#i think me and good ol Harry are almost just completely different people
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Unfortunately I think I am too much of a people pleaser to play Harry Dubois the way he's intended to be played
#man we owe money and we gotta find our badge and weapon#and a fridge to store the corpse in until we can investigate it#i think me and good ol Harry are almost just completely different people#disco elysium
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20 Questions (for fanfic writers)
I got tagged by the absolutely lovely @sarah-sandwich Thank you!!
1. how many works do you have on ao3?
17 :)
2. what's your total ao3 word count?
157,867 (2/3 of that is SMH hahaha)
3. what fandoms do you write for?
atm all my WIPs and upcoming fic ideas are Spidey related, but I used to write a lot for MLB and OL:BA (and A:TLA back on ffn in hs but we don't talk about the dark ages hahaha)
4. top five fics by kudos:
Under The Moonlight - OL:BA smutty oneshot of what should have happened after the charity ball scene 😳
Crushtomer - MLB coffee shop AU one-shot with Barista!Adrien and Overworked Uni Student!Marinette (heavily inspired by my barista days in College, when I was writing this) ☕
King Agreste - a MLB AU oneshot inspired by the Grimm fairy tale Allerleirauh "all-kinds-of-fur" 🏰
You Said You Loved Me - an MLB kwami swap identity reveal wip i never finished and probably never will sorry 😬
Spider-Man: Homesickness - My take on what the MCU Spidey's life could be like 5 years post: No Way Home and his journey into letting people back into his life and not being so alone (My CURRENT BABY and WIP that I'm ALMOST DONE WITH - it's so fucking long alskdhasasjdkhksdjhfkfh my hope is that it ends up in the no. 1 spot someday when it's complete) 🕸️
5. do you respond to comments?
So I didn't always, but nowadays I try really hard to respond to every comment thread at least, even if I don't always have the last comment on the thread. I really REALLY appreciate each and every comment and I actually often re-read them when I'm feeling insecure in my writing (is that cringe? maybe lol but it's true)
6. what is the fic your wrote with the angstiest ending?
Definitely The Beauty of Green. 268-word OL: BA drabble that smacks you out of nowhere in the last two sentences. I never write things that short anymore but it just worked
7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
A lot of my one-shots back when I was writing for MLB like 5 years ago have happy endings. I prefer more *complicated* endings now, but a genuinely happy ending can be nice too. May I present Drops in a Pond for consideration though? Not traditionally fluffy or sweet, but I like to think it's a soft and hopeful kind of ending.
8. do you get hate on fics?
I haven't yet. I think I'm too small of a creator to get hate lol
9. do you write smut?
I've posted one smut fic before, Under the Moonlight, listed above. It's my top-rated fic so I guess I know a little of what I'm doing. OH and my side-wip I'm working on when SMH is too angsty for me is all fluff and kinky Parkner smut and I'm so excited to post that someday when SMH is fully out and done.
10. craziest crossover:
I haven't written any crossovers, unless you count pulling from marvel canon across different adaptations to make SMH (it's got Gwen and Harry and Miles even though they're not in the MCU 19999 as of now). But I used to write a lot of aus
11. have you ever had a fic stolen?
I don't think so
12. have you ever had a fic translated?
No, but I would be so honored if someone did! I once had a full conversation in the comments with someone in another language by using Google Translate and that was fun!
13. have you ever co-written a fic before?
I think my writing process would be a little too unconventional to co-write with someone unless we were trading chapters and perspectives. I go back and edit my drafts a lot as I move forward and I would be too tempted to edit their writing too, which feels mean...
14. all time favorite ship?
I LITERALLY CAN NOT PICK DO NOT DO THIS TO ME!!!!! I will be a multi-shipper until the day I die, in basically every fandom.
15. what's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
I have an idea for a series of long fics making an MCU HS AU inspired by Degrassi, but I think it would be just too many hours and too many words that I won't ever commit to. I love a good HS AU every now and again, but I feel like a lot of people (across fandoms with hs aus tbh) write the characters as if they already have a lot of the canon quirks the characters have as adults. I would want to write them truly as their HS selves, acting like real teenagers and all the dumb shit teens do, as the reader follows along on the journey of their growing up.
16. what are your writing strengths?
I think I really like detail and trying to portray a level of reality with the characters, even in more fantastical settings. I want the character's choices and motivations to be both complex and clear to the reader, even when they're making choices that the reader disagrees with. I also think this is a skill that is more and more prevalent in my recent writing, so my earlier MLB stuff doesn't have as much of it. My OLBA stuff and now my Spidey stuff though? Yeah.
17. what are your writing weaknesses?
Staying motivated to finish WIPS. (This is something I've improved a lot on though and at this point, barring some kind of life-or-death calamity in my life, I will absolutely be finishing SMH. I'm literally 120k of a predicted 150k words deep and going strong sooo).
OH ALSO comedy! I'm so bad at writing funny characters and making them actually say things that are both funny and make sense. Sucks when writing Spidey cause he can be such a little shit with his sarcastic comments and each dialogue point takes me 3-5 business weeks to come up with.
18. thoughts on dialogue in another language?
I do it very rarely and only when it feels 100% necessary. I had a small bit in Spanish in ch 6 of SMH because Jeff and Rio were literally talking about Peter right in front of him and he could hear the words they were saying, even if he didn't understand them. But it was very brief.
I did it because the POV character literally didn't understand it, so it made sense to have it written out. In fics where the POV character understands what's being said, I prefer it all be written in the fic's primary language, for reader ease.
19. first fandom you wrote in?
A:TLA, like I said. That was back in the dark ages of my Junior Year of HS on my old ffn account that will never see the light of day again hahaha
20. favorite fic you've written?
Every current WIP has always been my favorite because that is what I'm thinking about. So SMH is definitely my current fave. It's my baby and I've put literally hundreds of hours into it (I keep a spreadsheet lol, it's nearly 150 hours of sheer writing, not including the early days of brainstorming and outlining.)
HOWEVER, back in the day, I was really proud of writing Answer Me and it's literally my lowest-rated fic, but I was such a fan of the genre and the Night Circus inspiration. Plus, I love Alya as a character and it was really fun to write from her perspective.
OH, and I'm still proud of Under the Moonlight because it taught me that my acespec ass can write smut and is also good at it, lol. I just have to write smut that's rooted in ~*~feelings~*~ and also has an element of humanism and imperfection. Which is the type of vibe I'm putting into my side-wip rn.
Thanks for tagging me, Sarah!
no pressure tagging: @seek--rest, @abcd-em, @missamyshay, @pbpsbff
#fic writing#fic writer ask#ao3#foviewpoint#This was so fun!#some of these works are literally so old I'm a whole different person now#writer ask#Spider-Man: homesickness
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In Defense of a Black Cyclops
In case my username didn’t make it clear, the single most anticipated visual project for me is the MCU’s interpretation of the X-Men, which hasn’t even been announced yet [officially]. And ladies and gents, I have found your Cyclops:
Good ol’ Alfred Enoch, who we all know from Harry Potter and How to Get Away With Murder. If you’re not familiar with HTGAWM, know that his character goes from the de facto leader of the ragtag (murderers) and most cherished protege of Viola Davis’ Professor X to taking more of a grimdark turn after his girlfriend’s death. Sound at least somewhat familiar?
Enoch also embodies the physicality of the character well, seeing as to how he’s “slim”, 6′4(!!), black, and notoriously lanky. Wait, one of these isn’t like the others.
In general I hate fancasting. Everyone generally picks from the same pool of about 30 actors (Peeps, neither Taron nor Daniel is a good Wolverine choice. Argue with your mother!), and most all of it is based on physicality, except when it absolutely should be (like say, choosing a ~5′10 dark-skinned black woman for Storm).
And I think there’s some malarkey afoot. I think there needs to be some serious consideration on part of fancasters and actual casting agents alike to rethink race when it comes to the [white] X-Men, especially since they’re the X-Men of all teams. So I’ll make the case for a black Cyclops:
1. There is no quota on Black X-Men: There’s a bug in your ear that’s been whispering lies to you for years, it says something to the effect of “We need a black person on the team for diversity. How bout Storm?” And you’ve gotten complacent. Storm does not have to be the only black person on your X-Men roster.
2. The X-Men represent diversity: Iceman is gay, Cyclops and Prof. X are disabled (sorta), there are plenty of women, oh and everybody except Storm is white. Of the A-List X-Men, there is only *one* POC character. I’d argue that an MCU X-Men needs to champion diversity like never before.
3. The X-Men represent minority struggle while being mostly white: There’s a cognitive dissonance in the metaphor that has always been there, and for the most part, nobody cares. To appeal to the white readers of the 60′s, the X-Men were all initially white. That way, the message of the mutants could be related to the audience with a familiar face. We don’t need to approach the problem that way in 202?
4. Just because that’s the way it’s always been, doesn’t mean that’s the way it should be: The first line of defense. Sorry, that will never be a good justification for literally any idea. It’s time for some more critical thinking.
5. We don’t all want to be Bishop: So say you’re white and you have a kid who for his birthday having a costume party. You’ve bought some X-Men costumes and you want each kid to pick one. 9 white kids and one black kid show up to your house. As the kids deliberate who gets what costume, be it Cyke or Wolvie or whatever, you yell at everybody to “STOP!”, point to the one black kid and tell him “You’re gonna be Bishop. That’s it, end of story!”
We don’t all want to be Bishop. The black child could have the best Cyclops interpretation within him, but you’ll never know if you don’t let him try. And that’s no different from the Black actors of Hollywood. There’s no reason why all of the black talent should *have* to compete for the role of Bishop or Storm, which I’ve discussed, while Joe Schmo can walk up and audition for literally anybody he wants.
Jharrel Jerome is 23 and has an Emmy to his name. He needs to be in the MCU in some capacity, period. Stephan James is another. How bout Damson Idris. Ashton Sanders. But no, no, let’s fancast Dacre Montgomery or Ansel or Joe Keery again as [Human Torch, Wolverine, Iceman, Angel, I’ve literally seen it all.]
6. Nobody wants to see the B-team if it comes down to it. The next line of defense from your racebending naysayers after “That’s the way it’s always been!” is “Well, what about Psylocke, Bishop, Forge and Jubilee?” who are otherwise known as B-tier X-Men. The problem is, we’ve got limited time and limited spots.
So since the X-Men is all about wonky metaphors that make half sense, let me give you another: Let’s say somebody approaches you and says “Hey buddy, I got two free concert tickets for ya! You can either see Michael Jackson Sings the Blues, or you can go see Justin Timberlake. Free of charge!”
Now, are you used to MJ singing the blues? No! Do you have a problem with going to see Justin Timberlake? No, he’s fine on a Wednesday! He had that one little diddy we liked that one time. We’d love to see him eventually! But are you gonna say, “fuck that, I’m going to see MJ Sings the Blues” regardless? Hell yes, because that’s still Michael Jackson. He’s gonna give the same amazing performance he always does, it’s just gonna be the blues. And speaking of blues...
7. Black is not Blue, Brown is not Blue: Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard this one: “I don’t care if you’re black, white, purple, or green, I’m going to treat you all the same!” I will not say all have this intention, but some fancasters have noticed that the racial diversity is kinda low within the A-List X-Men, so they oh-so-generously give the following roles to a black or brown person: Iceman, Nightcrawler, Beast.
Notice the pattern? It’s a microaggression, and it’s bullshit. What these fancasters are implicitly telling you is that, yes the actors will be black or brown, but when the action starts we can ignore that. They’ll be blue by then. In other words, you in fact do care if they’re purple or green. Nobody will cry foul if Dev Patel gets to play Nightcrawler (because that’s a common one I see), but should Anna Diop be Starfire or Michael B. Jordan be Human Torch, I bet there’d be backlash. Oh wait. If that’s you, please stop acting like you actually value diversity. You don’t want to see black or brown skin, period. Unless of course, it’s Storm (refer to point #1).
But wait, there’s more! When brown characters get whitewashed in these movies, it’s crickets! So eventually it’s revealed implicitly that proclaimers of point #4 only care about it one way.
8. Professor X should not be black if you’re not willing to change anyone else: The next line of defense is that some people say the professor should be black, if anybody HAS to be racebent. Something something MLK Jr., Civil Rights or some shit. Number one, I’m not reducing Professor X to being a magical negro for 9 white people (and Storm!) who for all intents and purposes get to have all the action. Number 2, the Professor X/MLK/Magneto/Malcolm X comparison is an oversimplifying disservice to ALL FOUR of those people. I hate that line whenever I see it, please watch a documentary my friends.
9. The Candidates for Racebending: For me, the A-List X-Men are Cyclops, Jean Grey, Iceman, Angel, Beast, Wolverine, Storm, Gambit, Rogue, Colossus, Nightcrawler, and Kitty Pryde. Now, who should be exempt from the racebending? Storm, she’s our designated minority. Gambit, he’s Cajun and they’re white (generally speaking, that’s a fun bit of research). Wolverine, Colossus, and Nightcrawler, because their nationality/ethnicity was the whole point of the Giant-Size premise in the first place. Angel, because his character embodies a privileged white male. Beast and Iceman, I don’t care one way or another (Point #7).
That leaves Cyclops, Rogue, Jean Grey, and Kitty Pryde. Now Jean Grey is a redhead, and we all know that every time a redhead is racebent people sharpen their pitchforks (Mary Jane, Wally West, Iris West), so I will cede the ground on Jean if only so that my ginger friends can get their rep. Kitty Pryde is Jewish, but Jews of color exist. Rogue is from the South. And Cyclops is, well, just Cyclops. That makes those three characters good options for more diversity. But allow me to make the case for Cyclops, specifically.
10. It’s not just diversity for diversity’s sake: If you had to pick who the main character of the X-Men is supposed to be, most would say Cyclops. And so in a series that highlights racial discrimination in society, it makes sense that our main character be black. While changing Cyclops’ skin color should not change who he is as a character, it *should* recontextualize it. Now, as an eventual increasingly radical leader of the X-Men, Cyclops would evoke real life figures such as Colin Kaepernick or, shall I say, Martin Luther King, Jr.
Not that most X-Men fans and writers truly think about what it means to be black anyways. Storm’s minority status is almost always put through the lens of her being a mutant and not her being a black woman. In other words, you can’t argue that making a character black will fundamentally change his or her character when you haven’t even analyzed the racial context of the black character(s) you already have. Another concept that the MCU X-Men should tackle: intersectionality.
11. Representation matters: I have to say it: Chadwick Boseman’s Black Panther hit different. And now he is tragically gone. At the end of the day, the MCU moving forward is down its most prominent black male superhero. Which has implications beyond just the movies themselves.
The women are in good hands. Shuri, Okoye, and Nakia are badasses in Wakanda, Valkyrie is ruling Asgard, Storm is almost assuredly on the way, RiRi Williams has already been cast, and Monica Rambeau is here and she’s not even at her most glorious yet. That doesn’t even include variable Δ, or the number of characters who can and will be racebent. And I’ll note again that to me, Gamora doesn’t count, because she’s green (#7 really pisses me off because it’s so blatant. I hate it). Of course from a behind the camera perspective we love black women getting work.
The men are a completely different story. Imma just go out and say it, I can’t stand Falcon and War Machine [in the MCU] because they’re not characters, they’re just two of a slew of MCU minority sidekicks who have essentially been at the beck and call of Captain America and Iron Man, respectively. You cannot tell Falcon’s story without mentioning Cap. The reverse is not true. There’s a whole essay that could be and have been written on “Minorities in the MCU, pre-Black Panther”. Remember, there’s a reason BP made so much noise in the first place.
So excluding those two we have, let’s see, M’Baku, Blade, and Fury who aren’t exactly the most superheroic superheroes, Eli Bradley is proooobably coming, I doubt Miles Morales is coming (because he’s just Peter Parker in the MCU), Luke Cage(?) Bishop(??), Sunspot(???), Blue Marvel(????). Not only are they not A-List, I would not put money on any of them being in the MCU any time soon.
Cyclops is thee Captain America of the X-Men. He’s the frontman. He’s the poster boy. He’s the “boy scout”, which in other words means he’s the hero, if there has to be one. It would mean a lot right now, and specifically *right now*, if he were to be black. The MCU needs it. It NEEDS it.
12. The X-Men is the Summers Story: I’ll even make the case that if just one character needs to racebent, then it should be Cyclops, because that of course implies that other related characters need to be black because half of the X-Men universe is in fact a part of the Summers family.
So now Cable is black. Corsair is black. Havok is black. And one of the most central stories in the X-Men mythos, the Summers family drama, is now a black family drama set in space or the future or where the fuck ever. The concept is boundary pushing. When white families have drama in the media, it gets to be Game of Thrones or Star Wars, while when black families have drama in the media, it has to be black people arguing in a kitchen or living room about their various earthly traumas (I’m @’ing you, Mr. Perry). I mean, that’s all fine and good often times, but I want my black family drama in space, dammit.
And again, this is the X-Men, the series that’s all about *minorities* and their struggle, so again, why not?
Oh, and I’ll even throw out a Havok fancast for you: How bout Jharrel Jerome?
#cyclops#scott summers#the mutants#monica rambeau#X-men#xmen#marvel#MCU#fancast#jharrel would actually be a better sunspot#but you get the point#my man would have OPTIONS
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unlike me {fred weasley x reader}
Words: 8k
Summary: You, a shy Hufflepuff, have caught the eye of Fred Weasley.
Genre: fluff
Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - did i just write pure fluff? wow. i’m learning.
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Fred Weasley doesn’t do things to impress others. He never has. Trying to please others is so far from his mind when playing one of his pranks that it’s almost laughable to think he and his twin brother do anything for the sake of attention. They live to amuse themselves, and nobody else.
But sometimes the reactions of others do catch his eye. It happens rarely, but there have been the odd times when Fred and George are fleeing from the scene of one of their usual messy pranks, and Fred will look over to see someone standing there, staring open mouthed and wide eyed at the scene in front of them, and he will turn back to the path and smile because - yet again - he has left somebody speechless.
More often than not these days, that person is you.
Fred doesn’t know much about you; you’re clearly very shy, hardly ever being spotted in the hallways unless you’re making your way to your next class, and even then you’re prone to keeping your head down, refusing to talk to anybody who wants to talk to you. Fred doesn’t know if you have any friends, if you want friends, if you’ve ever looked at him and wondered what it would be like to talk to him…
“So, Harry, tell me a bit about that one over there.”
Harry looks up from his breakfast plate, eyes still fogged from a night of no-doubt restless sleep. Beside him, Ron is still trying to wake himself up and Hermione is hastily flipping through a gargantuan textbook. It seems to Fred like the Chosen One may be the only one at this moment in time in a fit enough state to answer his pressing questions.
“Huh?” he replies.
Fred leans forward a little more, so close that his mouth is very nearly touching Harry’s ear. “That one over there.” He nods over to the Hufflepuff table. “The one sitting on their own.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “Y/N L/N? What about them?”
“They’re in your year, aren’t they?”
“I think so. I don’t really know too much about them; they’re quite quiet, really.”
“Yeah,” Fred and George say together. “We know.”
Harry raises a brow, flicking his gaze to the twins standing on either side of him. “Why? Are you both interested?”
“Just ol’ Freddy Boy here.”
Ron scoffs. “You? Getting in with Y/N L/N? Mate, that’s about as likely as Percy showing up for Christmas this year.”
Fred slaps Ron on the back of the head. “Shut your mouth, you git.”
“So, what? You really think you have a chance with them?” Harry asks.
Fred shifts uncomfortably; he hadn’t meant for the conversation to get this far. All he wanted was for Harry to tell him a bit about you and that be it - he was fairly confident he could handle the rest on his own using his incredible charm and humour.
But now these snotty little fifth years are making him second-guess his own abilities, which has never happened before in his seventeen years of life.
“I think so,” he replies, trying to keep his voice as confident as possible. “Why wouldn’t I have a chance? I’m charming, and witty, and-”
“And loud, and annoying, and centre of attention literally all the time,” Ginny finishes, waltzing into the conversation. She sits down next to Hermione, pinching a hash brown off Harry’s plate. “Y/N is the complete opposite of that. You’ll scare them away before you even get a chance to ask them out.”
Fred frowns. George says something in his twins defence, but Fred has stopped listening, instead choosing to glance over to where you’re still sitting, smiling shyly at the Hufflepuff boy who has just taken a seat next to you. It’s clear - and always has been clear - that you get plenty of attention - you just don’t want it. Fred has watched you get shy and awkward, shuffling away from people who so much as grin in your direction. Fred has even watched you scurry away when he walks past, and at this point, he isn’t even surprised; the scenes Fred finds him in are far from the types of scenes you’ll want to be caught in.
You really are very different people, and Fred isn’t stupid enough to deny that. Nonetheless, there’s something about you that has always caught his eye, from the day he was a puny little second year, watching you scramble up to the Sorting Hat. Even then he found himself staring at you, fingers crossed in the hopes you would get sorted into Gryffindor, that he could find an excuse to lead you to the Common Room himself - not Perfect Percy - but then you were being sorted into Hufflepuff and an awful long time went by in which Fred did nothing to pursue you.
But now he’s in his sixth year. If not now, then when?
“Have you ever tried speaking to them?”
Ron’s voice snaps Fred from his daze. He looks down and shrugs.
“Not really.”
“That's not like you,” says Ginny. “Have we actually found someone who makes you shy?”
Fred scowls. “I’m not shy. Y/N’s shy - I’m just respecting that and keeping my distance.”
“Good on you, mate,” says George, before he ducks his head down and whispers loudly in Harry’s ear, “Every time he sees them, he wets himself a little.”
Fred kicks his twin. “Would you lot give it a rest? I’ll talk to them today, alright? You’ll all see.”
“Oh, don’t wind him up,” Hermione tuts, slapping Ron on the arm when the group of youngsters start laughing.
“Oooh,” George says. “You’ve got Granger sticking up for you, Fred - who would have thought that would ever happen to us?”
“I think it’s cute that Fred likes Y/N,” says Hermione, sitting up a little straighter. “I don’t know much about them, but I think someone bringing them out of their shell could do them a world of good.”
Fred can’t help but grin; the thought of it, of you actually giving him a chance - it makes him unnervingly happy. “Cheers, Hermione.”
Fred takes that tiny bit of assurance and carries it with him throughout the entire day - he doesn’t really know when he’s going to make his move, just that he is.
At some point.
He has no classes with you. He barely sees you in the hallways. He doesn’t share a common room with you - the situation is really not working in his favour, but Fred Weasley will not let such a drawback ruin his plans. He’ll find ways around it, just as he finds ways around everything.
The solution finally comes to him at 11:00pm.
He should be in bed. He knows he should be in bed, that if Filch were to see him right now, the old man would be going absolutely ballistic, overjoyed with the idea of giving another student a detention. Fred has the advantage of the Marauders Map, plus a lifetimes worth of sneaking around, but that doesn’t make him feel any less nervous.
He’s been out of bed after curfew plenty of times before, but never has he crept into another common room whilst doing it.
He heads towards the basement, checking the Marauders Map every few seconds to ensure Filch and his filthy cat are as far away as possible. His mind is working at a million miles per hour, because for the first time in his life, Fred is convinced he’s being stupid. The amount of protective charms that must be on the doors of these openings would be insane, and Fred is insane to think he could ever try and get past them, but god, he can’t go down to breakfast tomorrow without making some attempt to talk to you, just like he said he would, just like Hermione-
“Eep!”
Fred spins on his heel, nearly falling over a body of armour stood in the corner. Multiple paintings rouse from their sleep, and the ones that were already awake break into fits of giggles. Fred doesn’t even acknowledge the tiny noise that made him jump in the first place, instead choosing to desperately hush the paintings around him.
“Shut up. Sh! Filch will hear and then we’re all in trouble!”
“Speak for yourself, Weasley,” says Doogle Doolaly through a mouthful of giggles. Fred shoots the painting a glare before abruptly remembering what had caused him to stumble in the first place.
He spins around. To his surprise, you’re still there.
You, standing right in front of him with both hands clapped over your mouth, eyes wide. You’re wearing a pair of yellow bed robes, hair a mess. Fred has to take a minute to just stare.
And then, “What on Earth are you doing out of bed?”
Slowly you lower your hands, biting your lower lip as you stare right back at him; Fred, though pleased, finds this quite odd considering he’s so used to watching you avoid eye contact as much as possible. “I was walking.”
Your voice is quiet, timid.
Fred tilts his head. “Walking? At eleven at night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
You nod. Fred nods back. The two of you stand a good five feet apart, unsure of what to say or do to make the silence go away - of course, there’s so many things Fred wants to ask, considering he was previously convinced you would never step out of line, but none of those questions are appearing right now.
