#last year they all looked like they wanted to be at their mum's funeral rather than playing games

[iwriteasfotini]

OLIWITS Excerpt from THATS Ch I

Excerpt from Our Love is Written in the Stars: The Heir and The Spare, Chapter I - Glasses and Freckles

(Continued from this excerpt)

The compartment was no longer empty. In fact, there were three other students sitting in it. The messy haired boy with glasses was there, Sirius knew his name was James, but he didn’t let on as he didn’t want the other boy to know he’d been watching him. Sirius noticed his glasses were covered in fingerprint smudges, how could the kid even see out of such dirty lenses? There was also a red haired girl, with her face turned towards the window, clearly crying but trying to be discreet. And a coffee skinned boy with shoulder length dark brown hair, similar to Sirius’ black, but it was less voluminous and more straight. 

“Hiya,” Sirius said to the compartment at large.

The one with glasses glanced towards him and gave a nod of acknowledgement. The other two ignored him.

Glasses boy, whose skin was dusky and smooth, said with a slight accent, “how goes it mate?”

“Yeah, not bad, you?” replied Sirius. 

“I can’t believe it’s finally happening,” said Glasses, a huge smile splitting his face. “I’ve been waiting my entire life to go to Hogwarts.” 

The compartment door slid open. 

“Sorry,” said a thin boy with curly light brown hair and a heavy smattering of freckles across his tan cheeks, “but can I squeeze in, everywhere else is full.”

Sirius took in the newcomer’s muggle attire, which was rather shabby, then his eyes locked onto the other boy’s and his stomach did a little flip. 

“S-sure,” Sirius stammered. 

The boy with long hair let out a huff and pushed past Sirius rather roughly, “‘scuse me” he mumbled and he exited the compartment. 

Sirius raised his eyebrows and looked at Glasses. Who raised his eyebrows right back. Aha! Sirius thought, as the look passed between them. I think I’m going to like you. 

“Mate, you look dead uncomfortable dressed up in all that,” Glasses said to Sirius, gesturing at his formal robes. 

“Ah, yeah, my mum likes me to ‘look the part’ so to speak.”

“The part of what, a funeral procession?” laughed Glasses. 

Sirius took the opportunity to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“Woah there, I didn’t mean you should start taking your clothes off.” Glasses held his hands up in front of his eyes. 

Sirius barked out a laugh. The new boy’s cheeks had a tiny bit of pink to them, though he was keeping quiet. 

“Pa-lease,” Sirius said, as he revealed the turquoise Unicorn versus Pegasus shirt he was sporting beneath his button-down. “Like you wouldn’t enjoy the show.”

Freckles boy stifled a laugh and Glasses beamed, winking at Sirius. Then caught sight of the logo on Sirius’ shirt. 

“Unicorn versus Pegasus! No way, you know about them? I thought they were still in the up-and-coming phase,” said Glasses, and he quickly took off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his shirt. They were slightly less smudged now.

“Know about them,” Sirius replied, “mate, I know them.”

“What!”

“Yeah, my Uncle Alphard is friends with the lead singer Richie Jetty. He brought them all round to our family Christmas party last year. Made for quite the scandal. And he gifted me this shirt! Look.” Sirius turned around so Glasses could now see the back of the shirt, it was covered in several scrawled signatures. 

“Wow!” Glasses sighed. 

Sirius nodded solemnly, caressing the turquoise fabric adorned with the moving logo of a unicorn and a pegasus facing each other and pawing the ground. 

“Have either of you ever been to a concert?” Sirius asked his companions. “I’m dying to go, only my mum is about the strictest hag in the world and barely lets me out of the house unaccompanied by a blood relative.”

Freckles shook his head, and Glasses said, “I mean I’ve seen The Fluffy Nifflers, but…”

Sirius raised his eyebrows again, clearly saying without words ‘and in what realm does a toddler magical puppet program count as a concert?’

Glasses rightfully looked a bit abashed. 

The compartment door slid open again, the long haired boy was back. He sidled past Sirius, with no shoving this time, and he did look much better since adorning his school robes. But Sirius also noticed his chin was somewhat pointy which contrasted oddly with his round cheeks. 

The girl with red hair, who had literally ignored everything unfolding in the compartment thus far, glanced towards Pointy and said succinctly, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not,” replied Pointy. He had a thick Spanish accent.

