 

it takes him a bit longer than last time to write his information down because he pauses to skim over your annotation for this week's book, which is much more presentable this time around. 

if you weren’t awkwardly staring at your feet still caught on the fact that he looks like he walked straight out of a painting, you would’ve noticed the flash of an impressed expression on his face, but you keep your eyes pointed down until he sets the pen back into the tin cup to the side with a clink. 

when he grabs the book and silently turns to leave, you take a grounding breath. 

“have a good day.” you blurt out to his retreating form, internally thanking the heavens that the words come out even and not too quiet. 

kuni doesn’t stop walking towards the door, but he turns his head to the side and lifts his hand up in acknowledgement. 

“you too.”

you don’t work fridays and the shop is closed on the weekends, but when you return on monday, kuni’s book is already filled out as returned, meaning he must have stopped by on your day off. 

you feel a bit bummed out at the fact that you missed him when he came back, but he had replaced it with another so all you can do is hope he’d show up again sometime before friday. 

much to your surprise, when you turn around to erase last week's book and change it to another, there’s something new written on the whiteboard. 

just off to the side of your previous annotation are notes, scribbled in a slightly familiar somewhat elegant chicken scratch. it takes you a second, but when you realize it’s kuni’s handwriting your heart jumps into your throat. 

his notes branch out from what you have written in response, taking in your thoughts and then challenging them with a counter argument that has you thinking from a perspective you hadn’t been able to see before. 

after being frozen on the spot for a bit longer, you grab and uncap the marker and start scribbling a response to his response, trying to ignore the excitement thrumming in your limbs. 

to think that someone else would take an interest in the featured books, and even bother to pick apart your annotation and invite you to think harder about the story was almost hard to believe. 

especially because it’s him.

anyone else might feel a bit bothered having their opinions countered so bluntly, but you’re so stuck on the fact that you have someone to indulge you in this interest that it never even crosses your mind. 

when you finish and stand back, an entire half of the whiteboard is taken up by two people’s handwriting where it once would have been nearly empty. instead of erasing it to add the new one, you move to the other side of the board and add the new week’s novel, as well as your thoughts on it that you had organized over the weekend. 

still feeling elated by the unexpected happening, the rest of your shift goes by in a flash until an hour before the store closes when kuni finally shows up again, all intimidating sharp gracefulness.

it’s not until he walks up to the counter after wandering off to find something to check out that you finally realize it’s not the featured book he’s returning, and he had actually never even checked out the book that was listed on the whiteboard last week.

you had wanted to say something about the notes, but the way he doesn’t even acknowledge that they exist has you clamming up and doubting whether or not he was even the one who wrote them in the first place. out of the desperate desire to not embarrass yourself, you decide it’s best left unmentioned. 

“thanks,” you say almost hesitantly as you add the book to the return pile to put away later and pass him the clipboard so he can cross his previous entry off the list and add a new one. 

if only you had been paying attention instead of being lost in your own doubt, you would’ve seen how he eyed the whiteboard and the way a corner of his lips turned up a fraction at your messy reply, but his back is turned and he’s already leaving by the time you look up again. 

and you would never know it, but a while later across town a boy with the pretty red eyeliner walks into a library and checks out another book, one that had been hastily written down on an old whiteboard where a pretty person that made his hands sweat with nervousness works.

this continues for another two weeks and another two books before you finally muster the courage to mention it to him. one of the things he had written under your annotation didn’t make any sense to you, and you can’t help but ask the next time he comes in. 

he clearly wasn’t expecting you to know that it was him, because he looks absolutely taken aback when the words come out of your mouth. 

“what did you mean about the protagonist's actions mirroring the dialogue in the first half?” you try to say this as casually as possible, but your hands are wringing each other behind the counter as you speak. “i mean, i noticed that the emperor almost perfectly predicted what would happen, but it was still super vague.”

it takes kuni a few seconds to gather his bearings before he responds in stride. 

“it was in the story one of the elders told.” he explains. “the one that describes the man who had to pass three trials before he could figure out how to lift the curse.”

“oh!” you gasp, finally understanding what he had written. it was such a small section that you had completely overlooked it so you can’t help but feel a little amazed by his attention to detail. “i never caught that, good eye.”

“mn.” he responds stiffly. 

in the silence that follows afterwards, neither of you know what to say for a moment. the annoying fluttering is back in your stomach and even though you want to say a million things, not a single word forms on your lips. 

“did you know it was me the whole time?” kuni eventually asks, eyes burning holes into the counter. 