Fred, however, knows this silence can’t last forever, so he’s the one to make the first move in breaking it.
“You alright?”
You look up, startled. “I’m fine. Why?”
“I was just wondering. You look like you’ve seen someone use an illegal curse or something.”
“Thanks.”
Fred’s stomach flips. “Not that you don’t look really pretty, because you do, but I’m just saying-”
“Why were you heading towards the Hufflepuff common room?”
Fred pauses. Have you just caught him out?
“How did you know that’s where I was going?”
“Because nobody else comes down here this late at night unless they’re a Hufflepuff coming back from detention.”
“You’re good at this, you know. Right little detective, you are.”
You shrug.
Fred sighs, rubs the back of his neck before saying, “I was just having an innocent little dander about. Those Gryffindor sixth years can be a rowdy bunch - it’s hard to get to sleep.”
“Oh. Okay.” You trace your eyes along his towering form, and for a moment, Fred is almost convinced you’re genuinely checking him out. It boosts his confidence a little. “Well, I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep. I’m also sorry for making so much noise - you startled me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a pretty scary person I’ve been told.”
Your lips twitch. “Who told you that?”
He shrugs. “It’s not so much a verbal thing. Sometimes sweet little Hufflepuff’s run away when they make eye contact with me.” He raises a brow, smirks when he sees your own smile fade, replaced by a mild look of embarrassment because you both know exactly who Fred is talking about.
You cough and awkwardly kick at the floor. “Sometimes sweet little Hufflepuff’s get a little shy.”
Fred’s confidence is really flooding back into his system now, and he doesn’t know why it feels different. This isn’t the confidence he carries around with him on a day-to-day basis, the confidence that allows him to play these big pranks without a care in the world. This is a type of confidence he has never felt before, makes him feel elated, like he can do anything.
He smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m Fred Weasley, by the way.”
“I know.” Your eyes pop open for a brief second. “I mean - uh - Ron. Ron is your brother, right?”
“He is.”
“I know your brother. He’s in my year. Goalkeeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, right?”
“Right.”
You nod, biting your lower lip in that way Fred has learned you do quite often when you’re flustered. “I heard of you - uh - from him. Yeah.”
Fred nods. He stares at your flustered form, finding amusement in the way you quickly look to the floor, trying desperately to avoid his gaze which has apparently now become too much for you.
He chuckles and pushes himself away from the wall he found himself leaning upon. “It was lovely talking to you, Hufflepuff. Try not to run away next time and maybe we can talk again.”
You look up and nod, lips twitching. Fred grins right back, bows his head to you before he walks off down the corridor, pretty darn pleased with himself.
----
“So how did it go?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
Ginny gasps, slapping Fred on the arm when her, Fred and George sit down to breakfast the next morning. “You kissed?”
Fred snickers. “No. But we spoke, and it was great. Y/N L/N is actually a bit of a rule breaker.”
Ginny raises a brow, reaching across George for a slice of toast. “Shut up.”
“He’s telling the truth,” says George, at the same time Fred says, “I’m telling the truth.”
“Wow. What were they doing to break the rules?”
“Walking about after curfew. Lucky I was there, or else Filch would have had them.”
Ginny scoffs. “Because god forbid anyone be as sneaky as you two.”
“Exactly,” the twins reply.
“So what was the conversation like?” Ginny prods. She wears a distracted gaze in the hopes that Fred won’t see just how curious she really is, but Fred sees right through her.
“It wasn’t bad,” he replies. “A bit short, but that’s easily fixed.”
“So you want to keep talking to them?”
Fred raises a brow. “Of course I do.”
Ginny hums around the slice of toast in her mouth. “Cute, Fred. Cute.”
Fred opens his mouth to give a sarcastic retort, but gets abruptly distracted by the sight of you rising from the Hufflepuff table. He sits bolt upright, craning his neck to see over the heads of everybody else; you don’t spare him a glance, apparently retreating back to your usual, shy self. With your head ducked down and your books piled in your arms, you hastily make your way towards the exit.
Fred is standing up before he can even process he’s moved. Ginny and George watch him, both smiling maniacally as Fred utters a half-hearted goodbye and follows after you. He really has no plans for what he could possibly say when he finally catches up, but he’s decided to take every opportunity he possibly can.
He bustles out of the Great Hall, finding you only a few seconds after as you head back towards the Hufflepuff common room.
“Y/N!”
You freeze, spinning around as Fred jumps onto the step just below the one you’re currently standing on. He pants dramatically, clutching his chest.
“You move quick.”
You glance over his shoulder, hugging your books a little tighter. “Hi, Fred. How was breakfast?”
“Oh, good. Great, actually. I - uh - had toast.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Yeah.” He straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck; why is he suddenly nervous? “Where are you off to?”
“I have to go grab some books for my first few classes,” you reply, and Fred can’t help but note the slight tinge of amusement in your voice. “Where are you off to?”
Fred pauses; again, this was not something he necessarily thought through when he first decided to follow you out here. He really just wanted a chat, to hear your voice one more time before he was forced to go to classes.
He folds his arms over his chest as nonchalantly as he can manage, leaning against the banister. “I don’t think it’s right for a lovely wizard like yourself to be walking to class on your own; I thought I’d offer my services.”
You raise a brow, once again taking a cautious glance over Fred’s shoulder to ensure nobody is around to hear his flirtations; nonetheless, you make no attempt to stop him, which he takes as a relatively good sign. “Well, you can walk me to class if you like. I have to get my books first, though.”
Fred gestures up the stairs. “Lead the way.”
And so you do. Fred follows you all the way to the Hufflepuff common room, where he is forced to wait outside whilst you gather your belongings. His stomach grumbles, evidence of his uneaten breakfast, but he doesn’t even care right now. Not when you walk out of the common room, all smiles and nervous glances. Fred offers you his arm, and it’s with only the slightest bit of hesitation that you take it and allow Fred to lead you back through the school hallways.
“What is it like in there?” he asks.
“In where?”
“The Hufflepuff common room. Surely you can hear all the house elves rattling about in the kitchens at night.”
You shake your head. “The walls are soundproof; did you know Muggles have soundproof things as well?”
Fred raises a brow. “You’re not obsessed with Muggle stuff, are you? My dad’s into all that stuff - I’ve heard enough of it for a lifetime.”
You giggle, and Fred is fairly certain his hand starts trembling.
“No, I’m not obsessed,” you say. “I do find some of it interesting, though. The similarities between our world and theirs.”
“Are there many? Similarities, I mean.”
You shrug. Looking to the side, Fred can see your face suddenly change; what once was an expression of nerves and uncertainty is now one of interest and intrigue as Fred asks you questions on a topic you are clearly very invested in. It makes his heart lift, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop the smile from spreading and making it too obvious.
“A few I’ve picked up on,” you reply. “They still - like - wear clothes and stuff. Just different styles. And they live in houses, and go to school-”
“School? Don’t insult Hogwarts like that. Muggle school and wizard school aren’t even comparable.”
You furrow your brows, glancing up at Fred. “But they still learn.”
“Not the important stuff. Not like we do.”
“And what would you consider important?”
Fred hums, gazing wistfully into the distance. You giggle again. Finally, he says “aha!” and clicks, whirling on you. “Right, tell me this - do Muggles learn Defense Against the Dark Arts?”
You frown, grip tightening on his arm. “I don’t think so. They don’t have magic, so it would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, but it’s important. What are they gonna do if a Dementor comes knocking on their front door?”
“There’s nothing they can do, even if they knew the basic stuff we know. They don’t have magic, Fred.”
Fred grunts. “Must be a hard life having to do everything by hand.”
“I agree.”
Fred chuckles, glancing down at you. Your eyes meet his for a fraction of a second before you bite your bottom lip and avert your gaze.
“Go on then,” Fred continues. “Tell me some more similarities. You’ve got me interested now.”
“Really?”
“Mm.”
You tilt your head in thought. “Well. . . I suppose the way their government system works is quite similar to ours.”
“Explain.”
“They have people in power. A system of higher-up’s, if you will, who control everything.”
“Is theirs as corrupt as ours?”
“Oh, definitely. Sometimes I’d even argue they’re even more corrupt than ours.”
Fred’s eyes pop open. “Blimey. How has the Muggle world not completely broken down?”
You laugh. Full-on laugh, eyes squinting closed and head thrown back. Fred can’t even bring himself to laugh alongside you, suddenly too engrossed in your enjoyment to indulge in his own.
You hiccough yourself back to reality before looking up and saying, “Surely your dad could teach you all this stuff if he’s so interested in Muggle affairs?”
“He’s interested, but he’s also a bit oblivious. Doesn’t matter how many times Harry tells him what a telephone is, he still has no idea how it all works.” Fred shrugs. “Plus, I enjoy my lessons much more when you’re teaching them.”
You stiffen, lower lip hiding - yet again - behind your teeth. You swallow thickly, and before Fred can do anything, you’re unwinding your arm from his and picking up your pace, calling a quick, “I’m gonna be late!” over your shoulder. Fred falters mid-way, staring after you with his mouth dropped open and confusion making his stomach churn.
Someone crashes into his shoulder as you round the corner. “Nice one, mate.”
“Shut up, George.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s going too well.”
“It’s - it’s going fine.” Fred curses under his breath - now you’ve got him stuttering? “They’re just a little shy. But I think they like me.”
“Oh yes, the most obvious sign of attraction - running away.”
----
Fred is beginning to get very tired of his classes.
He’s only here for the sake of his mothers sanity; god only knows how Molly Weasley would react if he showed up at the Burrow six months early, claiming he was finished with school before he’d even managed to bag an acceptable amount of N.E.W.T’s.
But he doesn’t want to be here any more. He’s getting tired of forcing himself to listen to things he only half cares about, getting tired of being told off for things that - honestly - the teachers should just be used to by now. It’s not like they haven’t seen it for the past six years.
He grunts to himself as he and George walk out of History of Magic. Yet another boring lesson that seemed to drag on much longer than necessary; all Fred has to prove he was there at all is the doodle of a cat in the top hand corner of his notebook.
“I need a sleep,” George says. “His bloody voice exhausts me.”
Fred opens his mouth to respond, but his twin brother cuts him off by slapping a hand to his arm and pointing straight ahead.
Startled, Fred looks up. Standing by the gargoyle just outside History of Magic is you, hugging your books whilst awkwardly looking back and forth, as if afraid one of the passing students is going to stop and harass you.
George snickers. “Go on, mate. I think they’re looking for you.”
Before Fred can object, get himself together, George shoves him forward hard enough to make him stumble. Your head snaps up at the sound of Fred saying “You git!” and Fred is quick to lean against the wall, look at you and say, coolly, “Y/N. What a pleasant surprise.”
You stand up a little straighter, lips twitching. “Hi. How was class?”
“Boring.” He smirks. “Much better now that you’re here, though.”
The unmistakable sound of George snorting as he passes by floats between you. You smile, giving Fred’s brother a nod before you turn back to Fred and say, “Do you fancy taking a little walk before break ends?”
Of all the things Fred expected to happen today, you asking him on a walk was certainly not one of them. It takes him a second to reply, and it’s only the realisation that you’re probably just as nervous as he is that he snaps out of it and nods.
You wind your arm through his without him having to offer; his cheeks are burning.
Together, you set off down the hall. It’s quiet for a little bit, Fred still trying to figure out what’s happening, and you inspecting each and every one of the sculptures you pass, as if too afraid to look over at Fred.
Finally, however, you break the silence. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
Fred’s stomach jolts. “What are you sorry for?”
“For how I reacted. You were just being nice and I - uh - I don’t really know how to handle that kind of thing.”
Fred perks an eyebrow, glancing down at you with genuine curiosity. “I find that very hard to believe.” Because he does. He finds it downright unbelievable that compliments are not something you have grown used to across the five years spent in Hogwarts.
You shrug. “Well, believe it. I really appreciated what you said, but I just. . . I don’t know how to respond, or if you’re telling the truth-”
“I was definitely telling the truth.”
You bite your lip. “I shouldn’t have ran off like that. It must have made you feel awful.”
Classic Hufflepuff behaviour - thinking more about other people’s feelings than their own.
“You know,” Fred drawls, “if my flirting makes you uncomfortable, just tell me and I’ll stop.”
“No!”
Fred’s eyes snap down. You look back up at him, eyes wide before you realise the abruptness of your protestation and hastily avert your gaze to the floor.
“No,” you say, softer now. “I - uh - I don't think you should stop. I quite like it, actually.”
Fred smirks, keeping his eyes trained on you even as you fight desperately to look anywhere but him. “Do you fancy me, Y/N L/N?”
“Oh, give me a break, Fred.”
“I think you do.” He rubs his cheek against your own. “Just a little bit.”
You jerk away, slapping his arm. “Well, it’s not bloody difficult, is it?”
Fred falters, though his smile only widens. “What does that mean?”
You groan, pulling your arm from his yet again. Fred stumbles back, unable to help the laugh that bursts from his throat at the sight of your flustered state.
“I’m going to class,” you announce.
“You didn’t answer my question!”
“I don’t have an answer to your question.” You stand there a little longer. With a smile still beaming, Fred watches as you take a single step forward, a step back, another step forward-
And then, as if telling yourself to just get it over with, you jump forward and press your lips to Fred’s cheek. His jaw drops open, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before you’re spinning on your heel and rushing away, rounding the corner without so much as a wave in his direction.
Fred swallows thickly, reaching up to brush his fingers against the area you have just kissed, just like they do in those cheesy Muggle movies his mum is so fond of. He can’t believe the feeling that comes with it - his heart is going to explode.
Oh, no…
----
The Hufflepuff table is boring compared to the Gryffindor table. That’s the first thing Fred notices.
Maybe it’s because his friends aren’t with him. Maybe it’s because George flat-out refused to accompany him. Maybe it’s because Fred is nervous, and he’s angry about it, because since when has Fred Weasley ever been nervous about anything?
This morning, however, he is pushed on by the memory of your lips against his cheek. That is his only source of motivation, the only reason he doesn’t flick Ernie MacMillan on the back of the head when the Hufflepuff boy turns and scowls at the Gryffindor student currently making his way towards you, sat at the very end.
You have yet to look up from your textbook. Fred takes great pleasure in wrapping his arms around your shoulders, your body jumping back against his in your shock. He leans down and chuckles in your ear, moving his head so you can see his clearly amused features.
Immediately your eyes widen. “Fred! What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d come have breakfast with you.” He waves his wand; a sausage springs up from Ernie’s plate, which he catches before biting into. “Like a date.”
You bite your lip. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Uh, Y/N?” Ernie calls over as Fred takes the empty seat next to you; he doesn’t miss the way you barely look up when you hum in response to Ernie’s - quite frankly - rude call of your name. “You know the houses have to eat together. He’s breaking the rules.”
You shyly look up. “Oh, Ernie, let him sit down…”
“Yeah Ernie,” Fred jeers. “Let me sit down, you nosy little git.”
You choke on the pumpkin juice you just lifted to your mouth, spinning in your seat to hide the amused smile growing uncontrollably upon your face. Fred grins, placing his hands on your shoulders.
“Did you like that?”
“You’re impossible,” you hiss, slapping his arm. “Just ignore him. He’s got a grudge against anyone who plays for Gryffindor.”
“Yeah, I know.” Fred narrows his eyes, craning his neck a little to see over your shoulder, where Ernie sits with a scowl on his face. “He better not give you a hard time for hanging out with me, you know. You’d tell me if he was?”
You shift so you’re covering Ernie’s face and are now the centre of Fred’s attention. “Of course I would. Plus, Ernie doesn’t scare me.”
“I’ll certainly scare him if he so much as-”
“Fred,” you laugh, nudging his knee beneath the table. His eyes drift back to you, his body immediately relaxing at the sight of your glowing smile. “Calm down, okay? He’s got nothing against me - it’s you and the Gryffindor team he’s got a problem with.”
“Is that supposed to make me hate him any less?”
You shrug, plucking Fred’s hands from your shoulders and placing a hash brown between his fingertips. “He’s got a point, you know. You are breaking the rules by sitting here.”
Fred raises a brow. “Right, I’ll leave if you-”
“No!” You latch onto his arm, pulling him back to the bench as Fred bursts into yet another round of raucous laughter at how easily flustered you become. “No, you should stay. Dumbledore isn’t even looking.”
“If I was any less wise, L/N, I’d think you want me to have breakfast with you.”
“I just don’t get to see that much of you,” you mumble.
Fred coos; he’s trying so hard to keep up the fun-guy persona, putting on a mask of confidence despite the speed at which his heart is hammering in his chest at the moment. You make it so easy for him to feel this way, too easy, because sure, Fred has had crushes on people before, but never has he put himself out like this. Never has he wanted to make someone laugh so much. Never has he been so proud of being the reason for someone else’s smile.
Fred leans forward, lowering his voice. “That’s very cute.”
“Yeah, well…”
He chuckles, flicking your heated cheek before he takes a bite from the slice of toast you’re holding. You jolt upright immediately, swatting him away with a glare. “Hey!”
He licks the butter noisily from his fingers. “Yummy.”
You roll your eyes. “Get your own breakfast.”
“But yours is so much tastier.”
You grab another slice of toast from your plate and push it against Fred’s lips. He opens his mouth, takes a bite and hums appreciatively.
And then the world stops.
It really is like those scenes in those cheesy movies his mum watches all the time, where the room seems to go still and it’s like nobody else exists. Your fingers hover inches away from his face, your eyes cast to his lips where the slice of toast has just disappeared. Fred swallows, his own eyes drawn to your lips, slightly parted, so soft looking-
“Weasley! What do you think you’re doing sitting at the Hufflepuff table! Get back to where you belong right this instant!”
McGonagall grabs a fistful of his robes, pulling him up from the bench. Fred gasps, stumbling up with his eyes still locked on you. You hastily look back down at the table, pushing hair out of your eyes, trying to avoid being told off by the Deputy Head.
“Awk, lay off, Professor!” Fred exclaims. “I was having fun!”
“You were breaking the rules, Mr Weasley. You can integrate with your pals whenever breakfast has finished, but until then-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Fred grumbles, giving you one last glance. It’s to his utter relief that he sees you looking back at him, a tiny smile on your face. Fred winks before McGonagall shoves him forward, back into his seat at the Gryffindor table.
----
When Fred receives your note, he is sat in the Gryffindor common room with George.
Homework litters the table in front of them, unfinished and not understood by either of them. Hermione had long since gone to bed, insisting she wasn’t going to help people who didn’t want to help themselves. And so, the twins sat up until the late hours of the night, staring at their homework with a sense of frustration building between them.
Fred feels certain he’s going to snap at any given moment; this whole school thing really isn’t working out for him nor George, and the two of them have such prestigious dreams that sitting in a classroom all day just feels like a waste of time. Maybe that’s why he can’t bring himself to properly concentrate on his lessons. Maybe that’s why neither he nor George care as much about grades as all his other siblings.
“Right, so clearly Flitwick was on something when he wrote this,” says George, scowling at his charms homework. “He didn’t even mention flying charms last lesson, so why has he-”
The fireplace suddenly erupts.
Both Fred and George jump at the sudden interruption, swivelling round in their chairs to catch a glimpse of what has happened; they both know full well the kinds of things these fireplaces can permit, and neither of them want to deal with anything too dangerous at this time of night.
In the fire, however, is not the face of a Death Eater, or anything close to such - instead, a single piece of paper sits in the ashes, Fred’s name printed in bold across the top.
The twins frown at each other. George makes a suggestive gesture, all but shoving Fred closer for inspection.
Fred stumbles, sends George a glare before he bends down and picks the piece of paper up. Immediately the handwriting is recognisable by the lazy flick of the letters, how effortlessly neat it looks. It would take Fred hours to write a note that looks like this, and yet he’s watched you scribbling notes down; this is undoubtedly your doing.
Suddenly he’s smiling.
“Oh, here we go,” George groans, noticing his twins expression. “You’re sending love notes to each other now?”
“Shut up.” Fred sinks down into one of the armchairs, reading your note thoroughly. “Y/N wants to meet up.”
“Right now?”
“Mhm.”
George raises a brow. “Have you two even kissed yet?”
Fred’s eyes snap up, cheeks heating before he can stop them. He never ever gets flustered around George, but the mention of such a thing has his stomach flipping. “Why do you care?”
George raises his hands in mock surrender. “Never said I did, mate, but the smile on your face right now would suggest at least a peck on the cheek or something.”
Fred scowls. “No, we haven’t kissed. We’re not even properly together, so drop it.”
“How does that make sense? You both fancy each other-”
“Yeah, but it’s nothing official.” Fred lazily flicks his hand, clicking his fingers so the note folds itself into a perfect square and zips into his robe pocket. “You wouldn’t understand these things, Georgie Boy. You’ve got to take it slow.”
Goerge scoffs, throwing a pencil at Fred. “Very bloody slow apparently. But I forgot, it’s a Hufflepuff you’ve got your eye on. They tend to be a bit hard-to-get, don’t they?”
Fred opens his mouth to protest, to stick up for you, but he can’t even deny the truth in George’s words; a fair amount of time has passed since the two of you first started talking, and all you’ve done is say you enjoy his company. There’s been no kissing, no hand-holding, nothing even close to being considered romantic.
Fred is okay with this, of course. He’s in that very weird head space where even just being in your presence is enough to satisfy him; he catches glimpses of you as you parade from one class to another, and that is enough until he sees you again at lunch, or dinner, or during breaks.
He sighs, pushing himself up from the armchair. “Don’t wanna leave them waiting, do I?”
George scowls. “What about our homework?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I’m not covering for you if Flitwick asks what you were up to that’s more important than his homework assignments.”
Fred grins, not even giving a response as he clambers out of the common room and ducks into the hallways.
He knows exactly where to go, even though he’s never met up with you after hours before - not since the first time, which he doesn’t even count considering it was entirely an accident. To this day, he still isn’t convinced that wasn’t some type of dream - a Hufflepuff, out of bed after hours? Not a single soul would believe him if he told them.
Fred makes his way down the corridor and grins when he sees you standing there; you’re much braver than him. Fred, personally, feels much safer when he’s wading through the halls - it makes it more difficult for Filch to catch him if he’s not stationary. You, however, seem to have no issue with standing behind a suit of armour, waiting patiently for Fred to round the corner.
“Hola. Bonjour. Hello. Hi.”
You look round, face immediately lighting up. “Fred! Hi!”
He’ll never get used to that greeting.
“Y/N! Hi!” he mimics. “I got your note.”
“Good. Great. I was worried I did it wrong.”
“You? Do something wrong?” Fred screws his face up in an expression of mock confusion, which prompts you to roll your eyes and nudge him. He grins, stuffs his hands in his pockets and says, “Out after curfew again, eh? Have I finally corrupted you?”
“You must have,” you reply.
Fred tilts his head. “What’s the actual reason you invited me out?”
And that’s when your expression shifts.
You bite your lower lip in that way you always do, eyes darting to the ground awkwardly. Fred raises a brow, leaning forward a bit in his attempt to get you to look at him again, but you suddenly seem much too embarrassed to even be giving Fred the time of day. His stomach flips with uncharacteristic anxiety, and he can’t stop himself when he steps forward and places a gentle hand on your elbow.
“Hey. Did something happen?”
The words burst out of you in one breath. “I left my book in the bathing room and I’m too scared to get it myself but I really need it to help me sleep, so I was wondering if you could help me get through the hallways without Filch knowing and then I promise you can go back to bed and never speak to me again.”
You take a sharp breath before looking away again, apparently too embarrassed by your request to even look at him.
Fred takes a moment to reply. He has to untangle your words first, and then he has to bask in his amusement at how embarrassed you were by asking it; personally, he doesn’t see the problem. He’s happy to help. In fact, he’d be pretty annoyed if it wasn’t him you were asking.
“Alright.”
Your eyes snap up. “Really? I mean, you don’t have to, I just thought - well, you know your way around, and you’ve dealt with Filch-”
“You don’t need to explain.” He offers his arm, just as he always does. “What book is it?”
And it’s with only the tiniest bit of hesitance that you take his offered arm and allow him to guide you through the corridors he apparently knows so well; in truth, he doesn’t tend to go out after curfew all that often, because he gets all of his mischief done in the day time now. But you were indeed correct in saying he knows this place better than anyone else. He and George spent the majority of their school careers finding secret passageways and little hiding spots they could use at any given time. As he listens to you talk about the book he’s about to try and save, he recalls each and every one of these hiding places whilst keeping a sharp ear out for Filch.
The two of you arrive at the bathing rooms and Fred pushes open the door. It squeaks, and you wince, glancing at Fred anxiously; he merely places a hand on the small of your back, pushing you further into the room.