Glasses and Freckles started a side conversation about wizarding music, which Sirius pretended to engage in, but in actuality he was eavesdropping on Pointy and the red haired girl. 

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.”

“So what?” Pointy’s voice had adopted a bit of an edge. 

The red haired girl narrowed her eyes in exasperation. 

“So,” she said, “she’s my sister!”

“She’s only a —” Pointy caught himself quickly. Then rushed on, “but we’re going! This is it! We're off to Hogwarts.” Excitement slipped through despite his somewhat sour expression. 

The red haired girl wiped her eyes and Sirius swore she almost smiled. 

“You’d better be in Slytherin,” said Pointy. 

Glasses immediately redirected his attention. 

“Slytherin?” he said loudly. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

It took Sirius a beat to notice Glasses’ question had been directed at him. He did not smile.

“My whole family’s been in Slytherin,” said Sirius with chagrin. 

“Blimey, and I thought you seemed alright!”

“Maybe I’ll break the tradition,” Sirius smiled. “Where are you headed, if you’ve got a choice?”

Glasses lifted his hand into the air as if brandishing an invisible sword and said proudly, “‘Gryffindor, where dwell the brave of heart!’ Like my dad.”

Pointy let out a scoff. Glasses rounded on him. 

“Got a problem with that?” 

“No,” Pointy sneered, “if you’d rather be brawny than brainy —”

Pointy was rubbing Sirius the wrong way, “where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” 

Glasses roared with laughter and Sirius smiled. The red haired girl stood up, looking at the other boys in the compartment with a hint of dislike on her face. 

“Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“Ooooohhhh,” Glasses jeered and Sirius wolf-whistled. 

Glasses stuck his leg in front of the compartment door as Pointy, no S-something, exited, making him stumble. 

“See ya, Snivellus,” called Sirius. 

“Severus,” Freckles said quietly.

“What?” Sirius looked into his face again, curly hair was hanging into his eyes,  big brown eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes which were the exact shade of chocolate before. Sirius’ stomach did another tiny flip. What in the name of Merlin?

“His name was Severus.” 

“Oh,” Sirius shrugged and slouched back against his seat. “So what are your names, anyway?”

…

More to come (it is my first fic and it’s all already written). Daily posting will begin on AO3 on October, 31 :)

Check on the weekly posting/writing status update here!

[viennacherries]

what is your favourite thing that you’ve ever written?

this maybe isn't the answer you were looking for/expecting, and it's a little bit personal/deep, so sorry for that.

my actual favourite thing i've ever written is the eulogy i wrote and spoke at my mum's funeral. she passed when i was 16 after a long battle with cancer, but her passing was still very sudden. we were told she had about 6 months just days before she died.

it was more of a 'celebration of life' rather than an actual funeral. my mum wasn't religious and we wanted it to reflect on her more rather than a god she didn't believe in. it was amazing. friends she hadn't seen in years travelled from across the country and even the world to come and say goodbye to her. there were so many people that we didn't have enough chairs, and the room was completely full because people had to stand at the back and sides.

i've put it below the cut, if anyone wants to read it. it's obviously very emotional, so be prepared. but it's also very hopeful, in a way that i think you have to be when you experience a profound loss.

i turn 21 in just over a week, and i think about her and this speech around my birthday. 16 year old cher was very scared, but hopeful that things would get better, and im glad she was right.

I think everyone is aware of the fact they'll have to say goodbye to their parents someday from quite a young age. I think the problem is I never imagined it would be this soon.

To an extent I had prepared myself when mum was first diagnosed with cancer. I had to accept that there was a chance I had to say goodbye. But then I didn’t have to.

I never got the chance to prepare this time. Maybe that's what feels so bittersweet. Would things have been different if I’d known sooner? If I'd known the last time would be the last time. Would I hug her tighter? Would I say all the things I needed to say?

Or would I have just never let go?

Would any of the words felt right? Would any of it have felt enough? Or would I have spent forever regretting the words I misspoke or the ones I missed? Maybe this way is better because it was unclouded by the fear of the future.

There are so many things I wish I'd told her. That I didn't blame her. That it wasn’t her fault. That I loved her more than she knew. That I hoped she found peace.

I really hope she has. I think in my heart I know she has.

I see her in everything. In the sunset and the sunrise when the sky is clear. In every Robin or Blue Tit that seems a little too calm around me, that lands a little too close or sings extra loudly. I see her in the kindness others give me, because I know she has inspired it because they loved her. It's like she’s talking to me. Like it's her telling me things will be okay. When I hug my family or friends I hold on extra tight as though it's her, and I never ever want to let go.