“yeah, pretty much.” you admit sheepishly. 

if you didn’t know any better you would think the tips of his ears looked a little red as you slid the clipboard in his direction, but you decide not to point it out and instead clear your throat and give a pathetic attempt at pushing the conversation forward. 

“so did you read the new one?” 

you don’t realize how stupid that question is until it’s already out of your mouth given the fact that it’s monday and you had just added the new one to the whiteboard about an hour ago, but he pretends not to notice that and glances behind you to see the title. 

“not yet.” kuni replies. “i’ll get around to it tomorrow.”

you can’t stop the smile that takes over your face at his words as a rush of warmth and anticipation fills your chest. 

as soon as you begin to internally debate whether or not to ask him where he’s been getting the weekly recommendations if he’s not borrowing them from here, it’s almost like he knows you’re waiting to bring that up because he’s already halfway to the door after he scribbles his information down on the list. 

“do you already own all of these books or-“

“see you next week.”

you can’t stop the tiny pfft that slips out as the door swings shut behind him. and just like that, the store is empty again. 

[avocadoooo]

foolish one

character: alhaitham x fem!reader

a/n: i didn't do the whole song, small letters intended, also never proofread🤸‍♀️ do send in requests❗

you give me just enough attention to keep my hopes too high

rubbing the sides of your forehed, you let out a heavy sigh while looking at the random numbers and formulas written in paper infront of you that you've been trying to understand for the past twenty minutes. the longer the time passes, the longer the number jumbles and shuffles together.

and when you were right on the edge of giving up, you a pair of hands clap right next to your hear startling you.

"you've been staring at that stack of paper for the past twenty minutes and you haven't even gotten passed the first page yet," you hear a familiar voice say, immediately recognizing the owner of it.

"if you're not going to help, best get away. i'm not in the mood to deal with your scolding today, alhaitham."

he doesn't say anything and you hear some shuffling, thinking that he's going to leave, you put your headphones on when suddenly the chair infront of you was pulled from its place. he sits down, dropping a stack of paper infront of you with his neat handwriting of his notes, ready to help with the parts you struggled with (all of it).

wishful thoughts forget to mention when something's really not right

arguing with alhaitham was one that tried their best to avoid, not just because he always thinks that he's right, but also because he makes you think you're making a big deal of things that really are a big deal.

alhaitham's eyebrows meet as he says, "i just ate outside, i didn't think you'd make that big of a deal out of this."

you roll your eyes, already used to him saying those words as you say, "you ate outside when i told you i was going to go and cook us dinner. you also went out of your way to go with nilou, you know how i feel about her, haitham."

he crosses his arms, already over the argument and says, "we've gone over this millions of times already, i told you that she's just a colleague. will you ever get over this? it's getting tiring"

a tear drops as you turn around, locking yourself in your room and your heart with you.

and i will block out these voices of reason in my head

all the signs were pointing to the exit. you knew that it was probably the best thing to do, especially in your situation, but were you going to do it? of course.

you won't.

every single thing about him was screaming red, that it was something wrong and dangerous. and you were well aware of that.

but you always liked red better than green anyway.

and the voices say, "you are not the exception, you will never learn your lesson"

you knew that staying in yours and alhaitham's relationship is a bad idea, hoping that things would turn around and work out for the better.

but you also knew that wishing for that would be throwing another star to the already millions of missed shining ones.

and yet you did anyway. your friends advices going into one ear and out the other as you run back to him. but you know they'll be there for you, ready to catch you as you fall into their arms, crying once again.

you swear you won't come back to him, that you'll be choosing yourself this time around and it'll be better as they nod along, knowing that you'll be back by his side in the morning, things said the night before already forgotten as you look at him with lovestruck eyes.

and you know damn well that he knows that as well.

foolish one, stop checking your mailbox for confessions of love, that ain't never gonna come

was what your friends always told you numerious times, on multiple occasions. have you ever listened? no. have they gotten tired of reminding you? yes. they've realised that you're foolish, you were always a hopeless romantic, but they never thought you'd be a foolish one as well.

and here you were, all dolled up for your anniversary dinner, phone on the table you're sitting infront of with the messages you sent hours ago, looking down at the device with teary eyes.