He follows, closes the door and exhales heavily. “Made it. Now where’s that book you’ve lost?”
You skitter around the edge of the massive bathing pool; it’s still filled to the brim with forever hot water, always clean despite the amount of people washing themselves within it on a daily basis. Fred stands on the edge, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watches you rush to the far side of the room, rummage around in a basket of towels before pulling a particularly thick book out from beneath them.
You look over, smiling broadly with the book pressed against your chest.
Fred raises a brow. “Happy now?”
“Overjoyed.”
You skip back over to him, pulling open the front cover to look inside. Fred leans forward, reading the confusing inside blurb over your shoulder.
“And you use this for a bit of light reading in the bath?” he asks.
Startled, you slam the book closed. “It’s good, honestly.”
“I’ll take your-”
Fred’s sentence is cut off by the sound of Filch yelling.
And it’s unmistakably Filch yelling, because Fred has heard it many, many times before. It always comes with that initial rush of panic, the realisation he’s been caught, and if he was with anybody else, that initial panic wouldn’t have even lasted. Now, however, he takes one look at your slack face, the horror swimming in your eyes, and he realises this is the first time you’ll have ever gotten in trouble with the caretaker.
A traumatic experience for anyone.
“Oh, god,” you whisper, dropping the book with a SLAM. You jump, scrambling to pick it up, but the noise only seems to draw Filch closer to the door. Fred has to think now.
He groans low under his breath, fumbling beneath his robes for his wand - a wand that has been left on the table back in the Gryffindor common room.
You jolt back up straight, hugging the book to your chest, and that’s when Fred does the one thing he can think to do right now - he grabs your arms and pushes you back, jumping into the deep end of the bath with you alongside him.
He holds you close, opening his eyes as much as he possibly can. He can hear Filch’s yelling from above, aggravated screams of “I know you’re in here! I know you’re in here! I heard you!” Fred simply pulls you closer, urging you to hold your breath for as long as possible.
But he can see you panicking, the air leaving you. He can see your lips threatening to split open so you can scream or cry or breathe, Fred doesn’t know, but he can’t let you do it. Not right now.
Without magic, there’s only one thing he can think to do.
He presses his lips to your own and pries your mouth open. He doesn’t know how this works. He read about it once in a Muggle Studies book, but he never thought he would ever actually need to pay attention to the details. He takes your relaxing body as a good sign, tightening his hold on your shoulders as he continues to breathe as much air into your mouth as he can possibly muster.
And then the door is slamming, and Filch’s screams are muted behind the gold plating, and Fred immediately lets go of you and bursts to the surface.
You follow, gasping for air, wiping water out of your eyes along with fat strands of wet hair. Fred pants, wiping his eyes roughly, trying so hard to find words for an apology but unable to gather enough breath to even think proper thoughts at the moment.
His heartbeat soars. He looks over at you; you’re already looking at him, and the entire room is silent besides your synchronised panting breaths.
You shove past the water, into his arms, and kiss him.
Fred’s eyes pop open wide, but his arms wind around your waist almost instinctively. His lips mould against yours, and once the initial shock has passed, his eyes are slipping closed and he’s falling, falling, drowning, never wanting to resurface ever again.
You pull away first. Water drips from your bottom lip, your eyelashes, your chin, and Fred has never seen a sight so beautiful. He reaches forward, swiping his thumb along your lower lip before he leans forward and gives you a final peck.
“Always full of surprises, you are,” he whispers.
----
Fred watches you. Leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest, he watches as you run the towel down your face, grumbling beneath your breath about how impossible it will be to explain your soaked robes to Professor Sprout.
Fred hasn’t even stopped to properly think about how the two of you are meant to get back to your respective common rooms without someone noticing; you’ll surely leave a trail of water in your wake, and Filch is already on high alert. Despite this, Fred can only focus on the kiss the two of you have just shared, and what it means for the future.
You sigh, slamming the towel down and turning. There’s an adorable pout on your face, eyebrows furrowed, hair still soaked and clinging to your skin.
“That really was a shock,” you say.
Fred chuckles. “Just the bit where we took a swim?”
“And the bit where you saved me from drowning.”
“And the bit when we resurfaced and you-”
You groan, waving your hands in front of you as if swatting a fly. “Awk, don’t. I never do anything like that. I probably did it all wrong-”
“You didn’t.”
“Kissing is just something I never got the hang of. I’ve only done it a few times, because I don’t really tend to like people that way, but-”
“But I’m a special case?”
You scowl, deflating. “You know you are.”
Fred grins that cheeky grin of his, pushing away from the door. He wades towards you and stops only when he’s close enough that you have to crane your neck to look into his eyes. “I think you got the hang of kissing perfectly fine. You’re a bloody natural.”
You blink. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” With that, Fred leans down and presses his lips to your own. It’s only slow, slow enough that Fred can feel you melt into him, your rib cage suddenly coming against his own, your fingertips brushing delicately against his waist. It’s adorable, feeling you lose yourself like this, barely registering what is actually happening.
He pulls away just as slow, so you can feel everything when he does so. Your eyes stay closed for a second before opening, lower lip retreating between your teeth, face hot when Fred brings his hands up to your jaw.
“Does - Okay, well, stupid question, but does this make us a couple?” you ask.
Fred laughs. “If you want, yeah.”
“Do you -”
“Oh, Y/N, don’t even ask that; you know full well I want to be your boyfriend. Full. Well.”
A grin splits your face. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his middle and placing your chin in the centre of his chest. “Yeah.”
#harry potter#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter fanfic#harry potter fic#fred weasley#harry potter x reader#fred weasley fanfiction#fred weasley fanfic#fred weasley fic#fred weasley x reader#weasley twins#weasley twins fanfiction#weasley twins fanfic#weasley twins x reader#weasley twins fic
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Yugioh Season Zero: The Yo-Yo Crimes of Jounouchi Pt 1
It’s been a while since I visited the many times Yugi should have gone to jail, AKA season Zero, and I’m excited to visit it again.
If you just got here, this is Season Zero, which is very different vibe and a different direction plotwise than the other seasons and you can read the season zero recaps from the start in chrono order here: https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yuugi%20muto/chrono
So be warned, this is a 90′s anime, and it will do 90′s anime things, and I expect y’all reading this aren’t like 12.
Like I said in an earlier post, I wrote this out fully when I was going through the symptoms from my second dose--which PS, is worth it--but those symptoms knocked me out for 10 days. I was kind of a space cadet, and yo, I made some mistakes. Including writing this post out in full and then not clicking “save” on this post and then not realizing I had done that until several days later.
So long story short, I don’t remember what I originally wrote here, but lets all assume it was weird, and didn’t make sense and wasn’t funny. We’ll just assume this was for the best that it was deleted forever.
So this episode is about 2 things: Yo-yos and Jounouchi. Both get used as a tool for violence, and both need to get just a little bit cursed by Yugi to scale it the hell back. So, understandably, we start off this episode with Jounouchi, who has eagerly identified with this off brand yo-yo he apparently got out of a dumpster for being just a huge ass defect.
(more Yo-Yo crimes under the cut)
I see you dodging copyright infringement, Yugioh. Eireboy.
Also whenever I read “Eireboy” I do it in my mind in the same pacing and vocal tones that Pegasus uses to say “Kaiba boy.” Something about it’s conjunction to Yugioh, I see anything with “boy” at the end of it, and it’s voiced by a weird guy with one eye.
So I wrote these caps under the influence of my second dose, just assuming y’all understand the life I lived, but I realized writing this episode...traveling bands of yo-yo performers that go to your school and shill yo-yos with yo-yo shows in the hopes that it will get you so obsessed with yo-yos that you will not join a gang and do drugs and have sex may be just an American thing.
So when I saw a yo-yo episode I was like “Tight! Clearly, the yo-yo clowns have come to town!” and I assumed everyone in this class would be draped in yo-yos, because I just assumed that at some point at School you will get MAD OBSESSED with yo-yos for about 2 weeks.
But in this episode, everyone was like “Jounouchi, why are you playing with a random yo-yo?” and it didn’t occur to me until typing this out just now: only Jounouchi is doing this. He did this unprompted, without the encouragement of a bunch of middle aged performers doing tricks to techno music.
So instead, I have to think of Jounouchi as Ralphie in this scenario, and he just got a official Red Ryder, carbine action, 200-shot, range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time for Christmas, but he’s gonna shoot his eye out.
Because yo-yos in this episode are basically guns.
...Kind of like a duel deck was also just a gun...
...or the wands in Harry Potter...
...which honestly...I’ve probably said this before but where I’m from, we just use straight up guns in these elaborate analogies because we freakin have to make the point crystal clear. The moment Ralphie finally got his hands on a bb-gun, he very nearly shot his eye out and broke his glasses. And that scene will haunt me until my dying day...
...but fine, we can use yo-yos, I guess it works, although to me, yo-yo’s are just teachers hoping you’ll become such a dork that no gang will accept you (and then in this universe, it does the opposite? So freakin weird).
The beginning of this episode is Jounouchi trying do his best to impress with his skills, but in actuality, getting very close to clubbing Anzu with a yo-yo. And, while Anzu is the strongest person in Yugioh in the later seasons, I feel like Season Zero Anzu is another level. It’s a serious tempt of fate that Jounouchi is doing, so Honda wisely cuts him off from doing any more of that so she won’t end up strangling yet another person in broad daylight in the middle of school.
Remember your yo-yo safety, children.
Straight up, Honda’s version of yo-yo safety is to just Never Use a Yo-Yo and that’s the most gun safety thing ever that they’ve slipped into this Yugioh Episode. I almost expected Yuugi to pull a “well, actually, I use a hunting yo-yo to get enough venison to feed my family.” But youknow, he lives in a city, so while Yugioh is pretty weird and Yuugi has to worry about a lot of things--he doesn’t have to worry about that.
This is actually foreshadowing, which I only realized in hind sight, mostly because I just can’t associate a Yo-yo with crime. Joey knowing how to use a yo-yo was foreshadowing that he was absolutely part of this gang in a past life.
Yeah that one went completely over my head the first time and the second time and it really wasn’t until just now that I finally caught it. Hoo boy, sometimes I wonder why y’all let me analyze this show.
Jounouchi decides to confront the yo-yo bandits and everyone else is like “Silly Jounouchi, he’s not gonna do that. That would be stupid.” And...in S0, they don’t know him well enough yet to know that he really is that much of a well meaning dumbass.
I think a S1-5 Yugi would have been sprinting out the door to keep Joey from killing himself (again), but Season Zero Yuugi had hope that Jounouchi would just naturally tucker out and fall asleep or something.
And he was so wrong.
Anzu’s “New Tricks” line was from the dub itself and man that’s a good line. I love Anzu’s sass in Zero.
So, Honda decides to help them find Jounouchi so all of them together could give Jounouchi an intervention for skipping school. This is the same Honda that once skipped school to babysit a tomagachi and said it was because of “Maternity leave,” but don’t worry about the hypocrisy, because from this episode we learned that Jounouchi needs a very short leash.
So this episode is a great Jounouchi episode to explain stuff that still hasn’t been explained in 5 seasons of Yugioh. In S1-5, we don’t get much about his home life other than his Mom left and his Sister lives far away and is like sickly as hell. We know nothing else. But this is the episode where we finally get to find out why Yuugi and his Grandfather decided to basically adopt him from S1 onward.
Yugioh is tackling some pretty heavy territory, but I respect the show for not trying to magically change Jounouchi’s parents like they did to Dartz. Instead, the crew decide to reach out and try to find their friend who clearly didn’t go home last night (and won’t be going back for a while), by checking every alleyway in Domino.
Fun fact Yuugi drops this episode, Domino is one of the biggest cities on Earth. This makes the Battle City Tournament even more crazy when you realize Kaiba shut down several blocks but, it also makes a tiny bit more sense how we have so many Millennium items in one place. (Yet...it still doesn’t explain Bakura and Joey’s accent.) And, I guess if your city is just extra large, you get an extra large warehouse district, too.
Speaking of, they eventually find Jounouchi at his new (but also old) crime antics mugging some random stranger next to this Game store that I just realized was cropped so it looks like it says “GANG.”
Say hello to our crime clown. He’s sort of like a discount joker, and that beanie is...man it is green.
I forget this green exists sometimes, but Season Zero has it as one of their prime colors. Good ol’ Retro Kaiba green.
I’m a little tempted to swatch Season Zero a bit and figure out their full color scheme--it’s really saturated, which is interesting when you compare it to the later seasons which are a lot more muted since...the 00′s were like that, they greyed a lot of colors out. But I’ll do it later if I do, maybe another post for another day.
Jounouchi and Honda, before they moved to the school with Yuugi in it, used to go to the same school and up until now I just assumed they were close friends. But apparently they were a lot more distant than that. I’m sure they met up several times as Jounouchi destroyed stuff and Honda came along in his volunteer janitor outfit to put the stuff the hell back, and maybe that’s how they got to know eachother better?
But basically, Jounouchi was the freakin worst, and Jounouchi’s best friend was Hirotani--this 45 year old 15 year old with the blue pony and turquoise fade--and Honda has SO MUCH hot goss to say about it.
I really get the gist that Honda may not have liked anyone else at his old school, like at all. Like maybe Honda likes cleaning up trash so much because his school was just trash top to bottom.
As is tradition, Yuugi got his tar beat in by Hirotani. Another concussion to add to his list of issues to tell his future therapist that lives in that puzzle he wears around his neck.
I still expect him to do a double cross, but it seems they wanted to keep it a relatable and more realistic fall-out, where Jounouchi has just bounced on them without even a goodbye. He and his Dad had a bad fight, and Jounouchi was like “well so long to all of this and everyone that has anything to do with it.”
In later seasons, Joey is the one trying to save other people. He’s saving his Sister, he’s saving Mai, he’s saving Yugi, but in this season Jounouchi’s friends had to save Jounouchi from himself a few times now.
I like this depth to his character, I’ll be honest. I can understand why S1-5 don’t touch on it, and I don’t think it’s because they didn’t want to have an abusive Dad storyline, because they did that several times over with Seto Kaiba (man the Dad situation in Yugioh is DIRE.) Instead they probably just felt like Season Zero already did it, so why do it again?
It’s just a shame that it wasn’t talked about in the other seasons. Joey makes a lot more sense to me now because we get to see why Jounouchi is so hard set on saving people. S4 Mai Valentine, who ditched everyone and joined a gang? That’s basically a Joey move, and that was why Joey Wheeler was all over that.
Really would have added a lot to that particular arc if the show...actually talked about Joey’s history at all rather than assume I would have watched something that was never released in the States. Instead...it just looked a lot like he had only romantic motivations, which may not have been what they were going for.
Speaking of romantic, check out this sunset. Like the sun is exploding for some reason--just a wild sunset you only see for a still frame before a commercial break.
As Joey, youknow, takes on an entire rival gang single-handedly.
Hey guys, I lived near a pretty big city most of my life and I have been on a roof...once. Just the one time when I was doing an internship in SF with a painter and we needed to take a reference photo of his painting for a gallery (and it was hella sketch, and we weren’t exactly allowed up there). Who are all these people giving teens Roof Access? It’s so hard to get! Even if you live in an apartment of a tall building, I can count on zero of my fingers the amount of times I was allowed on that roof. But TV shows and movies--they freakin love roof gardens and roof hangouts and roof fights.
Am I missing out?? How did y’all get on the ROOF? I know I’m on S5 of Yugioh now and I have seen a lot of roof stuff, but like...is this normal for everyone else? I know there’s schools that have roof sport--that’s common in the city everywhere--but that’s like...specialized roofs with 30 ft chainlink fencing and really good supports to your body doesn’t fall straight through it when you jump too much. The hell is using their normal ass roof?
This gang should have their legs swinging halfway into the floor below them, is all I’m saying, if my roof couldn’t handle our solar heating, then a normal ass roof cannot support a gang fight.
But it does look really, really cool.
Anyway, Anzu does some offscreen snooping and finds out where the crime hangs out, and suggests that we step right into crime zone and just yank Jounouchi out of there. Which is something you would only do and say if you were Anzu and cannot fear death.
If it were Jay’s it would be with an ‘s. That’s how you do a plural Jay. But it’s the 90′s, so we put a “z” on the end of everything that should have been an “s” and that’s how you get the...
I mean, thank you, dubbers, for not saying “Jizz” but for reals...that be Jizz.
Please don’t flag me, Tumblr. (which, PS, I think they turned off the flagbot, Tumblr hasn’t flagged me in forever and I’m so thankful. Mods are asleep, we can talk about anime again)
So even though Honda decided that he was fed up with Jounouchi and didn’t want to save his ass, he decided to give it another go but complete with some new sash. He also did this without telling any of the others, who just kinda spectated him for a little while.
Honestly, if they weren’t laughing at him, I wouldn’t have known that this sash was any weirder than any of his other sashes. I don’t know really know what a school uniform should look like. It’s a shame, I feel like this series has a lot of jokes and puns probably soaring right over my head.
A little bit embarrased he was caught being vulnerable, Honda decides to give us a little more context to why he ever decided to give Jounouchi the time of day in the first place.
They had PE class once, and Honda apparently loves the hell out of PE. Jounouchi ran really fast in a straight line that one time, and that is why he’s trustworthy friend material. He just needs to stop joining gangs, and he’ll be solid.
I have no idea if the fandub put that in there or if that was native to the show, but Miho legit stans Honda/Jounouchi and acts as if she’s off to write some fanfiction about it. Honestly if she did, it would make her so much more interesting of a character.
And so, until next time, we shall have to wait and see exactly what Yami Yuugi is going to do with a freakin Yo-yo and I’m sure it’s all sorts of real effed up. Excited to get there, honestly. A shame it had to happen on the part that isn’t dubbed yet, but I’ve done these subbed before, it’ll be fine!
#Season Zero#Yuugi Muto#Jounouchi#Honda#Anzu#yo-yo#Jounouchi joins a gang#Gotta go save Jounouchi's ass I guess#Miho#she was here too I guess#Just a great Jounouchi episode for the Jounouchi stans out there
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Frat Boy Pt. 18
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 (1), part 7 (2), part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13 , part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17
NOT having to wait a year for another update?! WHO AM I?!?!! A new woman I tell you. Fortunately (or not) Frat Harry’s the same ‘ol Frat Harry. And this time you let him into your life a little more. But will he stay? Enjoy loves, lemme know what you think ;)
“So turns out Mike’s bottle of tequila was $350 and John and I had already dank all of it. When Mike told us how much it was, we just had to be the full dicks. You start apologizing at block parties and you lose your edge. Stuff is borderline evaporative!” Father looked around at our unimpressed faces and his red face grew darker, exploding from wheezing laughter. “Oh, come on! It’s funny!!” His wheezing subsided with a toss of his eyebrows. He shrugged dramatically. “Good thing I appreciate my humor.”
Paul sat at the head of the table, the top two buttons undone on his blue business button-down. He made eye contact with me, both of our eyes widening. I’d given him a quick side-hug, one of those awkward lean-down-because-the-other-person-is-too-lazy-to-stand-up hug. It’d almost been a year, but it was the same customary greeting we’d developed. Their plates were already stacked in the sink, but my mom had readied plates of mash potatoes, string beans, and steak for Harry and I.
They were sprawled out, tummies full, all of them looking like they’d had long days at the office. Father especially. His face was reddened like the whites of his eyes, his hair standing on end.
I poked at my steak.
“You missed it, Y/N. He’s already five glasses in,” Paul continued. Teasing father was the one thing we could connect on - but he enjoyed it a little more than I.
Mom leant over the table, rolling her eyes. “At least. This is his ‘not drinking during the week,’” There was a smile, though.
Dad held up his hands. “Hey! I haven’t had one sip of tequila. Wine is like water now.” He turned to Harry, as if his frat boy radar sensed a fellow drinker in his midst. “You have that problem…?” He fished for a name.
Harry’s shoulders straightened. “Harry.”
“Harry?” he asked.
Before Harry could answer, Paul’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar.”
It was like somebody sprinkled coked-out fairy dust over Mother. She sat up straighter, eyes twinkling, and sprawled her hands on the table as if to reveal the grand hurrah that Harry was the heir to all the land. Which, in modern day Newport, perhaps he was. I tried to come up with something to rescue Harry, but she beat me to it.
“His dad’s a doctor here. Coast Shores Medicine. Mr. Styles runs his own practice.”
“He can speak for himself,” I grumbled, stuffing my mouth with mash.
My mom stirred, voice low, “Honey, I was just letting them know.”
My dad’s eyes bulged out of his head before erupting into laughter. “You- you’re-” He pointed his finger, looking between Harry and me. He laughed more.
“Dad,” I warned. It’d clicked in his mind. At the end of summer, before I’d even known the Styles legacy let alone seen Harry’s face, we’d walked past the Styles medical office and my dad absolutely BLASTED their ostentatious display. My dad’s boisterous - Can you believe this idiot??! MORON! DIPSHIT! - blared in my mind like a flare gun.
Father caught my daggers. “Oh, relax,” he wheezed, settling down. He wouldn’t say anything, for now. “I transferred more money into your account today by the way.” He winked, pointing to me. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” But I shrunk in my chair. I know Harry wasn’t one to talk about living off family money, but I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea either.
Completely oblivious, Harry smiled politely, answering Father’s previous question. “We all have our vices.”
“Speaking of addicts-” Paul started.
“Oh, God,” Dad huffed.
Paul put his hands up with a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t targeting you, but now that you mention it-”
“Paul.” I frowned.
My warning tone flipped a switch in him.
“What?!” It was sharp, full of irritation, and no matter how long it'd been since I’d heard it - I stilled. His eyes challenged me to press him further, but I didn’t. “Can I speak?”
“All right,” mom said. “Let’s settle down.”
“I’m calm,” Paul declared tersely. “I don’t know about your daughter.”
I scoffed, fighting the urge to bite back.
Harry tensed, and if I was an inch further I wouldn’t have heard his breath get a little deeper.
Without breaking his stare, Paul sat back in his chair, pushing up his sleeves. “Okay,” he started. “As I was saying. I don’t know if you guys saw on the news - probably not, but there was a scandal at the company last week.”
The company – AKA Rich Silvang Industries. Paul went straight from college and his internship to full-fledged Wall Street investment banking. He was only three years older than me, but he hadn’t lived at the house since he was eighteen. By 17 ½ all his things were in boxes. Meanwhile, I was almost twenty-one and still had half my things in my old room.
Mom practically gasped. “Really?” her voice swam with concern.
“I think I saw something about that,” Dad mentioned, putting on a serious tone.
“Maybe you did hear about it, then. It’s pretty big. The president was caught in his Vegas penthouse suite filled with drugs, and they arrested him for drug trafficking. They’re searching for someone to replace him right now.”
My mom’s hands dropped in her lap. “Wow.”
“Could you be the replacement?” I asked.
“Ha, yeah. I wish. I’m a few years off from that.” One thing you need to know about Paul - he has a plan for everything. If he wants something, he’ll buy every book to learn the ins and outs before making a move. His career was no different.
“What’d they find?” Harry asked, brows stitched in curiosity.
Paul puffed out a breath. “Everything. Heroine, cocaine, meth, ecstasy. It was just sitting there, in his suite. His girlfriend’s arrested, too.”
“God, what a dipshit,” Dad breathed, irritated disbelief. “This guy has all the money in the world-”
“Three thousand million dollars,” Paul corrected.
“Three tHOUSAND MILLION-!” Father squeaked. “God, if I had that money- GOD, why the hell would you piss it away like that.”
“Greed,” Mom said. “Is this the same president who donated all that money to helping foster children? The one invited you for a weekend in Aspen?”
“There’s only one president, mom.”
“Well I hope you didn’t USE anything.”
Father ran his hands through his hair, still distraught at the impotence of those with money to enjoy their money. “I mean, I’d be fishing on an island somewhere.”
“On YOUR island that you BOUGHT,” Paul pitched in.
“With three thousand million,” I breathed. “If someone has everything in the world…” my voice trailed. Human nature was a mystery to me. A complete and utter mystery sometimes. Why get involved in drug trading when you had more than you could possibly need. You could fish off your personal island and then declare that island it’s own country if you wanted to. You could give hundreds of thousands of people access to clean water! Education! Tampons!! Essential things!!!
Harry suddenly rested his hand on my thigh beneath the table, completely silent. My mom caught the action, a knowing smirk appearing on her lips.
“Money is wasted,” Father sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his belly. “Oh!! Speaking of, I have an important question for you.”
It took me a second to realize he was looking at me. “Yeah?” I asked, skeptical.
“Can you grab me another bottle of red?”
----
The hot water ran over dishes clattering in the sink, and I winced, but I didn’t pull away. I could still feel the crusted blood beneath my nails.