I think something I hadn't considered is how hard listening to music would be. Because suddenly all these words have a new meaning and you hear them in a way you never have before. Or a song comes on that I know she loved and I realise I'll never hear her sing it again or watch her dance to it while we're stopped at traffic lights.

For the last four years people have told me how strong I am. I don’t think it's true. I think she was strong. She pushed through every day. She put up with [brother's name] and I at our worst and our best. she brought people joy and she made people feel loved. She never stopped fighting. I don’t think I'm strong, I don't think any of us are. I think every day she kept going she gave everyone a little bit of her strength. I think she made us strong by being strong. I think her strength inspired ours. Everything I am is her. Some days I look in the mirror and I feel like I'm looking at her, if not for the way I look then for the person I am. Because I'm a reflection of her. Of everything she taught me. I have always lived every single day of my life trying to make her proud. I hope wherever she is she knows I'll never stop.

She always gave the best advice, even on the days where it wasn't what I wanted to hear or I got angry because I didn’t think I agreed, she always knew what to say. I only wish I could ask her one more thing.

What do I do now? What happens from here? How do I keep going without you?

I'd like to think that I know what she'd say. She'd tell me I'm strong. She'd tell me she's with me. She'd tell me she believes in me and she'd hold my hand.

All of my memories of mum right now are painful. Because I know they're just memories. But they make me hopeful because I can hold onto them forever. They make me hopeful because someday remembering her won't hurt, it'll feel warm and I'll feel love. Someday we'll all be okay.

Our memories of mum keep her alive. Even when she’s gone. I want you all to think of her and when you do, I want you to smile, just like she always made us all smile.

Remember her with love. Remember who she was. She loved you.

So to you mum. Because I know you're here and I know you're listening. I hope you see how loved you are. I hope you feel it. I hope you know I don't blame you. I hope you know it wasn't your fault. I hope you've found peace. I hope you know just how much I love you. How much we all do. I can't wait to see you again.

[hinnyfied]

Some Order era Jily!

Thanks for the suggestion! I meant to answer this with a drabble or ficlet and ended up with a one-shot instead lol!

I've got it on AO3 or below. :)

Lily was 18 years old when she lost her father. As she stood in his bedroom a few weeks later, overwhelmed by the piles of stuff on the bed and empty cardboard boxes on the floor, the only remotely comforting thought she could muster was that he was at peace with her mother now. He had been so very lonely these last few years with Mum gone, Petunia off in London, and Lily at Hogwarts.

The guilt of her prolonged absences following her mother’s death started to creep up, threatening to eat her alive, but she couldn’t go to pieces, not now. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, breathing deeply, then grabbed the box nearest to her and started piling books inside. She knew it would be faster with magic, but even with Petunia working separately down in the kitchen, Lily didn’t dare take her wand out. It had been hard enough getting along through funeral planning and working through the logistics of settling Dad’s affairs.The last thing she needed as they worked to sever the last, fragile thread that tied them to one another was a row about her abnormality.

Downstairs, she could hear the clanking of pots and pans as Petunia organised the cookware in solitude. Vernon and James were in the back garden, working on clearing out the old tool shed. They had both seemed rather reluctant to admit that it was a two-person job, but Lily was grateful that they set their feelings aside to work on it together.

Lily had yet to pack up her own room and move out, though it wasn’t for lack of options. Following her father’s accident, several friends had reached out to offer not only their condolences, but a place for her to stay until she found a place of her own. Even Sirius had suggested she take the spare room in his flat. The thought of being flatmates with him had struck her as such a ridiculous idea that his offer had actually been the first thing to make her laugh again after Dad’s death. Of course, the laughter hadn’t lasted long. She nearly immediately burst into tears and hugged him tightly.

“Is that a yes, Evans?”

“Absolutely not,” she had responded with a watery chuckle. “Thank you, though. It means a lot.”

“Probably for the best. I don’t need to start finding long red hairs tangled up in my–”

In the end, it was Marlene who she was planning to stay with for a while. Her flat only had one bedroom, but Lily was more than happy with a spot on the couch if it meant not waking up in her parents’ quiet, empty house every morning. Besides, it was only temporary; after the sale of the house, she’d be able to move into her own place.