"hey al, i know you're busy with work but i just wanted to remind you of the date we have tonight! you also said you'd send what you were gonna wear so we can match, see u:))" - sent at 11:30am

"it's 3 hours 'til the date but can you send me the picture if you're not too busy since yk i take a while to get ready. thanks, love" - sent at 3:03 pm

"an hour to go and i have to leave in 20mins, we won't be able to match since you haven't sent me yours, sorry:((" - sent at 5pm

"here at the [location], take your time though" - sent at 5:50pm

you checked the watch on your wrist, 7:43pm, it read. it's been two hours now that you were waiting for your beloved to show up.

"maybe he's just working overtime" he would never work over time.

"he's probably stuck in traffic" the reason you had to leave 20 minutes early was because this place was 5 minutes from his work place so it'd be more convenient for him to come.

"his boss most likely asked him to stay late" he is the boss.

even if you were the one being embarrassed for waiting for wlmost two hours in a restaurant, you still tried making excuses for his behavior anyway.

you grabbed your phone and started typing away

"love, i might leave now since it's been almost two hours that i've waited, you're probably home already since you got tired from work and forgot about the date, it's okay though, we can make up next year"

then you hit send, and just as the message gets delivered as you stood up, a phone chimes from the entrance so you turn to look.

and then there he was, standing at the front talking to the server and you smile thinking that maybe he was just late after all when he walks in and turns to look back out, with his hand extending out.

a hand holds his delicately as nilou walks in.

he turns, looking around the restaurant when you lock eyes, his are shocked, while yours are filled with disappointment. you shook your head as you walk out the exit door, not even bothering to look back as he calls out your name.

you were indeed, the foolish one.

[accioromione]

Harry Potter's point of view (canon compliant) about Ron and Hermione's relationship just after the war. Or Harry's point of view about their relationship during the books is also fine. [ we have read the books through his eyes and no one really has covered this or I haven't seen one like this so would love to read something written by you cuz I love your writing ] Thanksss! :))

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light. Harry was an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. They wanted him there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic. 

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had died fighting him. McGonagall had re­placed the House tables, but nobody was sitting “according to House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and people were throwing food into his laughing mouth. After a while, exhausted and drained, Harry found himself sitting on a bench beside Luna. “I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” she said. “I’d love some,” he replied. “I’ll distract them all,” she said. “Use your Cloak.” And before he could say a word she had cried, “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the window. Everyone who heard looked around, and Harry slid the Cloak up over him­self, and got to his feet. Now he could move through the Hall without interference. He spotted Ginny two tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: There would be time to talk later, hours and days and maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Along the aisle between the tables he walked, and he spotted the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they were supposed to be there, but nobody was paying them any attention. Everywhere he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw the two whose company he craved most. “It’s me,” he muttered, crouching down between them. “Will you come with me?” They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall. Great chunks were missing from the marble staircase, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as they climbed. Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition: 

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one, And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!

“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn’t it?” said Ron, pushing open a door to let Harry and Hermi­one through. Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of losing Fred and Lupin and Tonks pierced him like a physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep. But first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione, who had stuck with him for so long, and who deserved the truth. Painstakingly he recounted what he had seen in the Pensieve and what had happened in the forest, and they had not even begun to express all their shock and amazement when at last they arrived at the place to which they had been walking, though none of them had mentioned their destination. Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Harry wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore. “Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle. “Feel free,” groaned the statue.

They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top. He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort — But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other’s hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!”

But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song. At last, Harry held up his hands, and the portraits fell respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directed his words at Dumbledore, however, and chose them with enormous care. Exhausted and bleary-eyed though he was, he must make one last effort, seeking one last piece of advice. “The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he began, “I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, but I’m not going to go looking for it again. “ Do you agree?” “My dear boy, I do,” said Dumbledore, while his fellow pictures looked confused and curious. “A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?” “No one,” said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded his satisfaction. “I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though,” said Harry, and Dumbledore beamed. “But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on!” “And then there’s this.” Harry held up the Elder Wand, and Ron and Hermione looked at it with a reverence that, even in his befuddled and sleep-deprived state, Harry did not like to see. “I don’t want it,” said Harry. “What?” said Ron loudly. “Are you mental?” “I know it’s powerful,” said Harry wearily. “But I was happier with mine. So …” He rummaged in the pouch hung around his neck, and pulled out the two halves of holly still just connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather. Hermione had said that they could not be re­paired, that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that if this did not work, nothing would. He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said, “Reparo.”

As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing at their reunion. “I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore, who was watching him with enormous affection and admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have never been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.” Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other. “Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand. “I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly. “That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turned away from the painted portraits, think­ing now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryf­findor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.” 