“Quick, somebody grab a camera.”
Father stood in the entranceway to the kitchen, hands up, mouth open in a ridiculous pressed circle like an orangutan. “Y/N’s doing the dishes!!”
“Haha. Very funny.”
Father sighed, running his hands over his face with a tired smile. “God that was a tiresome dinner, huh.” He tossed the empty wine bottle from hand to hand.
My eyes widened. “Yeahhhh.”
Harry, Paul, and Mother were still by the table, talking on some new financial law. I timed an escape perfectly. So had Father.
“Are you staying the night?”
“Hm.” I hadn’t thought about that. “Maybe.”
“Is he spending the night?”
I smiled, not sure what he was going to say to a boy spending the night. The situation certainly hadn’t come up before. “I don’t think so.”
“I mean, I don’t care. You’re an adult, you can do what you want. Mom might not like the idea.”
In any other case, I’d agree. But this was the Styles boy. I think she’d make an exception. As if knowing where my mind was heading, his blue eyes suddenly twinkled with something mischievous. He finished his thought out loud. “Styles, huh... Isn’t that funny. Where’d you meet this kid?”
“English class. Small world, huh?”
“For how small it is we don’t see Paul too much, do we?” he asked. It was a more serious question than I was used to. One that didn’t need to be answered.
My hand suddenly came too close to the metal faucet, burning it, and I quickly turned it off, moving the dishes to the drying rack. An old Patsy Cline song crackled through the old radio in the kitchen.
“I don’t see too much of-” you either. But the words died on my lips when I saw Father’s notoriously clear eyes, wet with springing tears. I stood, shocked, not quite knowing what to say. I couldn’t be mad at him. Not for money, not for drinking. Maybe it was the wine getting him emotional.
He gave me one of those dad smiles, patting my shoulder. He hugged me, a proper hug, and I stood, stiff, before relaxing, letting myself be held. I hugged him back, feeling like I was six and he’d just told me he was going away for business. “Let’s go to the shake shack soon,” he said, softly, the slight jokey tone trying to reappear. “S’been a while.”
Guilt pricked me. Guilt for growing up, guilt for leaving, guilt for something I couldn’t name. “Course, papa.”
Over his shoulder, I met Harry’s gaze from the kitchen table.
Later at the door, we stood telling Paul goodbye.
Harry stood behind me in a protective stance while Paul adjusted his briefcase. “So what are your plans for the rest of the year? Are you going to add that extra class next semester, finish early?” he asked, the business-technical tone coming back in his voice.
“I’m going to finish my internship at the practice.”
“Good. Good. Then what?” Only half-joking.
“I don’t know, I have another year to figure it out. Go to med school, probably.”
“Probably?!” He knocked on the door as he started to leave. “Time flies! Better figure it out, Y/N.”
I smiled, the only thing I could do.
“At least you’re going into something employable!” he called. The car beeped behind him, and he loaded his briefcase in the car.
I smiled tighter.
“She’ll be fine, Paul,” Mother waved behind me.
He waved back.
“Wait!” Mom called. “You’re not going to give us a hug goodbye?”
He jogged back up the side-yard to the door, giving them hugs. Harry a handshake. Me, a side-hug.
“Will we see you soon?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Thanksgiving.”
His brows rose. “Mom didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head.
“This was our Thanksgiving. I leave for Japan next Wednesday.”
“What?” I knew for a fact Thanksgiving was two weeks out.
“Honey..” she scolded. To Paul, “I told her we were going to do it early, she just doesn’t listen.”
“I’ll be back after Japan.” He exchanged a look with my father I couldn’t quite decipher.
Some vague memory of Mother telling me about an early Thanksgiving was there, buried beneath sororities, and gangs, and policemen questioning me. And beneath a thick layer of pig’s blood.
“Sorry, I forgot.”
But he was already in his car, closing the door behind him.
We stayed until the headlights disappeared, a sharp wind bellowing in and shaking the curtains. Harry didn’t stay to watch Paul leave. When my parents left for their room, I found him by the painted green wood table, picking at the edge.
“This is from my fourth birthday.” I pointed to a dark circle on the edge of the table. “I ate my cake so fast, the candles knocked over and almost put the whole house in flames.”
“You didn’t blow them out?”
“There was cake. I didn’t see the candles.”
He smiled. “You’ve lived here a long time?”
“Since I was born.”
“Not bad.”
I led him wordlessly through my past, going through the 70s living room over plush stained carpet, down the hallway past family photos. It was a wordless tour. He stopped in front of a gold frame. It was all of us, on the beach in white. Paul and I had our arms around each other, laughing with gaps where our baby teeth had fallen out and the new ones had yet to come in. Our parents stood behind us, trying to wrestle us in their own arms, wind-whipped hair covering half my mother’s face. Taken seconds before we all fell over and Paul kneed me in the jewels, Father liked to say.
Harry caught himself staring, easily catching up with me in the short distance to my room.
“The grand reveal,” he murmured.
I was suddenly nervous. He followed close behind, entering a space of Frank Sinatra and Elvis posters. My old white wire bed frame stood in the middle of the small space, Winnie the Pooh sheets and mismatched purple pillows on top. The rest was taken up by a large pink bean bag that touched the foot of my bed and the mirrored closet with a European travel collage I’d taped together in its bottom-right corner when I was sixteen.
He looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling, oddly reminiscent of his sister’s old nursery room. “It’s cute,” he finally said. And somehow when he said it, it didn’t sound condescending.
He approached the near-empty bookshelf against the wall, now holding my mom’s arts and crafts and random junk bins. Ever since I moved out, more of her had moved in. She still left the walls untouched, though. Harry plucked at a photo booth strip I’d taped to the walls when I was thirteen. The summer after middle school. Matt and I were smiling, tongues out, sticking up our noses, pretending to strangle each other…
He tried to tape it back, but the tape had lost its stick.
“It’s fine,” I said, taking the photo back. I propped it up against the bins.
“Do you have most of your books at the dorm?
“Yeah. The rest we sold a while back.”
“Spring cleaning?”
“Kind of??” I wrestled with whether to tell him the slightly more complicated truth. I’d hesitated too long though, and just came out with it. “Actually no, not really.”
He raised his brow, looking at my lips, waiting for me to digress. For some reason, I didn’t care if he knew. Maybe because I knew he had secrets, too. Even if he wouldn’t tell.
“When we were younger… about four years ago now? It was a really rough time, financially.”
Harry didn’t say anything, didn’t move. I continued, “We had to get rid of a lot of things to afford the lease.”
“You guys have been leasing this same house?”
I nodded. “It’s a lease-to-buy option. So maybe, one day…” I let my voice trail off. Maybe we’d own it. A potential dream, pretty impossible on paper. “It’s an old lady who owns this house, really sweet. She rents the house to us for a lot less than she could. I think it’s because she doesn’t want somebody else to buy it and tear it down, and she liked our family, too. She grew up here.”
He dusted the spine of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. “That’s one of the few I kept. Cliché, I know, but…” -I shrugged- “Who doesn’t love Mr. Darcy, right?”
He turned, a softness in his eyes.
“We had to sell a lot in the house to make the payment on-time. She’s sweet and has the final say-so, but her family essentially runs her finances. They’re not so sweet.”
“You had to sell your books?”
“They were nice. Rare. My Grandpa picked them up for me in antique bookshops he’d visit when he’d travel. People sell a lot more than that to make it… like their bodies, their souuulllll.”
“Y/N,” he scoffed.
“What?” I sat at the foot of my bed, watching a once-again awkward Harry not quite what to do with his body. “It’s better now! A lot better than what it was. We still live here,” I shrug.
“Why don’t you live somewhere else?”
He didn’t say what he was thinking. Some place we could afford.
“My dad needs to live by the water. It’s his lifeline.” I paused. “That, and wine. If he works this hard and dies tomorrow, he wants to at least enjoy it.”
“Your brother…-”
“Wasn’t always an ass.” I smiled.
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“I know.” I lay down, closing my eyes. I sensed him move towards my feet. “I don’t think he’s ever forgiven my dad,” I admitted. I didn’t say what for, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the words I’d wondered about for years, I regretted it. That was too personal to share, even to Harry. With the tact of someone who learned not to speak about his past, he noticed. He didn’t bat an eye, didn’t press, just silently accepted. He moved his hands along the only other Austen cover I had. Sense and Sensibility.
“You know…” he started, voice delicate as silk. “Austen’s dad went to a publisher on her behalf without even telling her.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “He got declined, but- still. He did everything he could to help her succeed with her work, with her dreams.”
“Where are you going with this Shakespeare.”
“I can see that in your dad. He really loves you.”
I propped myself up on my elbows. “You know, for a boy who’s supposedly failing his classes, you’re pretty smart.”
“Y/N,” he laughed lightly, settling in a strong gaze. “I was never failing.”
The room stilled. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” He gently nudged my legs over, settling in beside me. I turned on my side, the Austen book cradled in the nicest hands I’d ever seen. “I didn’t know how else to get you alone,” he admitted, a quiet confession.
“Josiah de Saude didn’t know how to talk to a girl.”
“Oh, come off it,” he laughed, my favorite shiny laugh. And suddenly I was grinning, too. “I used to know what to say.” His eyes ran over my face, lingering on my mouth. “But then you came along, Y/N,” he admitted. His smile faded.
With a strong gust of wind, the brush outside thwacked against my window. I jumped. It was always eerie, no matter how old I got. Inside, we had blankets, childhood memorabilia plastered to my walls, the steady thrum of a heater that’d just come out of summer hibernation. The outside wasn’t as calm as it was here. Here, in this mix of childhood and whatever it was that made my heart beat wild, we were safe. If only for a little while.
I almost forgot Harry was next to me before the back of his hand brushed my leg. His fingers stroked my thigh, the skin beneath him tingling. A simple touch was all it took, and suddenly each cell of my body was on high alert, informing me, fairly quickly, that he didn’t let his hands wander. Did he want them to?
“They’re coming after me now,” I said, when it was clear he wasn’t trying anything. His eyes were closed, but his nostrils flared when I spoke. The hickey he’d given me was still there, carefully hidden by pounds of coverup. My fingers memorized its spot. It seemed to burn anew, reminding me of its place as its giver’s face shadowed.
It needed to be said.
Maybe my paranoia wasn’t just paranoia. Maybe it was my sixth sense. A warning. Maybe they really had been watching me. Maybe they’d memorized his mark, too. I remembered Harry shouting at me before disappearing on the field. If they fuck with you, they fuck with me. Was I just a walking target?
“They won’t get to you.”
“They could’ve.”
“They aren’t dumb enough to do something like that,” he glowered.
“Something like what?”
Words stalled at the curve of his lips.
“Something like what,” I repeated, slightly panicking. What had these people done before? Wouldn’t be dumb enough to rape me? Kill me? Hadn’t they come close enough?? His chest rose with a deep breath. “Tonight wasn’t a mistake,” I whispered.
“You’re right, it wasn’t.”
“Well then what do they want? Because if it’s money they’re barking up the wrong tree.” I propped myself on an elbow, silently begging him to open his eyes. He did, hand running gently up my spine. “Do you even know?” I asked, suddenly horrified that he might be as in the dark as me.
He swallowed, hooded eyes darkening.
“They want what I have,” he said. “And they’ll threaten me in any way they can until they get it. They’ll fish out any weakness. And then they’ll exploit it.” His voice softened at weakness.
Money, then. They wanted money. Unless… unless his weakness was me? I shook the thought away.
“Why can’t you tell the police? Why can’t you just… tell them what’s going on?” I was becoming the girl I hated in movies. The girl that as soon as something horrific happened, she made an awful decision to try and solve it herself instead of CALLING THE DAMN COPS. Which is what I yelled at the screen, every time. CALL THE DAMN COPS. Which is what my brain was yelling at me, every day. CALL THE DAMN COPS. Neither of us listened.
“It’s more complicated than that,” he brushed off.
“Does this have to do with your ‘association’ with them?”
His voice turned sharp. “That’s enough with the questions.” A horrific tremble rippled up my spine. The tone, so harsh and authoritative, just like my brother’s, made my skin crawl. He looked at me, sighing. “Please, just trust me on this. The less you know the better.”
“It��s a little hard to trust you when you’re the reason I’m a target.”
My words lingered for a horrible moment. A long, drawn-out silence. I could practically feel them dissolve into Harry’s skin before he sat up, leaping to his feet.
I panicked. “I mean, it’s just hard to trust anyone when there’s so much that could happen. Things I don’t even know that could happen to me. Or even my family.” He scratched his collar, looking at our reflection in the mirror. My body scrambled upright, tearing itself from the blankets. “I don’t know what these guys are capable of. If you could just tell me, maybe-”
“I should go.”
“No, Harry- wait!”
He stalled at the door. I met him there, tugging at his sweater sleeve. He’d looked so lovely in my room, in a different part of my life he’d only just entered. And now to see him leave my safe place so suddenly hurt me deeper than I thought it would. He turned, begrudgingly. The green ivy of his eyes had cooled, hardened, becoming impenetrable.
“Don’t leave. Please. You can’t keep coming and leaving, it’s more than confusing, it’s… it’s completely maddening!”
He leaned his head back against the door, practically groaning, but pinched the bridge of his nose instead. He took several levelled breaths. Finally, “You think I want this?”
I stilled. “Want what?”
The horrifying possibility that “this” referenced us, petrified me. But the insecurity that he didn’t want me vanished when he looked traitorously at my waist, strong hands following suit. They gripped my sides, tugging me lightly forward. Suddenly I was drunk off the thought of them pushing me further, enough to make me dizzy... but they didn’t push. Strong hands kept me a safe distance apart, at any second looking like they could pull me into him or push me away.
“I want so many things, Y/N,” he breathed. “But all of them seem to do with you. And I don’t-” He seemed frustrated with himself as his brows stitched, trying to find the words. “I don’t know how to handle this. Everything’s so entangled.”
A knock at my door made us both jump. It creaked open, Mother poking her head in with a wide smile.
“I heard it was a good game tonight,” she half-whispered.
Harry cocked a smile, and his hands fell from waist. “Yeah, it was.” Guarded eyes look to me. “Y/N went with my sister.”
So he had seen. I couldn't tell if there was irritation lacing his voice, but there certainly wasn’t joy. Entangled….
“Oh, that’s fun. We’ll have to go watch you sometime huh honey?”
I nodded slowly, eyes wide, silently asking what in the HECK are you doing in here??
She drummed her fingers along the door. “Are you staying the night? You’re more than welcome to sleep on the couch. I know it doesn’t look that big, but it’s actually quite comfortable with all the blankets...”
“You’re so sweet, really,” he started. And Mother believed it. I believed it. His entire look softened. “But I can’t, unfortunately. I have an early practice tomorrow. And I have to get gas on my way home.”
My heart sank. The car. He needed to move my car.
“Oh, really?” Mother opened the door wider. “It’s getting late, though. It started raining…”
“I’m used to a little rain,” he said, slipping past my mother. I remained behind her, arms crossed. “Thank you for having me. It was a lovely dinner.” He looked to me, betrayed and abandoned, something sad and regretful brimming in his eyes. He lifted a finger to his brow in salute, then turned on his heel, heading down the hall.
“Bye Harry!” She called. Then, to me, “Don’t you want to walk him out?”
I shook my head, fighting back a slew of angry words as I sulked to my window. I opened it, wide, letting the first sprinkles of rain hit my face.
“Oh honey, shut that, you’ll get the sill all wet.”
“I just want to feel it for a little while,” I said.
“You’ll catch cold!”
“Mom, please.”
She flinched. “Okay. Just a little, though. Want me to close your door?”
I nodded, a gust of wind blowing and almost slamming it shut itself.
“A storm’s coming, Y/N,” she shivered. “Don’t stand there too long.”
I wasn’t sure when she left my doorway, but I knew when he left the driveway. An engine roared to life and the rain surged with a frenzy. I listened as the grumbling faded away, down the street and off to somewhere unknown - but not out of my life. That part wasn’t in my control, but there were things that were. I couldn’t stand around and wait for him anymore. Mother was right.
I closed the window, walking to the foot of my bed. Alone, a soppy looking girl stared back at me from the mirror. She sat on a familiar bed, wet hair plastering her face, droplets hanging from her nose, from her lashes. She looked only partly relaxed, the rest of her poised, tensed, like she could either jump or sleep in any given second. She looked exhausted.
But there was something alive, still. Just beyond her eyes, a little ember catching spark.
I wasn’t going to stand around. The window had already opened. The rain had hit the fan and it’d soaked me through. Nothing was going to change unless I did. Unless I moved.
Waiting for a boy to verify my safety?
Yeah, no thanks. If Madame Bovary taught me anything,
I’d get that myself.
part 19
#harry styles fan fiction#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles imagine#harry styles preference#harry styles one shot#harry styles angst#harry styles fluff#harry styles au#fratboy! harry#harry styles#one direction#1direction#fan fiction#hs#frat boy#one direction imagine#one direction one shot#harry styles blurb#harry styles smut#niall horan#liam payne#louis tomlinson#zayn malik#fluff#harry imagine#harry one shot#harry blurb#angst
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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 124
The next morning came too soon. You were sure both you and Tony had been tossing and turning endlessly. Thinking. Not getting much sleep. At some point it might just have been advantageous to stop pretending you were trying to get rest and get up. But the two of you stayed. Until about four in the morning, when your phone started buzzing on the nightstand. Always a good sign.
Reaching over without sitting up, fighting through your bleary-eyed haze after having a fresh twenty minutes of sleep, you practically slapped the phone down over half your face as you answered, “Yes- good morning- this is the CEO of Stark Industries.”
Tony’s voice was just as much a croak as he held up a finger, “One of the CEOs.”
“-one of the two CEOs. As you know, since you called my personal phone, office hours are-”
“We don’t have time for this.” President Matthew Ellis’ blessed voice cut through the rest of your fog. You didn’t remember there being a national emergency as your team argued the night before, so hopefully this wasn’t too serious. “I need you to take a meeting today. In my office.”
“I’m booked, sir. Can you find your way here?”
“No.” And then he just hung up.
Sure, he was the President of the United States. Sure, he had the authority to make some demands of his citizens- though, you’d _really _have to remind him that he worked for you. Not the other way around. It seemed like more often these days he was forgetting. But… you weren’t just a private citizen, were you. And the relationship you’d seeded with him… technically, these days, you did a fair amount of work on his behalf.
Today seemed like it would be no different. He didn’t sound harried or upset, so maybe that was a good thing. But less good was that he didn’t want to spill it all over the phone. That was the exact sort of thing that spelled trouble.
Tony put an arm over his head. “What’s good ol’ Matthew up to today?” Knowing, probably, that was one of the only people you’d address as sir.
You breathed out a long sigh. “I have no idea. He wants me to come in.”
“Alone?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Mandatory?”
“I mean. I don’t think he’ll send a tank to come bring me to the White House in handcuffs. But…” It was absolutely unlikely he’d make a scene like that. Too much negative press.
��So he’s counting on your good will.”
Your smile was aggravated. “Yeah. Seems that way.”
Shifting his arm up just a couple of inches and turning his head your way, the two of you shared a long, quiet look through the semi-darkness. Then finally, “Well at least it’s not re-election year. Can’t be anything too crazy.” You couldn’t exactly see it, but you sensed his small quirk of a grin. He then reached over, fingers touching along your forehead in a gentle brush. “You want me to come with you?”
It would be easy to say yes, of course I do. And maybe you should have. But… the timing of this was all a little convenient. And as Tony had put it so many times, how often had it been the case since all of this had started that things were just coincidences? “I’ll be alright.” Whatever this meeting was, it was just that. A meeting. You could handle that.
Leaning up on his other arm, his hand came down, palming your cheek, turning you closer as he moved in so he could press a kiss to your lips. “I know you will.” Murmured after he backed off. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Closer now, and as your eyes had adjusted by this point, you saw him a little more clearly. Just there in the space above you. “Stay here. I’ll go to DC and come back and tell you all about whatever it is.” Finalizing the decision. What a day. Getting on a jet to go to DC, take a meeting with the President and probably several others over some secret thing that couldn’t be discussed over the phone, and then getting back on a jet and coming home-
“That makes your afternoon booked. And we have a lovely meeting ahead of us I’m sure for the morning…” Moving a little further atop you, sliding in on his forearms aside your head. “What’s your evening looking like?”
“I’d have to look at my planner. Probably a little more Stark Industries skewed…” Lifting your arms, you wrapped them lightly around his neck, tilting up as his nose brushed yours.
“Why not just Stark skewed?” Humming the suggestive thought just over your lips.
The noise that rolled out of you was somehow equal parts agreeable and disagreeable. But only jokingly so as you said, “Asking me to put the CEO before the company?”
“Both CEOs, actually.” Grinning then.
“You’re more like a figurehead at this point.” Teasing him, unable to help just a light touch of giggles as his forehead pressed down against yours.
“Yeah? And you let that happen. In fact- you practically demanded.”
Your fingers moved up, touching up through the back of his hair, holding him close. “I don’t want to rule your empire alone.”
“Our empire.” Correcting you with just the barest touch of another kiss.
One you smiled into. “Mnhmn… ours… right. That’s why everything says Stark, and not-”
“I’ve said a thousand times by now. I know how to fix that. If you’d just let me.” A soft spark of a glow lit up between you. Probably a little too telling. But it was somehow better than the morning sun. Tony’s beautiful smile painted in your light. “Oh- is that a yes? Are you suddenly feeling differently-?” Cut off, though the followed noise of question continued as you quieted him with a kiss.
You couldn’t help yourself. The thought of a future unfettered by all this other nonsense- just you and Tony. Together. Like it felt like you were meant to be. It lit a spark in your heart. Reserved, obviously, only for him. When you tilted back, “The sun will be up soon.” The day would start, and with it the endless parade of bullshit that bothered the both of your lives. “Can I request-”
“Hmn. Anything.” Getting a little lost as one kiss turned into another into another…
“I’d like to bookend my day with Stark, if you don’t mind.”
“Which one?” Mouth quirked in a grin against your lips. “The man or the empire-”
“Tony Stark. If you please…”
His right hand eased down your side, fingers firm as they found your thigh, hoisting your leg high up against his side. “Oh I please.”
“Yes you do.” Said in a warm hitch of a happy gasp and a touch of delighted mutual smiles as he hiked your hips up further in his careful hands.
--------
After making the most of your personal time with Tony and a long shower, time was approaching to get to this random meeting Maria had called. You wondered if she would have done so had you not had the one previous about all this Fisk business. It must have depended on the severity of what she was about to say. ...and you also wondered if this had to do with the hundred or so emails Damage Control had been sending your way almost every week now. Most of them had been about staff- maybe… one or two about updates.
But that’s why you’d shifted her over. Because you trusted her to handle things like that. You hoped that hadn’t been a mistake.
For everyone’s benefit, you went out to get bagels, coffee, doughnuts, and a fruit platter. Maybe not a fancy breakfast for this makeshift meeting, but it would do. When you brought it all back up to the conference room your team had shared the night prior with Happy’s help, you saw Maria had taken over completely. She had a few members of her staff moving about in the semi-large room, talking over one another, going over papers, helping her set up projectors- several of which were already displaying information.
Steve was the first one actually there, and he must have asked if he could be of some use because he seemed to be stuck in the back corner with a stack of papers in his arms. As you set your small breakfast gatherings on the table nearest him, you offered him a small smile. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He seemed at the very least amicable. If not a little tense for the meeting ahead.
You suddenly felt that way, too. You had no idea it was this intense. “Did you ask somebody if you could help one too many times?”
“That obvious?”
“Old trick. Give someone something to hold and tell them to stand in a dubious direction. Keeps you busy. And out of the way.”
He at least found the humor to grin. “Seems like there’s still a lot of corporate culture I have to learn.”
The team eventually started trickling in, accepting your meager breakfast offerings, and chatting with one another. Although more than one pair of eyes looked to you for answers, you felt a little overwhelmed- and without information. Not really the best place to be. But, as Tony strolled in last one to the meeting, Maria sent the rest of her staff out just as Tony was scrutinizing a chart on the wall closest to you.
“Thanks everyone for coming.” She settled her hands together behind her. “Obviously I don’t have to tell you everything we talk about stays in this room.”
Bruce made a sweeping glance around all the screens in the room. “This all seems… serious.”
She gave a brisk nod. “We were trying to keep it under wraps. Take control without the need for… intervention.”
A storm started brewing and you tipped your head up to see Tony scrolling through one of the screens. That was bad. Maria started talking but he spoke over her, holding a hand out to faintly wave and point at the same time. “Someone’s gonna want to restrain the big guy.”
Bruce looked up. “Me?”