The pile of books was nearly all packed now, but as she reached for the last one, her heart sank. It was Gulliver’s Travels – her father’s favourite book. He must have read it at least a couple dozen times, and judging by the bookmark that sat near the back of it, he had almost finished doing so again. Tears prickled at the corner of Lily’s eyes, brought on by the realisation that he would never finish it again.

Lily held the book tightly to her chest, hugging it as if it would somehow feel like hugging Dad. Ultimately she put the book not in the box for donations, but in her bag. She couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

“The shed is all taken care of,” came James’ soothing voice from the doorway. Lily wiped her eyes and looked up at him.

“You and Vernon didn’t kill each other then?”

“No,” James said with a tiny, temporary smile. “Wouldn’t complain about a break from him though. Do you want some help up here?”

Lily looked around the room, taking in the sheer volume of items that remained to be packed, all the pieces of Dad waiting to be shoved into a box and sent away. She wanted to answer James, to tell him she didn’t need help demolishing the remnants of her father’s life, but she was afraid that if she were to attempt to speak, she’d unleash her grief in full force and be reduced to nothing more than a puddle on the old rug beneath her feet.

James seemed to understand, walking over to her without another word and pulling her into a warm embrace. Tears leaked out from Lily’s eyes, settling into his shirt as he rubbed her back.

“Marlene’s going to get so sick of me, moping and weeping all over the place,” Lily said with a sad laugh as she pulled away from James and wiped away her tears.

“First of all,” James said both tenderly and sternly. “You’re not moping. You’re grieving, as you are well within your right to do.”

“Secondly,” he continued “I’ve been thinking about your living arrangement.”

“Have you?”

He didn’t answer her right away. James was usually one to blurt out his thoughts and feelings, especially to Lily, to have an idea or a whim and immediately want to tell her about it. It was peculiar, the way he was looking at her now, as though he were thinking very carefully and deliberately about what he was about to say.

“I don’t think you should move in with Marlene. I know she’s your best mate, but a couch is not a home, Lily. You’ll give yourself back problems for one thing.”

His concern was rather sweet.

“Well I’m certainly not moving in with Padfoot, if that’s where this is going,” she smirked.

“Having shared a dormitory with him for seven years, I think that’s very wise of you.”

There was that look again – the tentative, serious, not-at-all-James-Potter face.

“I want you to move in with me,” he finally said.

That was not what Lily had expected. James lived at Potter Cottage with his parents. Monty and Effie were wonderfully kind, and Lily had grown to love them very much in the year that she and James had been together, but they were a touch old-fashioned.

“You think your parents are going to be ok with two unmarried teenagers shacking up in their house?”

“Not exactly,” James said with a soft smile. “They are, however, more than happy to have you move into one of the spare bedrooms. There’s the one at the end of the hall that has its own attached bathroom, so you’d really have your own space.”

Lily nodded, taking in the offer. She had always felt at home at the Potters’, who had embraced her from the first moment she set foot in their home. She thought she ought to feel far more apprehensive than she did. Surely, she should be fretting about whether she and James would break up and how awkward that would be – moving out of his parents house. She should worry, but frankly, it didn’t worry her one bit.

“Even if you don’t live with us,” James continued, keen to fill the silence, “I’d want you to be at the house a lot anyway, you know, dinners and holidays and all that. You’re my family, and my parents think of you that way too.”

Lily’s heart swelled, and her throat felt unexpectedly thick. Her family had slowly disintegrated before her eyes; her sister’s condemnation, her mother’s illness, her father’s accident. She had feared she’d be left with no family at all in the end, but as she looked into James’ hazel eyes, full of love for her, she felt a glimmer of hope.

“Ok,” she managed. “If you’re sure they don’t mind.”

James beamed at her. “Not at all. They love you. Not as much as I do, of course, but they’re close.”

It was comforting, Lily thought as she and James kept working on the bedroom, the idea of waking up every morning in a house full of people who loved her. She would never fully recover from the loss of her parents, but she took solace in the fact that there was still family to be found – in James and the Potters, in their friends, in the Order. Perhaps even a few children of their own someday, their own little family.

Lily’s heart still ached as she started packing up her father’s jumpers, but it felt the tiniest bit easier to breathe.

[hebatollah]

Birthday Candles

Yoko Ono once said, “Some people are old at 18 and some are young at 90. Time is a concept that humans created.” How old are you?

To tell the truth or keep you guessing, that’s the question. But I’ll tell you the truth.