Ron and Hermione smiled at Harry tiredly. Harry looked at his best friends- scars and dirt covered them. “You two have as well I reckon,” added Harry. He noticed that they were holding hands, he smiled. 

“I-I couldn’t have done it without you two you know,” said Harry, and Ron and Hermione smiled at him shyly. “I’m happy about it you know,” Harry added, gesturing to the two of them holding hands. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves each-other more” he admitted. 

Hermione smiled tiredly, “you should get rest Harry-” Hermione said, “Merlin knows you’ve earned it.” Harry nodded, “I reckon we all do,” and with that they all tiredly walked to the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry closed his eyes the moment he felt a soft surface below him. He saw faces in his dreams, jets of light, dead bodies, laughing bodies, his parents, Dumbledore. He awoke after what seemed like ages- feeling the affect of rest on his body and how very much needed that sleep was. He opened his eyes, he had fallen asleep with his glasses on, thankfully he had managed not to crush them. He looked around to see two familiar bodies also asleep. A long lanky one and a shorter one with bushy hair. Ron and Hermione were embracing each-other- their eyes closed. Ron had his arms wrapped around Hermione, her head was buried into his chest. Their embrace was one of desperation, as if they were scared they would lose each-other. Harry saw tear stains down both of their faces, his heart sank as he thought of Fred. Ron, who had been there for him since the day one, had lost his brother, the way Harry’s heart sank for Fred pained him in such a way that he couldn’t begin to imagine what Ron was thinking in this moment. He looked at Hermione, she would be there for him, Ron had Hermione, and Hermione had Ron. He meant every word he said, they deserved each-other. They had been there through thick and thin- had supported Harry in the darkest hour, and now, now they could finally rest. Finally rest with each-other. 

Love. 

It had always been the most powerful magic. And that very magic was what Harry was seeing exhibited before his very eyes. There might have been a time where Harry was uncertain between them - in the fear of getting shot out, or the fear that they wouldn't last, but this was different now. 

They had gone through so much, had seen so much, and had aged years the last couple of months. They wouldn’t shoot him out, Harry saw, just how much he had meant to them. Their screams rung through his ears as he remembered how they had reacted when they had thought how he, Harry, had died. He was not uncertain about them, he knew they were made to last. He remembered Ron’s screams as Hermione had been tortured, and Hermione’s cries when Ron was not there with her. They were made for eachother, and they would help each-other deal with the tragedies they had faced. Harry smiled at his two best friends and got up slowly, he figured that for once he would let them finally be alone, just the two of them.

[probablydrunk23]

Back to it

Haven't written in a while, been a bit gun shy. But here I am typing words straight into the text editor bareback. I haven't written for many reasons. Actual scrap that. I was going to make up some bullshit about covid, but the real reason? is I finished my book over a year ago, a book I thought contained some of the best writing of my life. And I couldn't even get my friends to read it. My agent pitched it to, maybe, two people and  now its in limbo. I still don't know what to do with it.

So now apart from bits its been a year since I've done some serious blood letting soul wringing fuck em all writing. 

And I'm  working way back into it. Got to be honest it took a fucking full 45 minutes of swearing and cat squeezing to get into my account so my mood isn't improved. Nearly an hour ago insomnia let me know I wouldn't be really making an honest attempt at sleep until the birds start singing again, so I dutifully picked up my phone and got out of bed so I could doom scroll, suck down my feeds, and check the usual fetish poles. for markers, signs and portents. But as I sat down I just couldn't  bring myself too. Over the last few days I've become increasingly aware of my tendency to hyper focus to avoid anything uncomfortable, distract myself with shitty jangly keys rather than sit in the pain, or discomfort. And over the last two years there's been a lot of that. That time gone scrolling miles through the sewer of human thought looking for the sweetcorn nuggets in the shit.

Writing is the only thing I've ever been good at. Actually scratch that, that's a lame cliché and worst of all its a lie. I'm good at a lot of things. in fact that's the problem. Once I've cracked how to do something, there's no satisfaction in actually getting there. I'm bored easily and boredom is physically painful. So writing, I suppose with my dyslexia writing is the only thing that constantly challenges me, my taste constantly outpacing my skill. I love it.