Half turning, Tony readjusted his point. “Other big guy.”
And when his gaze landed on Thor, he sat back with a confused look, hand to his chest. “What have I done?”
Maria cleared her throat. “Stark. That’s enough.” He held her gaze for a long time before turning and taking a seat next to you. She sighed. “Well, now that we’re ahead…” Feeling a mix of discomfort and ire. “After the public fall of SHIELD- and with Hydra escaping out of every hole they could, they made off with some assets before anyone could stop them.”
Oh no. Oh no.
A chokehold took over the room. But everyone remained silent. Hoping for the best. Knowing that wasn’t what was about to happen, though.
Maria started pacing very slowly, pulling stats and graphs and pictures into flow on the various screens. “Most of these we’ve started to recover. But there’s one they’ve been moving around. Covering their trail on while trying to conduct experiments.”
“Let’s just cut to the chase.” Tony stared up at her. “SHIELD lost the scepter.”
The scepter- Loki’s scepter. The one that had been used to brainwash people. The one that had been brandished in malice. The one partly responsible for the attack on New York- It felt like someone elbowed you in the chest.
In fact… that feeling was shared across the room. None more so than Thor, who slammed his hands on the table and stood. “This is unacceptable.”
A clamor of nervous voices all rose up but Maria toppled them all, “I agree.” Loud but not shouting. “We’ve been trying to recover it for a while-”
Steve scoffed. “How long is a while?”
Tony crossed his arms. “More than a year.”
Steve practically boggled. Disappointment and anger were not too far off. “And when were you planning on telling us?”
Natasha offered herself up, though she probably shouldn’t have. “Seems like we’re being told right now.”
A thought struck across the group. Nat and Clint had remained silent, and their gazes were indicative. But Steve was the one to make the claim. “You knew about this.”
Sensing that this meeting was due to fall apart into a shouting match you spoke up, “We can’t do this right now. We can’t start pointing fingers. Okay. Let’s just- let’s just summarize here. SHIELD failed. And is still failing.” Wow. Big surprise. You looked up Maria’s way. “You can’t secure the scepter. So you need us to go get it.” That’s really what this was about.
Her smile was bitter. “Damage Control is no SHIELD. And it’s certainly not the Avengers.”
Thor stood. “When we obtain the scepter- again- I will take it off this planet. Your people cannot be trusted with it.”
Clint made a very dark noise. “Right. Who was it again that brought it here in the first place?”
Bristling, Thor leveled a glare, “I will not have you speak ill of-”
Both you and Steve spoke over each other, “Guys, stop.” “Knock it off.”
And then after sharing a glance, he let you speak. “We can’t start fighting with each other.” Because this was heading somewhere much different than differing team opinions. “We found it once, we can do it again. Right?” Looking both Tony and Bruce’s way.
They shared an almost… peculiar glance, but then Tony folded his arms. “Sure. We can bust out the old tools. Get a scan going.”
Bruce gave a nod. “Shouldn’t really be that hard… unless Hydra started covering the output signals. Which… having all the data, I imagine they might have.” Sensing he was about to lead everyone right into another debate, he held a hand up. “But that’s not a problem. Like you said. We did it once already.”
A settled air of resolve and maybe a slice of your own relief touched over the group. This was going to be okay. You could get all this back. Your team could do all this. Maria should have just told you sooner. But… that wasn’t the SHIELD way, was it. “If that’s all, we can start going over your data-”
She cut the group down yet again. “It isn’t.” And when all eyes went up her way she sighed. “Hydra have also made off with a fair amount of Chitauri samples.”
Bruce’s brows raised. “Samples? Of what?”
Dread pooled in your stomach. Along with a heavy, and perhaps earned, amount of guilt. Tony took over. “Bodies. Weapons. Anything that dropped in New York they could get their hands on. And nobody said a thing. If you can even imagine that. Difficult, I know. Definitely no priors to go on.” Sarcasm heavy with disdain. He was as tired as the rest of you were of this garbage.
Recent? This was recently? Or was it… something somebody covered up underneath your watch? You supposed the information was here to look at. The data. Dates. Things that would make it clear- ...clear that no matter when it happened…
It was your fault.
“I take full responsibility for this.” Resigned to your position.
“You shouldn’t.” It was quite a shock that both Tony and Maria said this. And when Tony put a heated look her way she nodded and then lowered her head. “SHIELD took down a few of your Damage Control trucks between warehouses. It was the wrong move. And we’re paying for it now.”
Then, suddenly, all eyes were on you.
SHIELD had stolen from you what you’d tried to clean up. And because of them, Hydra now had alien weaponry. Alien bodies. Who knew how much. Who knew what they were using them for. Nothing good. That was for sure. It sounded like this had been going on for a while. And while SHIELD had still been up, they’d kept it quiet. And no doubt they’d destroyed the information before it could even come out.
It wasn’t as if Maria had tried to bully her way onto head of Damage Control. But she sure hadn’t had to think about it long when you’d offered it to her.
“Okay.” You took a deep breath. What more could you do? What would getting mad about this do? You’d just sternly told the team in-fighting wouldn’t help. Getting mad at Maria… it was worthless.
Steve put a hand down on the table. “This is not okay.”
Tony arched a brow. “We’re in total agreement, then. This is nowhere near okay.” He was waiting. Waiting on you to give him some word… permission to be angry on your behalf. Permission to do anything about this.
But you couldn’t keep feeding into it. “It’s not. But let’s make a promise right here. This will be the last of SHIELD’s mistakes that we pay for.” Then you shook your head. “Getting angry about this won’t solve anything. All we can do is clean it up. We’ll get back the scepter. We’ll recover the stolen Chitauri samples. And maybe if we’re lucky we’ll root out the last of Hydra while we’re at it.” You glanced around the room. At your team. “Are we in agreement?”
Fighting about this would not fix it. Fixing it would fix it. So you had to move forward. You had to hold everyone together.
When firm murmurs of agreement came in you stood. “Good. Maria, put together personal comprehensive reports. I want them in everyone’s hands by the end of the day.”
She held her arms together. “You seem like you’re leaving. We could go over all of it right now.”
“I have a meeting to get to.” Aside that… in order to keep to your word, you needed to get out of here. And cool down.
Steve cast a slightly disappointed but curious look up your way. “More important than this?” Probably assuming it was Stark Industries related. And therefore, clearly, not as important.
All eyes were on you as most of the team seemed to agree with Steve’s sense of responsibility. What on earth could you have going on that was more important than getting back the scepter and stolen Chitauri parts?
You simply smiled at them. “I have to go speak with the President.”
“Oh.”
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“Fiction = Reality” is Not the equivalent to “fiction affects reality” and it’s not even how the second phrase should be said.
“Fiction reflects reality” is a good hard statement, where cultural, social and pervasive ideas are pushed into major media- major media as what causes the next motion- which then gets slowly internalized and reflected back in reality as the world changes because it reinforces already established ideas. “Fiction affects reality but not on a 1:1 ratio but like a poorly reflected mirror, and on a major scale not a minor one” should be the established ideals.
For my explanation, I’ll use CoD, a major platform. Call of Duty is considered an excellent recruitment tool. Why? Because it glorifies military. Would this tool be as effective if we, as a full society and not individuals, decided the military was bad inherently and it was unnecessary?
Take a few moments.
If your answer isn’t no, then I’ll explain why you’re wrong. CoD would cease to be an effective tool because it’s a reflection with modifiers. There’s no consequences. There’s no social impact from the game’s killing, but firing a gun and murdering people online is carthatic. I’d even say it’s a useful thing. But without a positive societal idea of military, the recruitment tool would fall short because it wouldn’t reinforce perceived notions that the military is great.
In fact, try it. Try to convince someone who hates the military, that the military is great. By ONLY, and ONLY, making them play CoD
I beg of you to tell me how it went. Please I need the entertainment in my life.
Why major media? Because minor media actually has no giant impact socially and needs a different scale of ideals because it’s not on the same length as a major corporation or even major writers, in where curation now is widespread. Fandom is a niche interest and therefore more likely to invite people of varying social backgrounds.
This also is important because I’ve mentioned it before, these things play off of society, and society is fluid. In some areas, being transphobic and homophobic is so normal that talking against it is frowned upon, but in other areas it’s completely the opposite and those who are against regular ol’ people living their lives are judged harshly for it.
Online we forget, we have different societal influences and so the greater impacts on us change. Hence the pervasive idea some forms of media- fictional and not involving real people- are inherently harmful as a one to one ratio ends up being a false narrative. Because if everyone else believes America eats ice cream everyday, and you tried to push that idea onto an American, the American either will a) agree in jest, make jokes about it and such, or b) correct the misinformation.
Banning the fiction depicting the idea Americans eat ice cream everyday doesn’t do anything to prevent people thinking it. That’s not going to change no matter what you do.
Online and irl predators aren’t vanishing from bad fiction, school shooters from what we consider violent media would still exist. Rather if fiction plays a role, it’s a reinforcive role.
It reinforces the ideals that we have and therefore act upon, but is not causality, rather a smaller factor in a larger problem at large.
Which is to say, any fault of media is typically already a fault and we’re not capable of discussing a fictional impact on reality when we can’t even accept the idea fiction does not solely cause the atrocities but rather is non-sequiter and actually has almost a zero sum impact to influence actions.
The only media I’d say could be truly harmful, is Nazis in a positive light, for certain that’s a seriously big issued topic I’d rather leave for someone who is immersed in anti-nazi ideologies and actually could handle the careful mine-field of that topic.
Right now if I tried then I’d fail and likely mess up a serious issue, but I’d like to make the note now of it.
As for, “well Dragon, what the fuck do I do if I think fiction affects reality and helps impact people on a one to one ratio then if I’m wrong”. Easy. Educate.
Teach right from wrong, help break the societal norms. The only reason shows with mixed diversity can exist is because we’re breaking out, otherwise it’s a controversial issue that it happened and generates discussion on why someone’s doing that.
Get up, do some serious activism. These topics don’t disappear in fiction but already existed so if you’re that angry on them.
Fiction isn’t the problem. Societal ideals are. Target and destroy them with all you’ve got to break the cycle. Then we wouldn’t have such a problem with any form of fiction and fictional media existing because reality would be different as not something reinforced.
Smash the mirror. Don’t sit in front of it and say the reflection is the issue, don’t say the reflection is the problem. It’s a reflection. These ideas are pretty mainstream already. It’s time to make that a false idea.
Charicatures wouldn’t make such a societal impact, and these issues wouldn’t be as big if society wasn’t horrible, sure, fighting the charicatures is great, but fight the society that implements them as well because fuck, we n e e d it. That media generates healthy and positive discussions on why we shouldn’t be pieces of shit like that.
And when we don’t need them, when they are just racist/bigoted and unnecessary. It won’t be major media anymore because we’ll have destroyed the idea this idea can be pushed and profited off of.
Fiction is not reality. It’s a mirror. And we can’t even begin a discussion of fiction’s impact because people are too obsessed with fiction being the cause of the world’s problems.
Face it. This is a video games cause violence- research showed otherwise, DND makes people satanic- also Harry Potter and it’s both false, fiction causes LGBT+ people to exist- guys seriously you KNOW it’s wrong.
These ideas didn’t start by well meaning people, and it’s always been, “media causes deviant behaviour and causes people to be bad”, but conservatives were behind the wheel. As we pushed them out, don’t take the wheel.
Keep the blame on reality, they want you fighting fiction because then you’ll never go after the problem. The snake’ll still bite you unless you lop off it’s head, stop stabbing at it’s tail, you’re doing jack shit but getting people bit. The tail doesn’t have the fangs, it’s not biting the people.
- Dragon
P.S. I’m not clowning on this post. Fuck off if you’re going to blame fiction, because I shouldn’t need to explain a topic thirty times over. Stop removing the blame from reality, I’m tired of that apologism.
#fiction does not equal reality#fiction =/= reality#fiction is a mirror#pro shipping#anti anti#honestly this is beyond shipping as a whole and breaks into an actual social issue#i cant believe the discussion needs to be had at this level#think of all the good shit we could accomplish if we didnt need to start here#fiction discourse#anti anti discourse#pro shipping discourse#fiction isnt reality discourse
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VI.
"It is not until you rhyme with a person that makes you their perfect match, it is when you are satisfied with each others peculiarities, and find jewels in their loopholes." ― Michael Bassey Johnson
I’ve suffered injuries before, so I’m well aware of how much of a bitch they can be. I’ve sat out of games, I’ve had my playing time limited due to undeniable pain and soreness, but I’ve never had an entire season snatched away from me and it’s a motherfucker. Post-surgery, I spent six days in the hospital. I’ve been home for just about a week and I’ve had a few moments when I felt like I was on the brink of snapping at those who are only trying to help me, for the sake of my own self-pity and then there’s the sleepless nights where I lay in bed and mentally rip myself to shreds.
I’m not depressed. I’m injured, not dying. There’s a lot more depressing shit going on in the world and unfair circumstances that have left people in worse conditions that I’m in, so it’s not fair for me to claim such a vicious dark state of mind after having spent hundreds of thousands of dollars of my own money on one of the best surgeons in New York to repair my ankle. Am I disappointed? Hell yeah. It’s killing me to watch my teammates go out there to battle without me and though many of them stopped by the hospital to visit and called my phone with well wishes, that doesn’t compete with or compare to the adrenaline rush of being able to run out onto those fields and to play my heart out in order for us to advance to that Super Bowl we’re all working towards playing in.
My days consist of either laying in my bed or on a couch, with my ankle elevated on a pile of pillows, and either a remote or video game controller in my hands. I haven’t watched this much TV in years. My independence is limited because my momma finds it to be a nightmare to watch or even think about me moving up and down the stairs with the crutches, so everyone does just about everything for me other than the normal humanly functions that I’m supposed to handle in private. I’m starting to think I’d even be joined in the bathroom if I hadn’t mouthed off about it.
I can’t take a shower, so I have to oddly wash my ass while standing in front of my sink and then there’s the fact that I have to balance myself on the crutches while doing it. It’s a lot harder than I’d like it to be. Getting dressed is a bit complex but I came up with a couple of techniques in order to get my comfort attire on without much assistance. There’s no playing with the dogs and they don’t understand it whatsoever. It’s difficult to manage three hundred pounds of dog with only one good foot, so if they’re not willing to lay around with me, whoever else is around for the sake of caretaking or company looks after them for me.
“O! You alright down there?” Momma stopped midway down the steps leading to the basement to be able to hear whatever response I may give. Today’s the first day I’m able to hang out in my mancave area. I crawled down here when she wasn’t paying attention and after verbally ripping me a new asshole, she properly set me up so I could lay around down here for however long I can take it.
“I’m good.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Nah, I’m alright.” I can’t front, I’ve been having junk all day long. I know that candy, chips, and cookies aren’t what most people would call comfort food, but it’s comforting the shit out of me.
“You feeling any pain? You’re due for the medication pretty soon.” I’m avoiding it. The discomfort is there for sure, but I’m not trying to go to sleep. On top of that, all of it messes with my stomach. I don’t even pop pills when I have a headache, so having bottles of them lined up on my bedroom nightstand to take every couple of hours is draining.
“I’m alright.”
“Are you cold?”
“No, I’m not cold. You wrapped me up in this blanket. You swaddled me like I’m a few months old momma. Ain’t no way I can get cold.” What she thought was hilarious didn’t quite connect with me. I’ll be burning up in about ten minutes.
“Okay, I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“Aight.” A bit means within the next ten minutes. I thought that I could get her out of the house by offering her a shopping spree to get whatever she and Jazzy wants but that was a lost cause. Though she quickly agreed to it with a warm thank you, she has yet to leave the house and I don’t think she is. I’ve gone from having a house full to everyone trickling out of here little by little over the last couple of days. It’s not like they can’t come back at some point. Where am I going?
My pop flew up here for three days but he flew back this morning for some business he has to handle back home. He told me he’d be back within the next couple of days but I’m not counting on it or sweating it. He will be back at some point, but it won’t be within any specific timeframe that he gives me or anyone else.
“Harry Potter or Twilight.” Sarai claimed that whenever I reached a point of dire boredom, I needed to either fine a television or film series to watch in order to keep myself occupied. With giggles, these were the ones she suggested and as I’m reading through the brief descriptions of the films, I can see why she was laughing. She’s has to be kidding around me with. Ain’t no way I’m watching any of this shit. Wizards? Ghosts? Vampires? Wolves? Nah.
Just the thought of her made me reach for my phone and head to my recent calls. I tapped on the last FaceTime call we shared with one another and listened to the ringing while awaiting an answer. I’m not sure when she leaves the ESPN studios but The Sports Haven has been off the air for hours.
“Hold on.” I almost misheard what she said as she hushed me with her whispered tone. She had to be holding the phone in front of her chest because I could only see the cool grayness of the dress she was wearing earlier today. She obviously hadn’t changed her shoes because in the midst whoever she was speaking to as she walked away, I could hear the sound of her heels clicking and clacking against the tiled flooring. That infectious giggle bounced throughout the halls further worsening my need to see her stunning face and once she was behind a door, my craving was fulfilled while her flustered facial expression amused me.
“I’m still at work. You know better.”
“Do I? What am I supposed to know better about?”
“I’m still at work.”
“So.”
“If you were at training camp, a work out, or at practice, would you answer my phone calls?”
“Yes.” I would. If I was near my phone, I absolutely would, with no hesitation. Coach would just have to be pissed because I’m walking off to take that call every single time.
“Bullshit, Beckham.”
“I’m answering your phone call every single time.” Her petite frame plopped down in the chair nearest to her as she teasingly rolled her eyes.
“How’s the foot?”
“Same ol’, same ol. I’m what, about two weeks post-surgery? I guess it’s not as crazy painful as it once was, but other than that, same shit, different day.”
“You’ve been staying off of it? Elevating it?”
“Yes, nurse.” It was my turn to roll my eyes. Much like my momma, she’s been just as on my case about sitting around on my ass. I’m doing it. I’m just not trying to become good at it.
“Ice for the swelling? Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off, then repeat?”
“Yep.”
“Two pillows under the knee, two under the ankle?”
“Actually no, nurse. I’m not doing any of that shit. I think I need a home visit because I really don’t understand any of that.”
I haven’t seen her since I was discharged from the hospital. For the six days I was there after the surgery, she visited me every single day. Her shift was during the late evening. She would come straight from Connecticut to relieve my mother and would stick around until I was sound asleep. She spent the night twice. On one of those days, I had her sitting on one side of me and Drake on the opposite side. That may have been the best visit or maybe it was the one when both she, Ben, and Shep turned the opposite side of the room into a dance floor so that they could dance for me since my dancing shoes will be hung up for a while.
I find myself looking at all of the pictures and videos we all took during a time when I needed my friends the most. I had no time to sulk, because I was laughing every day. I smiled until my face began to hurt and it was all as genuine as it could get. We played Uno and Spades, Monopoly, Charades with our iPhones, and we sat around eating whatever they all decided to bring me from outside. Sarai even bought me a steak from Ruth Chris. It didn’t even feel like I was hospitalized.
“Cut the shit. You understand it.”
“Honestly, I don’t. You said how many pillows? Put the crutches aside and walk where on my own?” My eyes trailed up to the ceiling as I jokingly pondered on all of the directions I’ve been given. They’ve been drilled into my memory so much; I’ll never be able to forget any of it even after I’ve gone through recovery and am completely back to being myself.
“I’m not coming to your house.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“I’m confused. So, you can come and visit me in the hospital, where there’s hundreds or maybe even thousands of people around, but not at my house where there’s now barely anyone around?”
“Beckham.”
“I miss you. I haven’t seen you since I’ve been home and I’d like to. I can’t go anywhere. If I could, I’d come to you no matter where you are, but I can’t right now. When I’m better, consider it done. For now, I need you to come to me. Is that okay?”
Silence filled the spaces surrounding the both of us and we stared at one another through the screens that served as our connection and yet as a clear sign of the current distance that we have from one another. Sometimes FaceTime isn’t going to cut it. I miss the alluring scent of jasmine and vanilla as it mingles with my own to create an inimitable mesh that is only exclusive to us. Then there’s the way her laugher starts out boisterous and eventually trickles down into this soft cackle that instantly brightens my smile. I miss her cheating and making up nonexistent rules for Uno, and then the way she taunts me for being a sore loser as she does a victory dance that purposefully mimics the ones that I do on the field. Most of all, the kisses. They’re the ones that she thinks I don’t feel when she assumes, I’m asleep. Sometimes they’re on my forehead. The last one I got was near the corner of my mouth. It was lingering, so lingering to the point of me nearly turning my head so that I could finally become drunken from her lips. I miss everything.
“You need anything before I come? Are you hungry?” I may not be able to dance physically, but I’m damn sure doing so mentally.
“Nah. The chef is here. She’s going to whip something up. That was my momma’s doing, by the way. She knows that if it’s up to me, I’ll sit around here and eat junk all day, so she hired someone to make sure I am able to have a healthy balanced diet. She’s on a trial run right now, but I think she’s going to stick around because everything’s been good for the most part.”
“You need a chef. Your eating habits are childish. I’ve told you that before.”
“Aye, childish or not, at least I know it’s good. I’m not experimental. I eat what’s familiar to me and I keep it moving.”
“Childish. Your snack stock is good?”
“Just bring yourself.”
“Alright. I’ll see you later on then. I have to get home, change my clothes, and all of that other good stuff.”
“Drive safely.”
“Will do. Text me if you need anything so I can grab it before I come.”
“I don’t need anything other than your presence.” I thought she’d roll her eyes again and wave off what I said as yet another one of my flirtatious jokes as she calls them, but she didn’t. This time, she sank further down into her seat and kicked off her heels.
“I’ll text you when I’m nearby. See you soon.”
“Okay.”
As the recent call screen returned to view, I tossed my phone beside me on the couch, and began the waiting process.
Though I couldn’t do it physically, mentally, everything felt like one of those moments in a romantic comedy when someone invites a person of interest over and they’re scrambling around the house trying to rid areas of dirt and mess, in the sloppiest manner ever. They’re usually stuffing clothes into drawers, sweeping dirt and dust under dark crevices, and tossing most of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher only for them to be forgotten about for days. I know the house is clean, because a cleaning service comes here three times a week to make sure of it, and yet I’m still sitting here anxiously hoping that nothing is out of place.
There’s also the part of me having to mention to mom dukes that she’s coming and her turning that into yet another high school moment as she promises to stay out of the way though I know that she’s going to make it her business to be as nosy as possible because she can’t help herself. Per her request, chef Renee is making pasta and salmon. I would have changed my clothes but I’m not going up three flights of stairs to get to my bedroom so the shorts and t-shirt will have to work. My breath ain’t funky.
“You need anything else? Is there enough water?” She put together a platter of snacks and beverages for Sarai and I’s enjoyment. Why does it seem like she’s more nervous than I am about this?
“Everything’s cool. I think we have enough of everything. Those watermelon Sour Patches are her favorite.”
“After eating, I’m probably going to be upstairs. Just ring my phone if you need me. I’m going to bring your medication downstairs for you in like five minutes. You have to take it. Don’t give me hell about it.”
“I’m not.”
“Alright. Stay put. Please do not move.”
“Where am I going? I’m imprisoned for at least the next eight weeks.”
“You’re not imprisoned. You’re just home. Cut the dramatics.”
I selected Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone as my distraction while I awaited her arrival. I’d gotten through that one plus the second film and was near falling asleep through the Prisoner of Azkaban until her all too familiar scent came trickling up my nose as she hovered over me and poked at my nose until all eyes were on her. We didn’t bid one another hellos as she plopped down on the couch next to me. I don’t know why, but it felt extremely organic when she kicked her shoes off and threw her legs up on the ottoman alongside mine and restarted the film as if she went to use the bathroom and I let it play through all of the good parts without her. She served us dinner. Because I couldn’t move, she went upstairs to retrieve it and brought it down.
As for dessert, the Sour Patches were her preferred snack and though she shared some of them with me, she hogged the bag while deeply in tune with yet another part of the series that I know she’s seen more than five times; maybe even more than ten.
“For you to have knocked these films when I suggested them, you certain are becoming interested.”
“There’s like fifteen of these things. You’re right. They kill time.”
“There’s only eight. Shut up.”
“Feels like fifteen.”
“I enjoy them because they’re a reminder of my childhood and these movies came at a time when I needed an outlet or rather a distraction. I remember when my mom took my sister and I to see Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It came out in November. We hadn’t been out of the house since September.”
“Why?” She went silent for minutes. The musical score of the ending credits filled the air between us.
“My daddy died in September. September of two thousand and eleven.”
“From what? Was he sick?”