Take (7)

I’m 37, and I’m told I have an ancient brain that can suddenly shine and easily resign.

My name is Heba, and I think my brain has only been trying to protect me, currently with an episode of amnesia, without my consent. That's the reason why I've been writing this, in case you're wondering. I wanted to remember who I am and how old I am. I'm deeply lost and I'm trying to find my own way.

Once the memories were put back on paper, not only did I remember what I loved and what I achieved, but I also recognized the countless losses I denied. Those losses define me as well. If I can't acknowledge them before I rush into the silver linings, I won't shine. Even if I have what it takes. I will never find home in a home. That's what my brother has been trying to teach me in the last few months, or maybe for his whole life.

To tell you the truth, there are many things lost that I absolutely don’t want back, like my previous job. It surprises me how convenient and sometimes even liberating that loss turned out to be! But the anxiety and the burnout that came with the change will remain unquestionable.

There are also losses that were already replaced by better things, like my bachelors degree. But I can't forget how it costed me long years of stolen self esteem.

There are losses that can always be replaced, no matter how old I get. I have hope that I’ll find love again, but losing the souls I once saw was utterly heartbreaking.. Do I have to go through an actual breakup to hear me say that? No.

And what about the irreversible losses? I heartily believe that my mum is in a better place now, and she’s no longer sick. But I owe it to myself to say out loud that living without her still hurts till today. Nobody is too old to suffer from losing their mum, let alone a 21 years-old. I never honored the loss of my 24x7 best friend after I saw her suffer. I focused on her ending pain rather than my ongoing one. My brain did an amazing job distracting me, and I never realized how damaging that has been.. Why did it take me so long to understand?

And how can I grieve better now? I asked myself on my 37th birthday.

I turned 37 on the day of my brother's funeral. Everybody hugged me on that day, but not the birthday hugs I have been longing for. The baby who became my best friend, backbone and guru before his twenties, grew much faster than I did, and died at 26. My brother wasn’t a simple man, and the lessons he’s teaching me about loss are hard for my brain. I let myself cry and made it about me.

I'm the one who's still tested with life, and should no longer take it for granted. That's one lesson I already learned. I now have more birthday candles to navigate that dark place I escaped in my twenties. This is where I'll take back my throne.

I’m putting together the shattered pieces that I still find important to me. Things might not seem to add up now, but I hope later they'll do. I hope I will be able to see more clearly what needs to be seen, and let the occasional moonlight through my window affirm what I see. I hope I can let it take my breath away every time.

I probably won’t want to celebrate my birthday again, but I will dress up to people who’d show up. I’ll carefully choose my outfits, but they wouldn't lock my foolish heart. I will put on my best make-up, but it won't top my glow when I capture souls, or write a new letter, or watch the moon. New birthday candles might light my fire, or burn me out, or just fade away and go forgotten. But they won’t tell you about the lessons I have to learn fast and slow. They won't dictate how I treat life, or whom I let into my life.

One more truth I have.. I don't look my age at all, and should have kept you guessing!

[thephilosopheroffeelings]

I look like my aunt. She passed away a few years ago. She was diabetic and she kept eating the things she should not have eaten and hospitalised a few times. Now looking back, maybe she was trying to end her life. Or she was aware that life was short and she would die eventually and she was doing whatever the f she wanted. People around her did not let her die sooner with the help of modern medicine. Then she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I did not see her during the last few months of her life – in which her condition was getting worse every day. When I think back, most probably I subconsciously did not want to visit her after hearing about Alzheimer’s.

My grandad had Alzheimer’s as well. He was a teacher; he taught me how to read, write & count; he helped me with my homework and he was my registered parent at school as my parents were busy with working. He had many grandkids but I was the only one he taught and went to parents evenings for. I had a special bond with him. I learned a lot from him about daily politics in Turkey – he was watching news & reading papers religiously. He was able to find a way to explain whatever I asked to him according to my age. He was an atheist and a leftist. He worked for labour unions during his whole career. He was even imprisoned at some point when he was young. He was this crazy guy with a heart of gold.

As every summer I did, I visited him in 2012 summer. My parents tried to explain to me that he was not okay but no one can prepare you for Alzheimer’s. I tried to hug him as I usually did and he did not recognize me. As my mum told me hundreds times, I tried to take it not personal but oh boy, it was hard. That moment I just wanted to cry like a baby but I kept it together and introduced myself over and over and over again. He was the one giving me my name when I was born but now I needed to remind him myself and my name in every five minutes. There were times when he was looking at you and you knew that he remembered you. Magic. He never accepted his condition – his kids had to force him to take his medication, bath, eat, etc.