Perhaps I've been procrastinating, I've recently done a lot of reading about ADHD and if I could get it together for long enough I would probably chase a diagnosis. catch 22. but doing has been making think about procrastination. Thinking about thinking. I've noticed that I tend to put of tasks if I don't know exactly the process of getting it done. it seems I need to imagine the task in its entirety for me too even countenance starting it. That's not to say the tasks ever follow that plan. but tasks I have to do and there's just a jumble with a question mark in my brain. Its seems I wont even allow my self to sit down and think about thinking about them. The really frustrating thing is knowing that if I did just sit down and start, they'd be done, or at least id be able to see the how to do it.

I've missed blogging, about as low stakes as you can get. you can say anything because no ones going to read this especially not here on tumblr. But there's enough of a chance that someone might that i care about being semi coherent.

god I hope this is it now, the doom scrolling finally has lost its lustre. I'm not making any promises about writing more. Even if I do it'll more of this drivel. BUT its got to better than having my soul sucked out of my eyes in exchange for tiny hits of dopamine squeezed out using cynically coded fruit machine game mechanics by amoral bastards that didn't care they were making the human experience more shitty for everyone. After fourteen months of replacing my phone with spunking words into the ether  if I can come up with one turn of phrase, one sentence I can be proud of I will have had more concrete worth than that time in my phone.

until then, if you actually got this far, thank you. Don't feel bad if your not where I am with my phone, or are using it to avoid some shitty thing in your life. Do what you need to do to get through. And if you are struggling, using tumblr to distract from whatever ugly demon is sitting on your chest. You've made a friend. I’m here. hi, your doing great. hold on. You’ll get through this. We all will.

[seblaineaddict]

You know how sometimes you read a fic that is just everything, and while reading it you find yourself holding a breath just a fraction too long before exhaling, because your emotions are in such utter turmoil?The new fic Just Don't Forget To Think Of Me, for College day of Seblaine Week 2020 from @xonceinadream , is exactly that for me.

I read it on Monday, because @xonceinadream is one of my favourite Seblaine writers, so I knew it would be a treat. I loved it so much, and it pretty much left me speechless.

I read it again today, because I like to do that before I leave a comment on a fic. But as I neared the end of my second reading, I realised I would not be doing that. Not because I didn't want to, but because the silly little comment box at AO3 would see me running out of characters allowed in a post far too quickly, which would frustrate me so much. I couldn't do it justice there.

So instead I'm commenting here, where I have space to set out my still somewhat jumbled thoughts.

This now easily ranks in my top 5 Seblaine fics - ever. It's strange that this is the case, too, because it is pretty Klaine-centric in one way or another, and if you know me at all, you'll know I loathe Klaine with every fibre of my being. That loathing is far from baseless, though, which I'm going to talk about, in fact.

With any Seblaine fic, if a summary hints at, or tells me it is Seblaine endgame (yay!) With Klaine featured (boo!) Then I kind of need it to go either one of two ways: either Klaine are still together at the beginning, but already very much on the outs, and subsequently break up for good, leaving the path clear for Seblaine to start their own story. Or, Blaine gains enough awareness of his toxic marriage and relationship, that he leaves before it destroys them both. Then Sebastian helps to heal Blaine from the inside-out - and they fall in love.

This fic does neither of those things. And yet, it has a vicelike grip on my heart.

To go back for a second to what I said about the toxicity of their marriage, and knowing there are still Klaine fans who refuse to accept that, for the bare truth it is, let me break it down for you...

Not long before Glee first ever aired, I had left a husband who was both emotionally manipulative, and physically violent. Every day. For years. In fact the toxicity was almost fatal for me. The truth is, I didn't actually leave him. He left me for dead, and ran away like the coward he was.

Moving on. I'm not talking about this to garner sympathy because trust me, I don't need, or want pity. Empathy? Yes, but pity, never. I'm a survivor, never a victim. But it's because of my own personal experience of a relationship that practically turned me into a void, empty (dead) shell, that I could see alllll the red flags in Klaine. Not from day one, let's be truthful, but from pretty early into their utterly unequal "partnership."

It just all felt far too close to home for me, and when I discovered people really worshipped Klaine - referring to them as "couple goals," I struggled badly. I could not comprehend or fathom what on earth they were seeing. When all I saw was the black hole of despair, systematically pulling Blaine further and further into its depths...

So clearly, this fic should in fact have been anathema for me. Should have had me running to the safe, cosy blanket of Seblaine fics that I pull around myself whenever I need to smile, and be uplifted.

But I persevered with it, and in the end the fic actually became a bit cathartic for me, too. It is just so poignant and beautifully written - and let me tell you, you will run through the entire gamut of emotions while reading, because this is an emotional Rollercoaster!