"Iraq. Operation Enduring Freedom, a direct response to the September eleventh attacks." Suddenly the room felt like it was viciously spinning as I stared at her. Beads of sweat trickled along the napes of my neck and though my heart mentally shattered at her words, there were some aspects of it that felt so physical. The tension gripping my body intensified as her devastating response echoed in my thoughts.
None of us will ever forget where we were, what we were doing, and how everything that happened on that specific day affected our lives from afar but my God, I can't even begin to imagine how those directly affected felt then and continue to feel now no matter how many stories I read or heard, how much footage I've watched, or how many memorials we have year after year. I have an extremely high level of respect for any and everyone who enlists to protect, defend, and preserve the safety and honor of this country, but I've never directly felt what it is like to lose someone you love while they're in the process of doing so, especially after all of the loss that happened just a month prior.
"I'm so sorry Sarai."
"Don't be. You didn't do anything. I'm alright. We're okay. I mean, you're never really alright, but you're alright in the sense that you learn how to cope with it, accept it, and move forward. You know, all of those stages of grieving. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I learned all of that in therapy." My hand met the top of hers and she allowed it to rest there rather than choosing to resist me. In an instant, our fingers laced together.
"We all have to survive something, you know?"
"I know." Our eyes glimpsed at the protective boot shielding my ankle from any potential trauma. That is of no comparison. I could lose my fucking leg tomorrow and it won't ever compare to what she lost. My pop and I have a solid relationship now, and though it was one big ass ball of confusion during many points of my childhood, I couldn't imagine losing him.
"Sometimes we learn that life isn't easy in tougher situations than others. Don't mistake that for me believing that things for me were far worse than anything anyone could have ever experienced then or now, but that was and still can be difficult to process. It took me a long time to be able to do so. Shit, it took me a long time to be able to even speak about it like this. I used to want it to be this best kept secret, you know? It wasn't a secret, because everyone knew about it no matter where I went, but I preferred spaces where people didn't know so that I didn't have to be the elephant in the room who everyone pitied. I believe when people pity you, it always keeps your pain at the forefront of your life because it's all they see." Our hands parted so that she could use both of hers to run up and down her thighs, in a self-comforting tactic.
"I remember my mother used to question me and often lash out with this accusation that I was trying to forget him but it wasn't that. More than anything, I was trying to preserve him; all of the good about him and the moments that we did have together. We were offered to sit in front of cameras at so many different television studios to be yet another grieving family giving Americans the waterworks, but I refused. Those memories were and are still mine. I don't want to share them. A guy I know felt the same way as I did. We went to school together. His father was a military medic who died over there some time later on."
"I'm trying to find the words, but I can't even imagine." I can't. How can anyone, if they weren't directly affected by it? The emotional response to the news coverage and the reality of what happened will never compare.
"I couldn't find them either. I'll never forget the stench of the cigarettes that my mother smoked one after the other, because she just felt it. He hadn't called home in days. Even with the city still being in subtle chaos after all that had happened, she was still able to go to the store and pick up two packs of something that she had quit using three years prior. She just smoked them while tapping her foot and hoping that he'd ring the phone to annoy her with one of his horrible jokes or to talk her ear off about real estate and finance, per his usual. Both were always a focus of his, but he was able to actually work in those fields once he transitioned to the reserves after being active duty for twenty years. He opened up a business right in Brooklyn because he saw all of the gentrification coming from a mile away. He volunteered to go. He was an American born Haitian and was all about the good of the country for whatever reason. He believed that he could be of great help with his two decades of knowledge and experience."
"That's honorable."
"Maybe selfish too." I can understand why feels that way. In some ways, his death feels like it's his fault, though it isn't.
"How did you find out?"
"Like everyone else does when a close relative dies in active combat. He didn't die in combat though. A building was bombed. He was in it." She squeezed her knees and shut her eyes.
"Two military officers showed up at our door, holding a folded up United States flag, and offered their deepest condolences in what I felt like was the blandest manner you could say it in. You could tell it was something so normal for them. The list of names was scrolling across the bottom of everyone's screens by the evening and there were pictures. Of course, he was mentioned. Reality really kicked me in the face and knocked me off my feet that same night when the doorbell rang. It wasn't more friends, family, or neighbors from all over our block. It wasn't another sympathy flower delivery or a gift basket. It was CNN; prying ass CNN. The whirlwind began from there. It was at that point that I realized that my father would be famous for that day and maybe the next one, and then would eventually be nothing more than a casualty of a fucked up war."
"Sarai."
"Odell, I'm okay. I worked hard to be that way and it's what he'd want for me. I still have a lot of work to do, but I'd rather be a work in progress than a bunch of nothingness. I know I've made him proud."
"You're beautiful." From the top of her head to the very tips of her toes, she is that. Her essence and soul. Her demeanor and charisma. All of her is that.
"And you're kind of alright, I guess." Her laughter spilled out before mine, shifting the heaviness in the room. Though I couldn't move much, my arms were long enough to grab her into them for a lighthearted tickling session for having lessened me to "alright". I'd take that from her though.
"Thank you for sharing that with me. I know it wasn't easy despite you saying that you're okay but I'm glad that you shared it. Sometimes when you're up there speaking about me on that panel, I feel like you know me better than most and sometimes, even myself. It's my turn now, but for you."
"I don't know you better than you know yourself. I just...see you. You know?" Strip away the unique perks that comes with the jobs that we do and the positions that we play in society, and that's what most of the people in my position want. The cameras only pick up a small percentage of who you are and then there's the mask that you often time have to wear for the sake of self-preservation and protection. The scrutiny is never ending. One day they love you, twenty-four hours later, you're the scum of the earth. Explaining yourself is worthless because it only gains you the entitled label. The rare aspect of it all is being seen in the manner that Sarai just emphasized. There are very few who have that gift. I'm so grateful that she does.
"I see you too." On the screen and finally, beyond it. I thought my fantasies about her essence were unbelievably incredible, but the reality of her is beyond measure. She's superseded all of my thoughts.
"Can we finish binging my friends in my head though? We can finish all of these movies tonight." I earned a mush to my head for groaning in response. I thought we could at least switch it to Bad Boys. Who wouldn't rather watch Will Smith and Martin Lawrence tear down Miami looking for drug traffickers and murders than to watch wizards and goblins?
"Go ahead. Play the next one."
"You're so nice."
"Happy wife, happy life, right?" As quickly as I said it, is as quickly as I laughed. Her responding facial expression was a photo worthy moment.
“Beckham, I will pour the remaining sugar in this bag all over you. Keep playing with me.”
“You can, for as long as you…” Before I could finish it, I was mushed again and her palm remained over my mouth as she pressed play. I know she found it funny because the smirk dancing along her lips didn’t let up. That’s good enough for me.
We shared my fleece Giants blanket through the earlier portion of the movie and that plus a mixture of all we’d eaten soothed the both of us into a slumber that left her limbs intertwined with mine and the illuminating glare from the television highlighting our frames. I hadn’t even realized we were sleeping or for how long until she was stirring in her sleep and lifting her head.
“It’s almost three in the morning.”
“It’s okay, go back to sleep.” Our tones were equally groggy. She could barely keep her eyes open.
“Lay down, baby.” Her head rested on my chest as it had been before and I covered her upper frame with the blanket once again. With one click of a button on the remote, the annoying lighting from the television was gone and we were left in pitch blackness.
It was my turn to kiss her as she slept and I planted plenty of them on various areas of her face until my body rejoined hers for rest.
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quatre: you fit me better than my favorite sweater ♡♡
here comes chapter four :D for whoever cares to read...
♡♡♡♡
"See you tomorrow, Hazza!" Jade, his colleague at Velvety Roses, waves goodbye to Harry as she and her other friend Leigh-Anne descend from the dressing room with their forearms linked, leaving Harry alone in the room, still dressed in his casual clothing.
He smiles contentedly as he sits down and shimmies his bag off of his shoulder, focusing on the mirror and his reflection on it, switching on the yellow light bulbs that are placed along its frame.
He doesn't have any circles under his eyes tonight, it seems; no trace of the tiredness and exhaustion that used to always be prevalent in his system, maybe the full-nights of sleep that he's been getting lately has finally began to pay off.
Harry smiles to himself, knowing that his improved sleeping schedule is very much a derivative of who he is spending his nights in bed with. Harry's been feeling giddy and ecstatic lately, and since he doesn't want to jinx it, he opts for keeping it to himself. The whole thing.
Yes, he hasn't told any of his friends yet about Louis; the unmarried man he's been sleeping with for over the past two months now. Gemma and his mum are the only people that he even decided to inform about this matter, and Harry thinks he'll let it stay that way for now—for as long as he can manage, really.
The only problem is, he and Louis aren't even official yet (technically). Sure, they text every day, talking about their lives and their favorites, and basically anything that crosses their minds, but other than that, neither of them have deemed to put a label on what they are. Not explicitly, anyway.
To be honest, I immensely despise marmite chicken.
Really now ? But they're brilliant ! I'd love it if you would cook me some actually, mon amour ;) xx
Ugh, Lewiiiiiiiis. But okay :) anything for DADDY
No , but seriously ?
Seriously. But you know whattttttt?
What , baby ? :)
I wanna be the Coney Island queen...
Oh , but you are !! :)
But like, I kinda wanna live there, see. I wanna build a house near that place, I wanna be able to visit it any time??
Well ... babe , again , you will :) just you wait and see ! ;)
Huh. What do you mean 'just wait and see?' :o
Louis.
LOUIS?
Daddy! :/
It has been nearly three months since they first met, like officially met—nearly three months since Harry went over to Louis' place for a proper introduction.
After Louis' returned from his trip to Paris back in mid-July, they've gone out on posh dates, well, that's what Harry calls it, and they still regularly go out whenever Louis' free. Louis has taken him to extravagant restaurants around LA, bought him flowers and offered him joyrides downtown, and whenever they got back to Louis' mansion in Beverly Hills they'd have mind blowing sex that would make Harry feel like he's walking on air for days.
They call each other when they're not together, having decided that they didn't want to limit their communication to just texting, visit the other when one is working and the other isn't, and just, they can't seem to get enough of one another—it's almost like they're over-infatuated teenagers that are undeniably in lust with their brand new crush and it's addicting. Louis has been painting different versions of Harry relentlessly, and Harry has been basking in Louis' talent and open devotion to him. It's the type of infatuation that's more like a whirlwind and Harry wants to swim in it forever.
When Louis is gone to destinations for work and Harry is unable to visit him, Louis usually brings home souvenirs or postcards when he returns.
"So, hey, I was at work tonight and I heard this song on the radio and thought of you. Just thought I'd call you up and share the news," Harry rasps over the line, grinning madly to himself, talking about an 80's love song he heard from the radio.
"That's cute, baby," Louis replies in a fond voice, sighing on the other line. "I'm actually signing some papers at the moment. Exhausting, if you ask me. I'm glad you called, just what I needed. Thank you."
Harry hums, nodding despite the fact Louis doesn't see him.
And then after a beat of comfortable silence, "God, I wanna see you, Lou," Harry confesses, groaning. "Miss you."
"I know, baby," Louis agrees softly, his tone near-cooing. "But I have to finish with this, though... Hmm. How about I take the first flight Friday morning and hop on a plane to get home to you, oui? And then before you even wake up the next day I'll be on that bed of yours, sucking you off so good you won't even know how to breathe proper. How does that sound?"
"Sounds like a plan..."
"Mhmm. Glad we agree."
It's been set in stone that Louis will be painting every version of Harry that he can possibly dream up—which Harry feels so special and beautiful—and so he dresses up for the older lad to have his figure translated on the canvases, articulately painted on by various paintbrushes and oil paints.
They do this a lot, even though it's only possible for them to do it when Freya's not around. The lass parties a lot, and it has only made more sense to Harry that she and Louis didn't really share a lot of things in common because, apparently, she was adopted when she was a teenager and had a difficult time throughout her past. Now she's rebelling, and her actions only worsened when her dads parted ways years prior. She's more fond of Phil, Harry now understands—that guy who broke Louis' heart by cheating. Harry isn't really that bothered by any of this, now that he knows...a little.
Taking out his outfit for his tonight's performance, Harry immediately strips off his casual clothing and then slips on a new pair of tight women's jeans and his new pink floral sheer shirt he bought from YSL. He fixes his hair as he looks at the mirror, ruffles it a few notches, and then slips on his trademark headscarf, some of his curls sticking out. He decides to leave them be. For the final touch, Harry puts the clip-on earring (a cross design, because he and his sister have got an affinity for cross and it's their thing now), the one Gemma got him last week, and he's finally done by wearing his sparkly boots.
Harry slips out of the dressing room to see if his mate, Ed, has already finished with his own performance on stage, but when he sees he is only halfway through his last set, it gives Harry a few more spare minutes to relax in the dressing room.
He sits yet again on his stool, tapping his fingers against the chipped wood of his vanity. He didn't have an incoming text from Louis when Harry checked it early on, and he wonders if there is one now. He isn't unlocking his phone to find out though, he's too anxious to do so. In the end, Harry just picks up the lipstick straying in his reach and applies some on his lips, completing it by pursing his plump lips together. And Harry wants to giggle as he stares back at his own reflection, because fuck if he doesn't look great. Louis will totally bend him over his desk later on tonight, he's sure of it. Harry grins wickedly at the thought, feeling himself blush at the image entertaining his mind.
~*~
Harry's got five songs in his set list for the night, all will be played by Ed, who is his backup guitarist, and he's ready to perform as soon as he steps on the stage, the spotlight focused solely on his figure, playing glorious shadows with the contours of his body.
This is what Harry loves doing, he has always loved it, but now he's loving it even more—especially now he's got inspiration. Harry puts on his most charming smile, knowing Louis has promised to be in the audience tonight, wanting to give his best. He's picked out his most favorite songs he has spent days rehearsing over and over again, and he's determined to show his daddy what he's worthy of.
The room is dimmed, Velvety Roses once again filled with men and queer folks, the majority of the crowd being bikers and drunken travelers from either the south or up north.
Harry grips his personal microphone, the green taped below visible to the audience, his gaze searching the crowd for a certain man with the fiercest persona he's ever been acquainted with in his entire entity. The one man that's actually made him feel sexy and fuckable by just being stared down by him. The one man that can give him one piercing, icy gaze racking over his body and make him feel weak in the knees. The one man that can make him either bend over a table and beg to be fucked or drop down to his knees in a millisecond flat, mouth wide open so his throat will get gagged, mouthful of thick, hard cock. Louis fucking Tomlinson. His man, his painter, his Frenchman fresh from Paris, who always smells of expensive perfume, always is adorning Rolex watches on his wrist and loves driving him places with his black Mercedes Benz.
Harry licks his lips just as his eyes stop directly on him, finally; there, right there. Louis is seated on a stool by the bar, wearing what Harry can make out to be some royal blue blazer and trousers that match, his soft fringe brushed up, revealing his forehead, aviators perched over his nose and covering his dominating blue eyes, a flower pinned to his suit's breast pocket, probably an indication he's just gone to some event and went straight from there to see Harry without bothering to change. And fuck—fuck he looks good, is the thing. Daddy looks so fucking god-like, a fucking modern-day James Dean. And Harry's so weak for him; so, so weak for him.
Has seemingly noticed he's been looking, Louis raises his hand holding a pint and commemorates a toast to Harry. Harry just nods, face instantly numbing with heat, shoulders sagging into submission. Yep, Harry the usually confident and notorious harlot is a downright submissive when it comes to Louis, and yes, it's insanely ridiculous.
"Good evening, boys," Harry greets over the crowd, his voice echoing all over the dingy ole bar. Wolf whistles and loud whooping erupt from the audience, men of different sizes and colors clapping enthusiastically. Harry smiles his best, batting his eyelashes in a flirtatious manner. "How's everyone's night so far? If there's any newcomers here, please kindly stand so the veterans can welcome y'all."
There are four or five newcomers who stand, earning greetings from others, and Harry spends that chance to look at Louis across the bar yet again, catching Louis watching him intently while sipping on his beer. Harry winks at the older man, before proceeding to speak over the mic. "So, tonight folks, Ed here, you guys know him. He is gonna be my guitarist. And of course, as per usual I'll be singing five different songs for you all."
There's another round of bustling and applause, but when it dies down, Harry takes that as his cue. Ed starts plucking, strumming the first notes.
And so Harry closes his eyes and starts with the first verse, already quite into the moment. "Blue jeans, white shirt. Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn. It was like, James Dean, for sure... You're so fresh to death and sick as ca-cancer..."
~*~
Harry tries not to squirm as Louis nibbles on his left ear. He fails anyway, giggling madly as he scoots away from Louis' reach. "Look so beautiful tonight, baby," Louis murmurs softly, smiling from the driver's seat. "Earring looks perfect on you, too, maybe I should buy you a whole set."
"Really now," Harry challenges, cocking a brow at Louis mischievously. He's lighting a cigar, putting it in between his lips.
"Oui, chéri. You look pretty in them," Louis insists as he nods vigorously to get his point across, turning onto a street and honking at another car. They're on their way back to Louis', with Louis driving them both in his car number three, as Harry marks it. He's got six of them, so it's best to just be naming them by numbers. Harry sometimes goes to work without bringing his own car, knowing Louis will fetch him in one of his exuberant vehicles.
"Fine, fine. Thank you, babe, but that's a no," Harry responds after his giggling fit, blushing red. He thinks nice try with Louis even suggesting buying him things. Don't get Harry wrong—he believes Louis' only being sweet and nice at the same time for spoiling him, but. Really. Louis spends ridiculous amounts of money on him, despite the money usually going towards dates and free rides, free food. Perhaps buying him something every once in a while is good, but not this soon though. Louis has literally just bought Harry a new cellphone, he doesn't need anything else.
Shaking his head at the thought, Harry exhales the grey smoke and makes a face after realizing they're suffocated inside the car.
"Are you sure? But you'll definitely look wonderful in other designs, Harry," Louis presses on. Harry shuts him up by leaning over and kissing his open mouth. Louis moans in response, and before he can even kiss back, Harry pulls away and sticks his tongue out, teasing Louis and making him make that gaping, surprised look he's giving Harry, and then takes another drag from his cigar. "Tease you are, doll. Keep it up and daddy won't fuck you tonight," Louis tells him.
Laying back, Harry puts his legs up and rolls down the window next to him, letting the brisk evening air swell against his face, grabbing a stick of gum and starting chewing. He lets his smoke join the fluttering wisps of wind as he ignores Louis' threat altogether; knowing full well, not he nor Louis actually believes that bullshit. "So, where were you before you went to VR? You look pretty fancy to me, wearing that suit and everything." He gestures with his hand to give emphasis to what he's pertaining to.
Humming, Louis stops at a red light and thrums his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at Harry. "Was called in to have a meeting with the rest of the gallery insulators just this afternoon; discussed a few things, mostly about the blueprinting of the place... They needed me in a tux, I gave them matching suits." Louis smiles again, removing his aviators and wearing them to Harry, catching Harry off guard a bit. "Did you like it?"
Harry bites his lip, keeping himself from breaking into a fully wide grin at that. "Like?" He breathes out, fixing the glasses over his nose and pecking Louis' hand. "I love it, Lou. Truly," he says honestly. "How was the meeting, though?"
Louis shrugs. "Alright."
Harry nods.
The ride doesn't take long now, the two of them laughing about absolutely nothing and every little thing mentioned, and before Harry can even finish his third cigarette, Louis' pulling him inside the house and is backing him up against the wall, hungrily going for his jaw and nipping at his skin, the chance that Valeria could be lingering by the kitchen doorway be damned. Harry laughs as he has the need to drop his cigarette stick on the floor's tiles, hugging Louis with his right leg and letting their groins grind.
"Honey, don't you think we should..." Harry starts but sooner trails off, just as Louis lets out a low mixture of growl and moan, letting go of Harry and then dashing up the stairs, looking back just to signal Harry to follow him.
Harry does as he's told, taking two steps at a time as he ties up his hair in a bun.
Once they get to Louis' room, Harry is bent over the bed with his arse poised upwards into thin air in record time, Louis lingering behind him, probably admiring his pert bum from behind, given the fact he's not even touching Harry but just breathing on his exposed hole. Harry groans and squirms, whining his protests at all of the impatience that's swirling in his abdomen. "Sshh, baby. Just... let daddy look at your beauty for a little while more," Louis whispers huskily, obviously hot but is refraining in the name of casually admiring someone's ass. Jesus.
Hot in the ears, Harry swallows as he wiggles his ass a bit, face smashed against the plush pillows on Louis' bed, hands clutching the sheets as he waits it out. He can feel his muscles retracting at each fan of breath Louis lets out that hits his cooling skin, feeling his dick already forming a semi. And fuck, Harry needs Louis to do something.
"Please..." He pleads, word muffled by the sheets.
"So, so beautiful, baby. So pink, that hole of yours. I love it. If only I can paint you looking like this. So loose, so submissive for daddy," Louis recites, tone of voice clearly enticed, and wow. He really, surely makes Harry feel so admired—treasured—and cherished. And no man has ever... not in this level of, not this way, considering he'd always been just a fuck. Harry's heart feels as though it will fucking explode, just thinking about the possibility that he may not be anymore.
Writhing on the bed, Harry untangles his legs from the duvet and spreads his thighs for Louis' sake of better access. He hears the older man hum in appreciation as he does just that. Harry thinks he's ready. Like so damn ready.
Moments to their silence, eventually so, Louis grabs on Harry's arse cheeks and slaps one of them, making Harry hiss in both pleasure and striking pain, pushing forward and sheets-clenching. Louis yet again lets out a low growl, and then he's suddenly sticking his tongue across Harry's sensitive rim, tasting him, spiky stubble against meaty flesh.
Moans and multiple incoherence escape Harry's lips just as Louis' started properly eating him, tongue lapping across his hole and nibbling, thin lips against tingling pink skin. "Oh, jesus fuck," Harry suppresses in a low voice, breathing heavily in and out. Louis rewards him with another spanking at that, making him yet again yelp and writhe responsively, consistent currents of arousal coursing through his veins and going directly to his untouched cock. He can feel himself leaking and it's driving him fucking mad.
"Tellement bon pour papa," Louis murmurs against his puckered hole, eager tongue pushing in and out, hot breath fanning and rendering goosebumps on Harry's exposed arms.
"Louis... Louis..." Harry chants in loud squeaks, "please, daddy... just... please..." Harry doesn't really know what he's begging for if he's honest, but with situations such as this one, he can't seem to help murmur words out of his mind. It's ridiculous. They are ridiculous. But Harry thinks they fit anyway.
And so it goes. Louis continues to eat him out, hand spanking his ass again and making him moan loud, before going for his completely hardened dick between his thighs, and then pumping on it fast. Harry feels wrecked quite already after that, can't stay still, pushing and pushing his ass toward Louis' face for more, more, more. Louis gives it to him, he's a non-difficult negotiator when it comes to giving anyway. He may be is born to give.
After a few more thrusts, Louis frees him for just two seconds and then quickly flips him over, spreading his legs wide. Harry's so dizzy with pleasure he can barely see straight now.
And until it all gets blurry from there, being the only thing Harry is remembering is that of Louis fucking him hard without the use of condom and only lubricant, leaving him limp and pliant in contentment afterwards, cleaning him up off come and the both of them sleeping the night off, cuddled up in heavenly soft bundles.
He also remembers Louis kissing the top of his head as he spoons him from behind.
~*~
By the time Harry stirs awake the next day, he finds himself curled up in a ball, strong, tattooed arms wrapped around his torso, soft snores being pressed against his nape. Harry allows it as Louis' still deep in his slumber.
Harry ever so slowly takes Louis' arm off his body and presses his feet on the ground, stretching his arms wide and then padding across the room. Harry gets in the bathroom with nothing on, switches the lights on, and borrowing a toothbrush from Louis. He brushes his teeth to get rid of the staleness that formed overnight, washes his face with cold water, and then takes a morning wee.
When Harry leaves the loo, he sees Louis' still peacefully sleeping, so that gives him more time to himself.
He sits on his rumpled side of the bed, and gives into the urge to look at Louis' sleeping figure next to him, and to just like, admire what he's like. He stares for a bit before the thought occurs that watching Louis sleep is weird and creepily intimate, considering they aren't even official. The realization brings a stinging feeling in Harry's stomach. For some reason that he can't define.
Speaking of, Harry should probably cook them some breakfast.
Picking up his underwear off the ground, Harry quickly slips it on, and then, seeing as his overnight clothes are all somewhat dried off of the work's worth of sweat, Harry disregards them and just goes straight to Louis' closet and plunders it for something he can fit into. He chooses an oversized jumper in the end since it's the only thing that can wrap around his bigger frame. It's a lavender colored one and is tremendously cute, and it's large enough that it stops on his thighs and leaves his underwear out of plain sight, creating sweater paws with how long each sleeve is. Harry happily sneaks out the room wearing just that, and then he travels down to the kitchen, meeting Valeria halfway there.