One evening in 2012 summer, I was sitting in the garden with my dad and asked him that what would happen if we listened to his wishes and not force him? I just wanted him to be happy. My dad, as always, did not show any emotion and said: ‘We are doing whatever the doctor has instructed us.’ From his tone I gathered that he did not want to discuss any further. I did not want us to leave him to die but was forcing him really the only way? When one's consciousness is not intact, things are getting complicated. Rachel Aviv explains the situation in an eloquent way:

 “Getting patients to acknowledge their own disorders also become an ethical imperative. Implicit in the doctrine of informed consent is the notion that before agreeing to take medication patients should be aware of the nature and course of their own illnesses. In balancing rights against needs, though, psychiatry is stuck in a kind of moral impasse. It is the only field in which refusal of treatment is commonly viewed as a manifestation of illness rather than as an authentic wish.”

My grandad passed away on 24th of August, a day after my birthday. During his funeral, visitors also celebrated my belated birthday. All summer I listened to the same song. I knew he was going to pass away during that summer: August die he must. There are two people that I refused to watch them while buried – my grandad & my aunt. I know a lot of people judged me and thought that I did not carry my last duty for them. It is fine. I can cope with a bit of judgment. I was not able to say bye to them before both got Alzheimer’s so I decided not to say my farewells after they were diagnosed. I am pretty certain that both are okay with where we left things at. Some farewells never happen; some wounds never heal; some things have no end and they are all fine.  

[itskatepaddington]

The New Black

Trigger warning: death, grief

Dad, I promise you I’m not wallowing in it anymore. Or at least I’m trying not to. And it’s almost my birthday, and I’m headed for Paris for a few days, and it is a nice experience after all, so I’ll call mum and M (she wants to go and I’ll take her there one day, cause that’s what older sisters do) when I get there. I promise I’ll enjoy it in a very wobbly way x

If this helps anyone at any point, that probably answers the question of why I wrote it.

I’m lying, somewhat. It is for me, too, after all.

I didn’t really have to wear mourning. First of all, I was abroad. Besides your friends, seldom does anyone really give a damn in a big city. I don’t think anyone asked me why my wardrobe rarely seemed to have any colours beyond black and muted colours later. In the Western world, where it used to be a ritual, the symbolism of it has been lost: beyond just a stylish colour, it means little. Even the mention of wearing mourning would probably make people a little bit confused. Announcing that choice would be an instant comparison to something a Victorian widow would do. 

But in the small town I come from, many people still look to their neighbours and still follow the old customs that spring from Christianity. I was raised Catholic, but I consider myself an atheist now. And to be clear: I don’t miss organised religion. Ever since I was a teenager growing up in a small Polish town, I questioned the part it played: for me as a woman and someone who wanted to get an education that involved science, and in public life. And this is where I landed. I understood what it meant to people historically - especially as a Pole - and I respected other people’s beliefs. Its continued dominance in Polish culture and politics is a complex and thorny topic, well worth another essay by someone better versed in history and sociology than I am. It can feel hard to explain your stance to people who haven’t seen or understood it sometimes, but that’s some context for you. 

That aside, it wouldn’t be too scandalous not to wear mourning. The habit started disappearing with the older generation. But as I hurried through the high street to buy dark clothes for the funeral and my visit, I asked my mum about the ritual.

“Six months of mourning,” she said, “and then another six of half-mourning.”

That meant wearing all-black for half a year, then introducing different muted colours half a year later. One last mark of respect. A way to keep that memory alive. 

“I don’t think he would want you to wear mourning, though,” she said immediately. 

“I know,” I said, and I wore black throughout my stay. It was a way to pay my respects; it was something everyone recognised at this time, in this place where everyone had known me since I was a baby.

But my yearning to keep that ritual didn’t hit until a little later. With my mum and sister, I decided that returning to work as soon as possible would be best. You get restless easily, my sister argued. Better to keep yourself busy, my mum said. I kind of wanted to start doing things, and a lot of them, again. I didn’t want to think too much. But when I returned home, I was in my own space with my very own thoughts once again. Not ideal for someone whose anxiety can send them beyond the edge.