If you haven't read any of the incredible Seblaine fics from @xonceinadream go and do so - now. You will thank me later!

Back to Just Don't Forget To Think Of Me, though. I could wax lyrical about the fact that Emily's character development is pretty much second to none. Tell you that the eloquent way she has of writing Sebastian as being able to see- really see Blaine. Almost as if he is completely transparent, and how he just "gets" Blaine, is exactly how I HC him.

I could highlight the nuances that she places so artfully throughout her story. I could talk at length about the breathtaking juxtaposition of this;

"But Blaine reached out the rest of the way, grabbing both of his hands. “I told him that you make me happy. So happy, Sebastian. So, if I haven’t ruined everything, if you still love me, will you… give me a chance?”

Echoing the plea from a distraught, broken, and (despite his 6'2 frame) very small-seeming in the moment, Sebastian, to Blaine all those years ago, in On My Way.

Not to mention how her writing has you feeling as if you are right there, present and in the moment with her characters. How the light and shade as the intricate layers are woven into a story so enthralling, you literally can't tear your eyes from the page, and have to keep reading - must know more, is incredible to experience and enjoy.

So as it's the truth, I could say all that (and well, I guess I just did). But at the end of the day, most of you will only want to know one thing; is it a good story? And the very short answer is, yes.

A longer answer, would be that it left me simultaneously crying myself raw, while my toes curled in pleasure, and my heart soared at the exquisite direction and flow, and the way everything was developed with so much flair, and finesse.

Emily possesses huge literary talent, and with every piece she writes, her development as a writer becomes patently obvious.

Is it a good story? No. It is a freaking masterpiece. Outstanding, in fact. It pretty much broke me, then put me back together again. And that, is when you know a fic is gonna be an all-time favourite.

Now go and read it!

Thank you, Emily. XX

[artisinaltoxicwaste]

I'm unsure why I'm posting this at all, I guess because turmblr is a place where our jumbled thoughts can be left in the void without a care.

Since 2018 I've been constantly thinking about if I can still consider myself a writer. And even then, at that time i had only been writing for a few years. But to this today, it feels like a piece of me is missing.

If writing was defined by sitting down and writing words that make up a manuscript, then I haven't done that in 4 years. And while I know that there are so many aspects of writing that count. Worldbuilding, outlining, character development, so on and so forth. All of which I have done every now and again, but my manuscripts remain untouched. Most of which are just a blank document with temporary name.

I keep telling myself "tonight I will work on this" and I never do. The night comes and I am tired, and I do not write, and I feel awful because I knew what was most important was for me to rest but how can rest when all i think about are the words i should be typing? And granted I've been better these last few months. Studying full time and starting a part time job in my industry. Not to mention my recent ADHD diagnosis and medication journey and left me to relearn how to operate.

So now im left with the question "am I still a writer?" Years of wanting to write and ultimately "failing" to do so has depleted me and my love for the craft. I still ho online and look at content from other writers who say that to be a writer you should love to write. And I sit here and I just...can't. I dont remember how that feels. What I feel is regret, and anger, and sadness and question my validity, question if I am, in any way, a part of this community.

As I had mentioned, these last few months I have been kinder to myself, I left an industry that was inherently toxic, and am working in the industry I am studying for (library services). But ultimately, 2022 has been a year (so far) of reflection, on what exactly? Everything. Where I wantvto be, who I want to be with (platonically, romantically, sexually), my own sexuality, my hobbies, my work, my home. Everything. And if there is still one thing I want to remain consistent in my life. It's my writing, no matter what. I don't care if there are people who think my writing is bland, or lifeless, doesn't meet the criteria of things they want to see, its my writing. I've seen countless hobbies come into my life only to be discarded in the darkness of my wardrobe, or that top draw, or wherever. Reading and writing have been with me consistently for rhe past 10 years, they were there when I needed them the most and I can only hope that my own writing will be there for someone else.

I still see people online saying you need to love the craft, and it's true. But love isn't just the good times, or the bad times, or a combination of the two. For me personally, Love is commitment. It's knowing you still want to wake the next morning to and continue the fight.

I wake up everyday and despite not having written anything consistent in years, all the characters I've created whose stories I want to tell, theyre still there (I KEEP TELLING YOU ALL, MY BRAIN ISNT FREE REAL ESTATE, PAY UP!), they're still patient bc they know why is haven't written. And I know I will write again.

In the end. No matter what,

I'm still a writer. And so are you.