"Hi!" Harry greets her cheerfully, waving a hand and dimpling, leaving Valeria no choice but to swallow down her French and say Hello back, accent exceptionally thick. Giggling at the sound of it, Harry proceeds to the kitchen and drags the old woman with him, linking their arms together enthusiastically, as though they've been the best of buddies for years. It is the first time Harry hears Valeria's laughter bubble from her lips, asking how last night had went—casually too! Well, Harry's just as proud and vocal as he tells her about everything, from his performance to the ride back home, minus the awesome sex, though. Because he's kind enough to spare her those details.
When they reach the kitchen, they both help each other make pancakes and tea, Valeria willingly giving Harry the details as to where things are around the massive place, and as to how does Louis like his breakfast each morning in 'the Mademoiselle Valeria way'. Harry's just really happy he gets along with the housemaid, no matter if she's only that; a housemaid.
Two sunny side ups, a few sausages and mountains of perfectly browned pancakes later, Harry and Valeria take the trays full of food with them and soldier back up the staircase, taking their time strolling along the long quiet hallway, and then stopping at the door to Louis' room.
It's Harry who hip-checks the door open to reveal a still sleeping Louis by the bed, only now that the man has changed positions. Harry nods at Valeria as she beckons to place the tray by the bedside table, and then she leaves with a kind smile right after that. Harry, on the other hand, places the tray he's holding on the other bedside table where Louis lies near, leaning down to whisper in Louis' ear.
"Mon amour," Harry coos, attempting French. It causes him to laugh when Louis pries an eye open at hearing him say that.
"Bonjour, chéri," Louis rasps, smiling tiny at him. Harry smiles back, his heart pounding drastically in his chest at how blue, blue, blue Louis' eyes are as he looks back at him, especially when the sunlight is hitting his face like this, softly contoured eyelids and nose and cheekbones presented like magnificence at its best. Harry aches to touch him, feel the stubble that, yet again, left rashes on his pale, sensitive bum and thighs—serving as a reminder just how sensational Louis Tomlinson truly is.
"Made you breakfast, Lou. Heard pancakes with the side of eggs and sausages are your favorites..."
"Ooh," Louis muses in excitement, chuckling lightly. He sits up slowly after a while, and Harry immediately busies himself bringing the trays over to the bed, placing each in between himself and Louis, laying the food down. "This is so lovely, Haz," is what Louis says as he takes his first bite out of three layers of pancake, chewing happily. "I didn't know you can cook! I'm so used to French and Italian cuisines, but this," Louis stops to take another large bite out of a sausage with a piece of egg, before finishing his sentence with a mouthful, "this is good."
Seeing the bright smile painting Louis' lips as he eats, Harry can't help smile to himself as well as he looks down on his own food-full of plate, mentally patting his head in victory at his success of having Louis' clear as day stamp of approval at his cooking skills. He thinks perhaps he'll cook for Louis more in the future... like, just to see that wonderful, handsome smile again. Especially the part where Louis' eyes are crinkling at the sides, cheeks dented with hints of dimples and pinks. And Harry never even knew Louis has dimples. That's news. Amazing news.
After they're done eating, Louis sets their trays aside and pulls Harry back in bed with him, nuzzling his face against Harry's exposed collarbone. "Glad you loved the breakfast I cooked, Lou."
"Mhmm," Louis hums in affirmation, pressing a soft, lingering kiss on Harry's throat. "Was so good, baby. I'm impressed."
"Valeria helped me a bit. She's a very nice woman," Harry says softly.
"She is, she is. Been working under me since my twenties."
"Really?" Harry drawls, grinning down at Louis because of the new information, imagination kicking in as he thinks about a young version of Louis, already posh and oh so lovely with less wrinkles and brisk skin, fringe softer and probably always kept lying against his forehead, being served by a French younger Valeria, early discovery of his talent in painting on the works. And then there's the thought of a younger Louis in French style clothing next, suspenders and tight trousers hugging his thighs and legs probably, flat vintage shoes with his ankles out, beret or potato type of hats atop his head, long and thick black eyelashes cascading shadows over the hollows of his prominent cheekbones. And damn—damn if Harry's not so fond of him; damn if Harry's not so drawn in his daydream he actually forgets just how he's literally holding the older version of the same Louis he's imagining inside his head.
Harry's just...he just really feels blessed to have met Louis amidst his laid back lifestyle.
He can still remember how things had went for him before all these. He used to sleep with different men each night, going home with them after a night spent working at VR, and then leaving first thing in the morning with not so much as a greeting, credits left unspoken despite a previously good hell of a fuck.
It's different with Louis though; it's a whole different story when it comes to the old Frenchman, it seems. This one, Harry actually enjoys spending time with, has so much fun with, has several laughing moments with. Harry never did that to any man he'd ever let either fuck or touch him from the past. Just Louis. And it's only Louis, too, that he's ever confessed how he wishes he could just forget his job and fly to New York next, make rounds in Coney Island, build a house near there and then spend the rest of his life visiting back and forth and spend time making memories at the Boardwalk.
Call Harry a child, call Harry juvenile, but it's what he's always wanted. Living nearby Coney Island will always be in his Bucket List, and he'll always be proud of that optimum. There are many things Harry likes. One of which being dressed up. And then there's the freedom of wearing lipstick, wearing head scarves, wearing earrings, prancing gracefully, having his hair grown freely, singing songs for men, painting his nails various colors and all that...
But there are more things Harry wants done, and if only he can go to Coney Island...
"You look perfect in my clothes, sweetheart, maybe I should let you wear them all the time," Louis suddenly tells Harry, breaking him from his heavy thinking.
Harry smiles down at Louis' grinning facial expression in a lieu of compensating, fireworks exploding for the first time ever since they looked at each other this close and this serene; Louis looks like the sun, Harry decides, and Harry is the moon. Louis' moon. The one running after him, but not being given a chance by the universe itself anyway. It's gonna be exhausting, it's the inevitable, but Harry the moon will do anything just to get to Louis the sun in any way he can either way, so there really is no point of discussion.
"Well, I love being in your clothes. They smell just like you. Makes me feel safe wearing them," Harry tells Louis honestly.
Louis laughs lightly, tapping Harry's chin. "I am glad, baby doll," he says, voice a bit groggy. Harry leans in and captures Louis' lips, closing his eyes at the instant bliss it gives, sucking at the man's bottom lip much longer, before letting go of it with a flourish. "Say, what do you feel about going out of town, Harry?"
Harry opens his eyes. "Mmhm, where to?"
Wiggling his eyebrows, Louis grins widely. "You know... to the city that never sleeps? I am not working for a week, so I thought maybe... you might want to ask that boss of yours for a leave of absence, so—"
"Yes!" Harry squeals, not even letting Louis finish his sentence, excitement bursting through his veins. He's so excited about going he has just lost all traces of finesse. "Yes, yes, yes, Louis! Oh, my God!"
Laughing, Louis flips them over and Harry goes along with it, laughing too. And then they're rolling uncontrollably as they hug each other, both of them ending up lying on the floor. Harry hurriedly scrambles up to his feet just as he's recovered from his excitement, straddling Louis' hips and leaning down to snog him senseless. Harry feels so ecstatic he's afraid he might just burst from it.
#baby loves when daddy gets high#my fic#fic rec#blwdghfour#chapter four now! :D#here ya go#i love youuuuuu#cheshirebottom#octobertwo#ao3#larry au#larry fic#hope u support my writing#the del rey series
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September Vocab Challenge
So some of you might remember I set myself a little challenge this September to learn 30 words in Norwegian every day. I was posting that vocab but I got kinda bored so I stopped lol. I did keep it up though! (This gets a bit long so I’m putting it under a read more)
I wouldn’t say I managed to learn 30 words every day. At the start I was nailing it - every word was staying in my head, I was making flashcards first thing every morning, I was dedicating extra time to learning more difficult vocab and it was all going very well. I started to think 30 words was setting the bar too low - I felt like maybe 50 was possible. I noticed an improvement in my reading skills very quickly - I try to read a couple of articles every day, and by then end of the first week I was recognising words I’d learned that month in everything I read. Recently I read an article and only had to stop to look something up once.
Buuuut because I’m the sort of person who gets bored easily and sucks at focusing on anything for a long period of time and I hit a good ol’ wall of depression (gonna blame that on completely failing to take my bc pills because fucking with my hormones fucks with my mood big time - I’m absolutely fine now), by the time I got to day 17 I was struggling. Making flashcards was a chore that got in the way of reading Harry Potter or using my new grammar books or watching Norwegian TV shows, so I’d make them without paying attention, just trying to get them done and out of the way, and I couldn’t bring myself to sit and commit them to memory. The first week I would copy all the vocab to my book after making flashcards and I’d revisit them throughout the day, as well as before bed and first thing in the morning to refresh my memory. That stopped happening.
A lot of the vocab from the first two weeks is still in my head. I went through my flash cards last night and, while some of it’s just gone, I can still recall most of it. Compare this to the flashcards I made, say, a few days ago Almost none of it is committed to memory.
All in all, I feel like this was a useful challenge for myself and has highlighted a couple of things:
If I sit down and dedicate the time to really learn vocab, I can do it very effectively
The most effective way for me to learn vocab is to make flashcards, speak aloud while I’m writing, rewrite the words in my book, then revisit those flashcards during the day and right before bed
I am not the sort of person who can do this every day. I’m sure it works for some people, but my learning style is much more suited to a bit more flexibility (this is actually where MB types are useful - if I’d thought about the fact I’m a P-type rather than a J-type I’d have realised something so structured was never going to work lol). I would probably do better trying to learn 50-75 words 2-3x a week, given how I felt at the start of the challenge
I definitely want to keep dedicating time to learning new vocab because it did make a difference to my reading, and hopefully that’ll transfer over to my writing too
That’s all from me for now. Overall, I learned some new vocab and I learned something about my learning style too. I know some people joined me on this challenge and I’d love to know how you got on! <3
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On Ruby’s True Semblance
The general consensus amongst the fndm is that Ruby's semblance is speed, or bursting into rose petals, or something of that sort. This is somewhat understandable, as Pyrrha and Qrow both refer to her semblance as such, but I still don't get it. Because really, it simply doesn't make much sense ~~if you have half a braincell~~ when you look closely. Here's the facts:
Her "speed" is - as of the V4 Short - her literally turning into rose petals. If you don't believe me, rewatch it. At 2:04 she separates into 3 balls of roses, and at 4:05 she's basically a rose petal tornado. Qrow later on in V4C8 even refers to it as such. It's transformation no different from the Branwen's.
Transforming is established (by Weiss's, Nora's, Ruby's, and Jaune's reactions to it and then later the V5 commentary) as a very weird thing and definitely not something that a semblance could be.
This is enough to definitively say Ruby's ability to turn into rose petals is not her semblance. It's clearly magic. This is fact.
Two questions now arise: 1. Where did she acquire this magic? 2. What is her actual semblance?
1. Where did she acquire this magic?
Let's look at the possibilities, going over the three methods of transferring magic that we know of.
Granted by Oz: Ozpin didn't give her the powers personally, as he'd clearly never seen her before prior to V1C1. We can cross this off the list.
Last thoughts: Transformation could act like Maiden powers and transfer to the last person in the previous holder's mind. The most likely candidate would of course be Summer. Her last name - Rose - supports this idea, as currently 4/6 magic users (Cinder, Raven, Qrow, Ruby) have names that reference their powers. And she's probably the likeliest dead person to have thought of Ruby in her last thoughts. I must say though that despite all this, I find Summer's Last Thoughts unlikely. Summer already has SE, it's unlikely that Oz would give her something else (Ruby is a special case since Oz didn't give her the powers she just inherited them), especially since he doesn't mention it when asked by Ruby in V5C7. It just doesn't make sense, and making sense is the most important thing to me.
Hereditary: This is the only remaining explanation. It can't be Summer for reasons I've already stated, so it must be her father. We have no reason to believe that Tai has transformation magic (again, he's not mentioned by Oz), so her father must be Qrow. Surprising absolutely no one. The rock-solid and obvious reasons for why Qrow is definitely Ruby's father have been gone over on numerous occasions, so I won't waste time repeating them. And Qrow can transform, so that fits. One might ask why Qrow transforms into a bird while Ruby transforms into rose petals, and I'd just point to their affinities being different. Oz likely just gave the Branwen twins the ability to transform, and then they naturally went to what suited them best. Think Harry Potter's animagi/patronuses.
2. Ruby's true semblance
It's pretty obvious that Ruby and Qrow share a semblance, as Ruby's is clearly Bad Luck*. Unlike Qrow, though, she doesn't suck ass at using it. She's able to use it on people that mean harm to her (or that she doesn't care for, though this is rarer) instead of fucking over everyone around her. I'd say though that there's a good chance this is entirely subconscious, as it seems that Ruby actually believes her transformation is her semblance. Alternatively, she could be tricking everyone around her (as well as the viewers) and know exactly what she's doing. This is certainly a possibility, see the "Ruby is a sociopath" theory (basically almost canon imo).
Either way, let's look at a bunch of examples of her using her semblance. I'm sure I'm missing some, as I'm mostly focusing on in-battle uses. In those cases, her Bad Luck mostly takes the form of her enemies forgetting something or her being saved by very timely interventions. But I'm confident that 100% of the people reading this will be convinced, as there's simply no other explanation for such prevalent and consistent bad luck. If you're already convinced (as you should be), feel free to skip to the end from here.
*Yes, it's a hereditary semblance. Makes sense that the white-haired/blue-eyed and black haired/red-eyed families would be the two to have such semblances. To explain why Raven doesn't have it, I'd wager it's linked to the X Chromosome, and Qrow received it from his mother (but Raven got her other X). This would explain why Nolan Porfirio (who is clearly Qrow's son) doesn't display any signs of it. There's also the possibility that Raven does have it, and like Ruby she's faking her actual semblance (explaining why she's able to use portals after losing her aura - but then again this could also just be due to aura regeneration), but then you have the question of Yang.
V1:
Roman in V1C1 is unable to kill her due to the intervention of Glynda, a Beacon teacher who just so happens to be on the rooftops of Vale. Unlucky. It should be noted though that Roman seems to be resistant to Ruby's semblance effects as he still manages to escape, but we'll get to that later.
Weiss unluckily misses her target and sets the forest on fire due to Ruby in V1C6. Given how Ruby is annoyed with her, I think it's safe to say that such a comedy of errors from the normally perfect heiress was a manifestation of Ruby's semblance. In fact, I would go so far as to say that much and more of Weiss's later combat failings could be due to Ruby having subconscious (or conscious, malicious, and hidden - again see the sociopath theory) dislike of her.
Now you might question why Weiss succeeded against the Boarbatusk in V1C10, but that's easy: Ruby wanted to make herself (and RWBY as a whole, hence her saying "Represent Team RWBY!") look good, because she told Weiss how to kill it.
Roman in V1C16 manages to best Sun and Blake, but again is unluckily interrupted by Ruby, who just so happens to unluckily have an all powerful android girl with her, thwarting Roman's plans. But he manages to escape for a second time, adding evidence to his resistance.
V2:
Roman shows resistance in V2C4 yet again as though he unluckily loses his precious, newly-cleaned mech to a bullshit power up, he himself escapes unscathed.
Cinder when fighting Ruby in V2C7 is clearly about to overpower her, yet is unluckily interrupted by Ironwood and forced to retreat. Fortunately for her, she'd already accomplished her objective and established an escape route before Ruby came on to the scene and so wasn't otherwise affected.
The White Fang members and Roman in V2C10-11 were completely unaffected by her semblance. Now this might prove a barrier to my theory, but it's actually quite easily explainable: her aura was out from her huge fall and she thus wasn't able to use it. By the way this whole theory also explains how she's using her transformation/speed after that to briefly escape from Torchwick - magic isn't affected by aura levels.
Building off my previous mention of Weiss, she unluckily freezes in mid air for no apparent reason during her fight with Banesaw in V2C11, leading to him winning a fight she was otherwise stomping. Clear example of Ruby's semblance coming into play, since she's nearby.
In V2C12 her semblance affected roughly all of the Grimm in the Breach, rendering them unluckily unable to do anything but sit back and be killed. This is probably her biggest and most successful usage of it yet.
V3:
V3C1, the opponents weren't actually enemies and so they weren't subject to her semblance. Though Reese's sudden inability to land on her feet is rather questionable, so I could be wrong about this.
V3C5 has Ruby in the audience while Weiss is in the arena, and again Weiss completely and unluckily forgets how to fight, leading to her being destroyed by a trumpet weapon wielded by a living meme. Fortunately, after Weiss was knocked out, Ruby's semblance then went to affecting Neon, who - despite skating literally 24/7 - trips right into a geyser. Unlucky.
When it becomes apparent in V3C6 that Yang is about to lose to Mercury, it's clear Ruby takes matters into her own hands and uses her semblance on Mercury, seeing as he unluckily loses the ability to confirm that Yang is down and then unluckily forgets how to exist as anything except Yang's punching bag. This is really the only explanation for his actions (well, rational explanation. Some people will claim he threw the fight but that's fucking ridiculous lmao), and unfortunately it becomes a recurring theme with Mercury - he's never able to show his true potential due to Ruby's interference. Unlucky.
While it may not seem like Mercury is as affected in his V3C7 tussle with Ruby, he somehow forgets how to kick her out of her transformation despite doing so just seconds earlier, which allows her to escape him.
When Ruby isn't present Weiss actually wins against the Paladin in V3C11. She's competent when Ruby isn't around.
In V3C11, Neo's weapon (specifically how the blade functions) unluckily works completely differently from how it did in V2, and this change is in such a way that she's able to be flown off the ship by Ruby. Roman is then unluckily caught in the middle of monologuing while beating the shit out of Ruby and swallowed whole. I should note that Roman likely survived this: As I mentioned earlier, he's shown a remarkable resilience to Ruby's semblance in the past (quite possibly due to his own semblance - which Gray hinted we'd get. There's also a compelling theory out there that Roman is a cockroach faunus, which explains how he easily survives the train crash without aura up and how he survived this encounter with Ruby. It also makes his character much more compelling and puts his prior racism in an ironic light), and I don't see why this instance should be any different. I'd say it's safe to expect his return in V6 or 7.
The big one: In V312, Cinder is unlucky enough to kill Pyrrha right as Ruby appears, thus triggering her SE for the first time ever. That's true unluckiness.
V4:
The Geist in V4C1 is unlucky enough to fall for Jaune's genius strategy of "We hit it, harder." and is also unlucky enough to be the sole victim of Nora's new upgrade as she never ever uses it again even though it has very few downsides and buffs her considerably.
V4C4 - Ruby appears to affect herself for a second as she forgets how many people are with her despite traveling with them for 6+ months. Weird.
V4C6 - Another timely, out-of-nowhere intervention to save Ruby's life. Poor Tyrian.
In V4C7 Tyrian briefly forgets how to see, allowing Qrow to easily beat him up despite having no weapon at the time. Unlucky. And even though he earlier displays the ability to easily react to and block things coming from behind him (the bullets Ruby fires as well as Nora), he clearly forgets how to do so and as such gets his tail cut off. Poor Tyrian.
V5:
Weiss - when Ruby is far away - again manages to take a W against the Lancers in V5C2, further proving that she's actually competent when Ruby isn't there to fuck things up with her semblance. The Knight hitting the engine is curious - could just be standard unluckiness, or could be lingering effects after being around Ruby for so long.
Weiss unfortunately is again subject to Ruby's semblance in V5C11 and unluckily forgets that she has more options in her arsenal besides summoning, leading to her losing handily to Vernal.
Meanwhile, Emerald - while doing fine herself - is unlucky enough to have Ruby's eyes trigger while fighting her, putting Cinder in grave danger against even Jaune.
Next, in V5C13, Mercury unluckily forgets that he's primarily a kick-based fighter when facing off against Ruby and so gets headbutted.
Finally, in V5C13 Weiss gets back up and apparently off screen does fairly well for herself. If I had to guess, seeing her almost dead put shit in perspective for Ruby and she realized she actually cared for her. It'll be interesting to see if she has any bouts of unluckiness in the future.
Taking all this into account, Ruby's magic and true semblance should be clear. I mean, the only other explanation that would even sort of work is inconsistent writing... but lol that's obviously not it.
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whats up pals its your significant annoyance, rachel, and this is a ( likely to be ) poorly written intro !! im going to direct you all to a couple different links that’ll kinda detail me and detail damaris a lil more, but under the cut are just a few important details if you’d rather not go through the rest of the stuff !!
⏩ ooc fun facts page ⏩ full biography & stats / about tag
simply put ?? damaris is a typical sweetheart cliche character. she’s just very inherently good, and she takes a great deal of joy out of helping other people, hence why she takes such a degree of enjoyment out of her mysterybusters job. it’s both because she enjoys helping her friends out, and because she loves having things under control and organized. ive equated her to monica gellar before, and i kinda stand by that- she’s a stress cleaner and frequent alphabetizer, who loves to keep things together.
i’ve also associated her with rory gilmore (gilmore girls), charlotte york (sex and the city) & ginny weasley (harry potter) and i stand by all of those characters, too, because they all give me really strong damaris vibes- but it’s ginny who i think y’all should keep in mind and i will explain in a sec.
damaris had a slightly unconventional start in life, in that her mother kept her for a time before deciding after she was admitted to hospital for an infantile virus that she couldn’t handle caring for her, and gave her to her father ( joel lennox, a soldier in the army ) to raise. don’t get me wrong; she grew up loved more than words, and when her dad couldn’t be around, her grandmother was everything she needed her to be, but the thing with her mother certainly left her with some unspoken issues that remain so, even now she’s met her ( and her half-brother, bryce )
she never used to believe in the supernatural, but since silverwood, she’s started to. it was one of those ‘it requires my life to be threatened for me to believe’ situations.
on top of all the awful things happening to everyone else during the silverwood ordeal, damaris was briefly possessed by the patient that she researched, sabrina zoel. she seemed to get off fairly lightly, all considered, but was completely unaware that sabrina had slipped a locket that had belonged to her into her pocket before she released her from her grasp and the group as a whole was saved by the cops and cristian- here’s where y’all should keep ginny in mind, bc its.. unintentionally very parallel to that. though some of the things they took from silverwood and that belonged to sabrina are now in the basement, damaris never handed over the locket after she found it. instead, she found herself wearing it- something ‘compelled’ her to, you could say, and since silverwood, it’s rarely ( if ever ) come off. she’s been suffering black outs since then and doesn’t know what happens during that time, something which is directly linked to the locket and sabrina, a part of whom has stuck with it and is continuing to fck with damaris. it’s very.. ginny weasley with tom riddle’s diary-esque, and as more time passes, the locket ( and sabrina ) are having more and more of an effect on damaris, though she’s ( not so blissfully ) unaware of what’s up. fun times.
sorry for the long ‘ol paragraph. i forgot to mention that while they were @ silverwood her dad died and she’s been rly grieving him, too. she and her dad were really close ( so close that i even have a headcanon that her volkswagon beetle, a car she fixed up with him years ago, has stopped working in the last few months and she hasn’t gotten it fixed bc she doesn’t want anyone other than her dad working on it ), and the slight changes the gang might see in her are almost easily explained by her grief. making the whole.. sabrina-still-being-an-issue thing that bit harder to spot.
so, that is rly it. ill incl some fun and not so relevant facts below, but that is all the relevant stuff love u bye
irrelevant but fun facts
she owns one of harley and quinn’s puppies, which she has christened ripley lennox and who has definitely been her rock in the last while, but is also maybe the only creature out there that knows there’s something up w damaris. bc u know. dogs got all them freaky senses
she’s scared to death of furby’s, so.. herbie the furby can kindly choke
she now walks everywhere bc she almost stubbornly refuses to let anyone fix her car. i hate
her favorite scooby doo character is scrappy and she does a mean impression of him
she’s one of those dramatic girls who had a bit of a makeover after her traumatic event ( i hate her ) so her hair now falls to her shoulders and for a while, she stopped wearing the brightest of colors. that part didn’t last long, but she can’t regrow her hair so quickly
i believe i am correct in saying she is ava and noah’s godmother, but regardless- she adores them both, more than i can even say. she rly loves kids, but its even better when they’re your friends, and def do not expect to get away with any kinda comment on them possibly being satans spawn around her- all five foot two of her will fight u
until the locket, damaris never wore gaudy jewelry like that. all her bracelets were the braided, handmade kind, the only ring she wore was cheap silver, and necklaces generally weren’t even a thing- but someone so obviously expensive and old definitely wasn’t something that damaris would wear. goddamn sabrina, possessing something that isn’t part of my gals usual style
ill let u leave now thank u and goodnight
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Cancelled Plans Means Cuddling and Blanket Forts
A/N: Requested by @radxxregs . Really sorry if this isn’t how you wanted it to be. I tried to make it fluffy and cute and I love the idea of blanket forts with Bucky so I thought I would incorporate that into this haha. I hope you like it c:
Warnings: None just fluff.
Words: 1634
Being an Avenger had its perks. For example, the Stark tower had luxuries such as a swimming pool, gym facilities, a small spa and several well-stocked bars which had accommodated your drunken self maybe just one too many times. Your favourite room, however, was the recreation room. It wasn’t so much of a room as it was an entire floor of the building but it had everything. From bar games like pool, darts and poker tables to consoles, a giant HD TV and arcade games, this place had it all.
More often than not, Clint could be found whooping Tony’s ass at darts which Tony would then return in equal measure by beating Barton at poker. Pietro preferred the retro arcade games because they were probably the only thing that could keep him entertained for long enough while Wanda sat quietly on the sofa reading a book from the giant bookcase that took up half a wall. All of the Avengers came here to unwind and to have a good time, sometimes even with a few drinks.
You, on the other hand, had taken to the built-in movie theatre through a set of double doors on the far right of the room. It was much smaller than the previous area but had an oversized couch which took up half the space accompanied by dozens of plush cushions. After moving into the tower, you stocked the cupboards above the sofa with large fluffy blankets for movie nights or even just to binge watch your new favourite TV show. Everyone knew to find you there, curled up in a nest of blankets and a pile of junk food nearby, it might as well have been your bedroom considering how many times you had slept there.
Today was no different. After cancelling your plans for a night out because of the rain, you found yourself wandering towards the theatre with a bag of your typical junk such as Doritos, chocolate brownie ice cream and a variety of biscuits. Walking through the door, you threw the bag on the sofa and immediately began rummaging through the cabinets for your favourite fluffy grey blanket. Bucky had bought you it as a thank you for being so understanding and not pushing him into opening up too quickly so naturally, it became the most precious thing you owned.
Whilst trying to find said blanket, your foot slipped in between two of the couch cushions causing you to lose balance and start toppling oh so gracefully to the floor. Though, you never actually hit the floor because two strong arms wrapped around your waist before you could fall. You instantly knew that it was Bucky just from the slightly cooler touch of his metal arm and his long hair tickling your neck. With a kiss on the cheek, he placed you down on the sofa, his left arm whirring almost silently through the movements.
“I still don’t understand how you can sneak up on people like that. You’re practically soundless, kind of like a cat.” You jest with a smirk pretending like you weren’t about to end up in the infirmary if he hadn’t caught you. He stood on the sofa next to you, fishing in the cabinets and quickly pulling out the one blanket you were looking for.
“Yeah well, that’s what years of rigorous assassin training does to you, doll.” He half-joked, covering you in the fluffy grey cloud. The smirk on his sinful lips matched with the playful glint in his eyes made your chest swell. How could one man be so disgustingly handsome? “What were you planning on watching?” He continued, changing the conversation topic as well as knowingly snapping you out of your daze. His gaze travelled to the DVD player which was hooked up to the projector before opening the disc drive to see what was inside.
“Honestly, I have no idea, I haven’t chosen yet.” You answered truthfully. With your previous plans out the window, you really didn’t have much time to decide. “Why don’t you pick something, Bucky Bear?” You suggested, using the teasing nickname you chose for him. Most people would take one look at Bucky and assume he was cold or distant but really, once you get to know him he’s like a big ol’ teddy bear. He always clung to you at night and would often wrap his arms around you from behind when cooking breakfast. Being in physical contact with you has always grounded and calmed him, so usually, you two could be found doing completely separate activities but in one way or another, you would be touching. He liked letting others know that you belonged to one another whether it was through hand holding, hugging or even simply pecking you on the cheek.
At the mention of your nickname for him, he let out a small chuckle which to you, was the most amazing sound you’ll have the pleasure of hearing. He slowly strutted over to the large shelves of DVDs and box sets, carefully considering his choices and your tastes. His stormy eyes browsed several rows before settling on a collection of dark cases. They had been on his watch list for a while but he hadn’t had the time to actually watch them. Picking them up he turned to you, a sheepish smile on his face which made your heart melt and showed you the boxes.
“Harry Potter...not bad” You smiled. Swiftly, he placed the first DVD in the player and grabbed the remote. You opened up the blanket, signalling for him to climb in. As he did, he wrapped an arm around your waist and grabbed your hand, lacing his metal fingers with yours. The cool touch sent small shivers through your body but you hoped he didn’t notice. However, judging by the stupid grin on his face he did. “Shut up.” You moaned.
“Didn’t say a word, Doll.” He laughed, the feeling vibrating on your back. Settling down, he pressed play and snuggled up to you as you both watched the TV.
…
About halfway through the third movie, you began to get restless. First, your legs were uncomfortable, then you couldn’t feel the arm you were leaning on and you had been lying in the same position for damn near six and a half hours. Letting out a frustrated sigh, you sat up causing Bucky to pause the TV and glance at you questioningly.
“I can’t stay like that it’s making me sore. Do you want a drink or anything? I’m making myself a coffee.” You stated, standing and stretching which revealed a small strip of skin above your pyjama shorts. Bucky stared at it before averting his gaze to your eyes as you waited for an answer. A smug grin found its way onto your face.
“Shut up” He mumbled with a small smile on his lips.
“Didn’t say a word” You mocked, turning and swaying your hips as you walked out the room to grab a drink.
Walking to the small kitchen in the corner, you began to fix yourself and Bucky some coffee. Two sugars for you, three for him. You remember being surprised when you found out that Buck had a sweet tooth, you had just baked a batch of blueberry muffins leaving them to cool on the counter. Ten minutes later you had come back to half a batch and a rather embarrassed super soldier with a fifth muffin in his hand. You smiled fondly at the memory. You didn’t really know him back then but since that moment you two had grown closer until he finally asked you out. Six months later here you are.
Finishing up with the drinks, you glance at the clock and realise you’ve been in the kitchen for twenty minutes so you rush back with the two cups and enter the room. At first, you hadn’t realised and simply placed the coffees on the table in front of the sofa, but then, as you swirled to apologise for taking so long you saw what Bucky had done. He had made a fort and a rather impressive one at that. The cushions were moved so that they created wall-like structures around the edges of the couch and all the blankets had been used to create either a roof or a nest inside. It looked ridiculously cosy. A small gasp escaped your lips as you took in the sight. Bucky was sat in the middle with your blanket, waiting for you to join him.
“James, this is..” You trailed off trying to think of the right word but your brain failed you. He patted the spot next to him and opened the grey blanket for you to lie in. As you made your way over to him you placed a slow, gentle kiss to his lips before he enveloped you in a hug, pulling you onto his lap. His body leant back and sunk into the sofa allowing you to lie down on him with your head on his firm chest. Only then did you realise how tired you were. Kissing the top of your head, he pressed play but your focus wasn’t on the TV.
Your ear was directly over his heart, allowing you to listen to the steady thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat. It helped you realise this was all real, that he was real. The rise and fall of his chest rocked you gently. His flesh hand made its way to rest on the small of your back, absentmindedly tracing small patterns on your skin where your shirt had ridden up. The simple repeating gestures and the rhythmic pumping of his heart caused your eyes to flutter shut, making you forget the coffee and instead lulling you into a peaceful slumber.
#Bucky Barnes#Avengers#james buchanon barnes#The Winter Soldier#Bucky Barnes x Reader#Requested#Hope you like it my dear#Marvel Imagines#Marvel#Cuddling#Avengers Imagines
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Even Alabama can completely collapse
Clemson, Alabama, and circumstance all forced errors by the Tide, and then football’s tightest machine fell to pieces.
00:00
I think a part of me knew it was over when Saban missed on the pregame shoulder pat pic.twitter.com/qw0mgNoTAT
— BUM CHILLUPS (@edsbs) January 8, 2019
Nick missed the shoulder completely. Complete whiff. Pregame omens are iffy at best, but after Bevo tried to kill Uga prior to a Longhorn beatdown of Georgia, I believe all of them. Clear sign of early trouble for Alabama.
FIRST QUARTER, 13:20
Tua Tagovailoa had 4 Interceptions the entire season #NationalChampionship pic.twitter.com/fVE2juBU3N
— Collin Wilson (@_Collin1) January 8, 2019
Okay maybe just a fluke, since A.J. Terrell got possessed by the spirit of Ed Reed here and just stole a ball. When Reed decides to possess a DB, there’s no choice but to let it happen, and that goes for everyone, Tua Tagovailoa included.
Watch Terrell’s head snap back when he bolts. Consider making any decision in life this quickly or with this much certainty.
That’s a dog stealing a steak off the grill. You might get burned, but the payoff is dinner.
This happens, though. Might be big game nerves. It’s one mistake by one player in an aggressive passing attack. Machine’s not broken? Machine’s not broken.
11:03
Rushing three against a freshman QB on third-and-14 seems like a weird decision for Alabama? Maybe the thought was that no one would make a mistake in the secondary, and even if they did, a freshman would not be able to get the ball to Tee Higgins on time with eight in coverage.
About that!
Reaching for explanations is the thing to do after something like Clemson hammering Alabama into sheets of cheap scrap metal happens, and it’s what I’m sort of trying to do here. This explains this. This decision, while dumb in hindsight, made sense on paper.
Nothing about this game makes sense without yelling in wonderment. Clemson did nothing on first and second down all game, then hit third-and-longs like they were nothing. Clemson went 10 of 15 on them, including this bomb.
Look at the speed of recognition by Trevor Lawrence. That’s practically a hiccup by the safety, but before he recovers, the ball is over his head.
Every time Alabama left something unattended, Clemson stole it without a nanosecond of hesitation. It was hard to see that in the first quarter. Sometimes Alabama had given up long plays to start games, like against Ole Miss and Arkansas. Those games ended up 62-7 and 65-31 blowouts.
Still cool. Little shook, but cool. Like Keith Jackson would say: just two heavyweights trading haymakers.
6:23
It started here.
when it's a solid tweet with a typo in it pic.twitter.com/ArlBi941En
— BUM CHILLUPS (@edsbs) January 8, 2019
There’s something terrifying about watching a prepared team unravel. It’s sometimes hard to even realize it’s happening — maybe they’re just sleepy? Maybe they didn’t take their meds? I bet they have to poop.
People who are typically ultra-prepared absolutely crumble when their preparation fails them. There’s nothing left but to improvise, and Alabama has never been good at that.
A failure in the kicking game is the simplest step toward collapse. Special teams is the paperwork of football. It should be filed on time, a matter of procedure. When it fails, it feels like blind negligence, because ... anyone can hit an extra point, right?
It’s particularly bad for Alabama because:
Special teams have long given the world exactly one thing to mock about the current dynasty.
2018 Alabama entered the game ranked 113th in XP percentage.
This isn’t when panic filled Bama’s mind. Panic did text to say it was on the way over, though.
Clemson had something to do with Bama’s other errors to this point. It goes both ways when good teams play. But this is an unforced error. More will pile up as this machine becomes genuinely shook.
SECOND QUARTER, 14:18
The freaky chill had settled in, and things were definitely off. When Alabama made simple mistakes it should have shrugged off, it doubled down on new mistakes.
That crept atop the chain of command, eventually forcing errors seemingly by design.
The crucial drive was Alabama’s fourth possession late in the first quarter. Trailing 14-13 and coming off two touchdown drives, Alabama seemed poised to do that thing they do, where they put down a challenge by crushing with the run game and throwing a ball up to Jerry Jeudy, DeVonta Smith, or any other instant problem solver.
That thing where Alabama dares the other team to be as good as Alabama at the line of scrimmage, says where the ball is going, and puts the ball in that place.
For a minute, that was what Alabama did. Then, after ramming the ball to the one on first down with Damien Harris, Alabama called three more plays.
MMMM BEEFY
Second and goal: A fake dive/toss left pitch out of this tackle over formation. They’d used this formation earlier in the game to throw a TD to a wide open tight end. That tight end’s name is Hale Hentges. If someone with that name is not a used car baron or Alabama agriculture commissioner in 30 years, something has gone wrong.
Alabama had been running hard to the right for solid gains. This is kind of surprising. Bama’s left tackle, Jonah Williams, is considered one of the best in the country.
Then again, Williams was matched up with Clemson’s Clelin Ferrell. Ferrell spent a good part of the night snapping Williams back like a Pez dispenser, pressuring Tagovailoa, and rerouting runs.
Ferrell on Jonah Williams pic.twitter.com/HqrMLl9jS3
— Ty Wurth (@WurthDraft) January 8, 2019
So Bama might have felt better about running right, behind tackle Jedrick Wills and guard Alex Leatherwood and away from First-Team All-American Ferrell.
But when Willis false started on second and one — forced errors become unforced errors — it became second and six.
Second and goal, plus five yards: Tagovailoa throws a quick screen to Henry Ruggs III. DB Isaiah Simmons wraps it up.
Third and goal: Shovel pass to Harris, stopped in the backfield by defensive end Austin Bryant.
With much of the game on the line and in two different short yardage situations, Alabama ran one stuffed run up the middle, one misdirection away from the strength of formation, and two quick pass plays that went nowhere. When ass had to be moved, Alabama didn’t trust its line to move ass.
That was the pattern all night. Clemson’s defense gave up yards, but not when it counted, flustering Alabama into quick passes and misdirection. One team punched the ball in on the ground in Santa Clara — it was Clemson, which scored twice on Travis Etienne runs.
That is shocking, but there’s more. Alabama spent most of 2018 hitting defenses with lighting strikes. Alabama only had 12 drives all year in which the offense ran 11 plays or more, and Tagovailoa was only on the field for six of them. Ten of those 12 drives were longer than 50 yards.
This was an 11-play, six-minute drive to get just 45 yards and three points.
Clemson’s defense made a few massive mistakes. The Tigers gave up a howler of a TD to open the game. They let Alabama have 443 total yards and 23 first downs.
Yet at the crux, Clemson turned Alabama’s track meet offense into Kansas State, forcing it to plod along for cheap threes.
After this, Alabama won’t score for the rest of the game. Clemson cooked Alabama like a chicken breast — as in, Bama was done within 16 minutes at high heat — even if we didn’t know it yet.
8:05
[/run alabama.exe]
[FATAL ERROR UPDATE ALABAMA.EXE AND RESTART]
[/update alabama.exe]
[RUN TUA.EXE TO UPDATE ALABAMA.EXE]
[/run tua.exe]
[FILE NOT FOUND, RUN ALABAMA.EXE TO UPDATE TUA.EXE]
[/run alabama.exe]
[FATAL ERROR UPDATE ALABAMA.EXE AND RESTART]
THIRD QUARTER
Alabama was already down 31-16, clearly incapable of catching a break, but the contagion of mistakes is about to turn into a full-blown plague.
9:53
A team running a fake that takes the ball back an additional six yards from the line of scrimmage on what is already a fourth-and-6: a broken team.
A team that does this into the teeth of a regular defensive formation is a disintegrating Terminator running through the options menu while the lights go out.
pic.twitter.com/KS0l6iZoai
— BUM CHILLUPS (@edsbs) January 8, 2019
There’s only so much one can say in the face of madness.
Props to kicker Joseph Bulovas for hitting the hole like Lorenzo Neal, seeing Christian Wilkins, and offering a light shove while moving out of the way. If Saban wants his players to treat the game like a business, sometimes they are going to make business decisions.
8:26
A quarterback is the only athlete with 12 legs and 12 arms — i.e., only as good as the offensive line allows him to be.
Clemson’s starting line got an ovation when it exited the field with under three minutes left. They earned it, playing out of their minds, picking up every random blitz, and dumping Alabama’s front four. Lawrence did not get sacked once.
Even when Clemson’s line allowed pressure, Lawrence either climbed up in the pocket (which is good!) or threw off his back foot (which is bad, unless you’re Lawrence).
I don’t even know what you do as a lineman here. You’re flailing away at a 6’5 missile platform who’s impervious to fluster. His eyes are downfield even though you’re bearing down on him. The ball comes out about 10 feet off the ground, almost impossible to bat. It’s going where it’s supposed to go, in a hurry.
This happened after Alabama opted for a doomed fake field goal on fourth-and-6 while already down by two scores, deciding to have the kicker block instead of having a Heisman finalist quarterback throw.
So this score put Alabama into beclowning territory, down three scores in the biggest possible spotlight, turning this from a close loss into something laughable, brutal, and humiliating.
But it gets worse.
Justyn Ross, the freshman who caught this pass and ended all hope, is from Phenix City, Alabama. Alabama offered the four-star receiver a scholarship. Ross could have been catching passes from Tagovailoa in this game.
Instead, there he is in Clemson orange, mercifully pulling the plug on Alabama’s malfunctioning machine.
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WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER
Hey! Alright so one of the main reasons I decided to start writing on Tumblr at least semi-regularly was to translate some of the thoughts in my crazy and sporadic mind to a concrete format. Sometimes the thoughts build up so much and I never express them, whether verbally or written, so it can become overwhelming. While I am an English major with a Bachelor’s degree, I still find myself struggling to formulate thoughts and reasoning that make sense to anyone but myself and I am even worse about committing these thoughts to memory or paper so I am going to use this as not only a writing tool but hopefully as a self-improvement tool as well.
With that being said, I’d like to take this opportunity to express some feelings that I’ve been having lately about one of my favorite passions: video games. YO THEY ARE SUPER GREAT. But maybe also super awful at times.
I’ve had a love affair with video games since I was maybe around four or five years old. My dad was a big video game fan when he was my age and carried on this passion throughout early and middle adulthood. He lived through the Atari era so he was basically on the fuckin’ landing grounds of the creation of my favorite past time. I remember him telling me how great games like Pong and Pac-Man were and how he couldn’t believe how far they advance in terms of graphics and capabilities every time there is a new system release.
The first gaming system I ever had was a Sega Genesis. I have some splendid memories of playing Sonic the Hedgehog, Mutant League Football, Streets of Rage 2 and many more games that I can’t possibly remember all at once. And since I was a young and dumb kid, I even got to experience some of the more obscure titles that most older folks wouldn’t have played at the time. These would especially include licensed movie titles like Power Rangers and Home Alone, among others. While games based on movies often get a bad reputation, I distinctly remember enjoying these two titles particularly because of my ever-growing love of the source material. The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers movie game was a side-scrolling beat ‘em up very similar to Streets of Rage 2 so that is likely why I enjoyed this title so much. And man was it a shit ton of fun playing Home Alone and setting traps for Harry and Marv to fall into.
Okay. Let’s get back on track. So my dad started my love for gaming by sharing his memories and experiences and by purchasing me a Sega Genesis. Blah blah blah. Flash forward to my teenage years. By this time, I was long past my 8 bit and 16 bit gaming days and was into 3D gaming systems that were far advanced from the good ‘ol Atari or Genesis days. I watched in amazement as my dad marveled again at “how good this shit looks” and forever possessing the “what will they do next” philosophy and mindset.
On a related note, I remember the day that we finally got high speed internet in my household. Although we lived in the country and were only able to obtain speeds of 1mbps, it was like luxury living for people who formerly lived with dial-up internet. The reason why this is worth mentioning is because this now opened up a whole new world for me: the world of online gaming. Boy, did I not have a clue how great and equally terrifying this would be for me.
As I became older, I became at least slightly more skilled at playing games than when I was younger. However, I could not understand why the people who played games online against me in multiplayer modes were so much better. I struggled with this a lot and, admittedly, it’s a personal problem that I still have. I’m not sure if I have a competitive complex that I don’t like to reason with or if it’s something else but goddamn do I have some gaming-related anger and self-esteem issues. You would’ve likely heard me yelling in frustration in these angst-driven years, screaming phrases such as OH MY GOD THIS GUY HAS KILLED ME TEN TIMES IN A ROW AND I HAVEN’T EVEN LEFT MY RESPAWN AREA. WHY AM I SO BAD AT THIS? WHY IS HE CROUCHING UP AND DOWN ABOVE MY CHARACTER’S DEAD BODY?!?!
There is a point I’m going to make. God I’m bad at this. SEE THERE IT IS AGAIN.
My parents, especially my dad, became very angry that I was angry over a video game. The hobby that he once loved so much had mostly become a thing of the past (besides occasional sports games) so he couldn’t possibly understand why a simple hobby was making me so angry. I tried reasoning with him, stating the idea that he was likely angry when he lost to the AI on his older games. He told me he never remembered getting angry because “it was just a game” and “it’s just a computer” and that he never reacted in such a strong way.
Then, it clicked.
The reason why I get so angry about playing games online is because I am personally interacting with real human beings and not just a computer, not just a form of artificial intelligence. A real, living, breathing, swearing, mother insulting person. And people. SO MANY PEOPLE ALL ONLINE AT ONCE. And these real people don’t give a single fuck about my feelings or how bad I am at the game. Their mission is to make their player beat or destroy or kill my player. It’s truly just a game and shouldn’t hold such a great weight on anyone’s mind but online gaming has a way of making it feel personal and I think that’s why it still has the ability to fill me with such a completely unjustifiable rage.
This brings us to present day. While I still play games online quite often, I feel that my experiences and feelings have changed. I am no longer a child or even a teenager. I am a twenty-five year old man with two part-time jobs, a fiancee, a cat, an apartment to clean and maintain and bills to pay. SO WHY THE HELL AM I STILL GETTING MAD OVER VIDEO GAMES?
I think that we, as an obviously imperfect species of living biology, are always striving for better. I have clearly evolved and matured as person but there is still that part of me that wants to break shit and throw things when I lose. Maybe I’m just a sore loser. I probably am. BUT. There is so much shit wrong with this world, especially in 2017, that we tend to expect to gain happiness and success out of the hobbies, interests and activities that we spend our free time on while the rest of our time is spent working or sleeping. I’m not sure if this is true for everyone but I think it’s true for me. I think that everything in my life is so uncertain, so messy, so complicated and so challenging for me that I expect my hobbies to provide me an escape from reality and responsibility and send waves of happiness to my screwed up brain.
Speaking of happiness, I want to mention one of the main reasons why I was prompted to write this very long post. Well, maybe not long by Tumblr standards but surely by my own!
I have recently been playing a game called Playerunknown’s Battlegrounds. It’s a PC game I’ve been playing with my friend Ben on Steam. The elevator pitch for this game is imagine you’ve been put into a Hunger Games style world where you are dropped on an island and must fight to the death with all the other inhabitants. It is simply amazing to realize that there are up to one hundred people in any given match of this game and it could be one hundred different people that you are fighting every time. One hundred different characters that represent one hundred real people, just like you and me. Except maybe not as nice. This game is super stressful, intimidating and difficult at times but HOLY SHIT it is fun. I can honestly say it is one of the best experiences I’ve ever had with a video game. The constant desire to finally get that win, or “chicken dinner” as the game refers to it, is the pure carnal force that is driving me to keep playing. I keep telling myself the frustration will pay off and I will eventually win.
Well, long story short, I have played countless matches of this game with Ben and I had never won a game of it until last night. We have made it into the top ten out of fifty teams on several occasions and have put over fifteen hours into this game so far but had never won up until this point. I won’t describe this play-by-play but here’s the general gist of it: my friend Ben died early in this match so I was left alone to proceed through the rest of the match. At first, I was completely unsure of how I could possibly proceed without him but then the number of players left in the game started sinking lower and lower until I was finally in the last ten remaining. And then eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. There were three players left, including myself. I had not landed many accurate shots in this match thus far and was almost sure that I would blow this. At last, I fired my virtual assault rifle and eliminated the last player. A screen popped up that said, “WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER!” and gave me some match statistics. I was in a state of shock as Ben yelled in excitement and couldn’t believe it. After hours of trial and error, I had finally won.
I know this post may sound completely trivial and unimportant to anyone but me. The truth is that video games mean a lot to me and being good at them means more than I wish it did. But I think that video games aren’t nearly as irrelevant or pointless as some people make them out to be. Personally, this was a learning experience for me that I needed to have long before adulthood. Sometimes, trial and error is the only method that leads to success. But if you don’t try in the first place, you can’t even reach the point of error. I worked past my fear of being bad at video games and the judgment that would follow by the other players and I accomplished a goal.
Simply put, I expect too much from video games. They have given me fun and happiness for years but how dare they not do this 100 percent of the time or else it will inevitably lead to me being pissed off and destructive.
So thank you, video games. You non-living, virtual, amazing, bullshit, absolutely wonderful creation.
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