Funerals are for the living, not for the dead, and in 2020, hundreds of people were deprived of that. If we got to say goodbye, it probably was under severe restrictions. That meant fewer stories from the community and with them, opportunities to commemorate the person and to share the heavy load of grief. In many cases, we were all grieving some losses. The world we knew spun out of control, we were stripped of certainty, and rules seemed to have changed on a whim according to what the economy dictated. 

At the time, it was still rather hard to see other people. I abode. It was important, and I for one knew what it was like to have an immunocompromised family member. And truth be told, I developed a bit of anxiety around getting sick. For most of that time, I had a bubble with my friends who lived nearby - it was a thing that often saved me from going completely insane. I worked remotely and saw my other friends over Zoom, in parks, or in restaurants with outdoor seating. But none of my friends here had ever met dad. They’ve heard stories. They knew he played a huge part in who I became. They understood he was a complex but wonderful person. And this is why I am so grateful for having them in my life, especially at that period of time. I thank them for trying to make me feel less shit or just listening. But I had things I had to work through alone. 

As a stereotypical older kid who’d always received a fair share of responsibility, I’m of the people who dislike being a burden and will run from that feeling, even if that assumption may be entirely imaginary. And that’s why I was so desperate to find a way to soothe the pain on my own. Blunting it in usual ways worked for a time, but a deep cut straight through the heart refused to heal cleanly. It did its own thing. It broke through the stitches to dry up on its own to do it all over again. And I failed to understand the process.

We don’t externalise our grief as much anymore. The disappearance of certain rituals may be a sign of it, and mourning is a perfect example of that. When I was looking for my own answers, I discovered that this entire set of rules was slowly dropped in the UK after the first world war - because in the face of suffering on such an unprecedented scale, working through that many losses proved difficult. You’d want to package it up and hope it doesn’t spill through the cracks, after all. I totally believe that statement. After all, I’m of the generation that didn’t get time to process much of what keeps on constantly going on, too.

We get a short window to deal with grief in a simple, externalised, shared way. Much of it is a haze filled with paperwork and simply facing the realisation that the person you loved will never walk through the door or pick up the phone again. As a society, we talk about it quickly and quietly: in condolences, then in confusion when the person seems a little overwhelmed for longer than we expected them to. 

The grieving want it to be over, but also feel the need to keep and cherish the presence they miss. And the people around them often don’t know what to say. Those who understand that nothing will make it worse and come to you with open arms even if they may not completely get it, those who bring you parcels of food, those who keep trying and call you to do your walk up the hill and talk about nothing in particular - they’ll help. You may end up being hurt and disappointed by people who failed to say anything at all, maybe because of that lack of words that everyone kept mentioning just around the funeral time. But several months in, silence is heavy, rings in your ears, and becomes an ultimate disappointment. You feel like you’re being mentally flogged during holidays and anniversaries. Father’s Day is a mess, with the innocuous adverts in shop windows becoming torture by a thousand cuts. Even happy events like birthdays have a staggeringly blue undertone to them. 

And then, fewer people remember. You need rituals, even if they’re devoid of meaning for others.

But where to find them? Coming up with those while bandaging up my heart to keep it from bursting at the stitches clearly wasn’t working. So I scoured the internet articles to find answers. I picked up that grief book by Sheryl Sandberg. Reddit, of course, cause that’s where we all go for bullshit lived experiences. But a lot of what I discovered seemed to rationalise this unreasonable, shape-shifting, ever-encompassing and overwhelming weight that just wouldn’t budge and move into the neat frames I prepared, understood and was ready to put it into.

Even some ways of dealing with pain involve measuring it using arbitrary scales or timelines. Doesn’t everyone know about the stages of grief? I know them by heart now: denial; anger; bargaining; depression; acceptance. It’s one of these concepts from pop psychology familiar to many people. I was aware of them before I was thrown into the abyss of my thoughts. 

But no one told me that grief was like a vortex with the power to suck out all the energy you throw at it. The more you feed it, the stronger it becomes. If you get lost in the peaceful waters of feeling nothing at all and swim a little bit too far into it to cool down, it shows you an undercurrent so strong that it could drown you if you let it. Or, as many have described it, maybe it feels more like a tidal wave that comes and goes, not a diagram of stages that is clean-cut and separated from the last neatly parcelled bundle of emotion you experienced.

All the notion of stages had ever accomplished for me was leading me to constantly compare myself to where I was on the scale. Was I just a dysfunctional exception from everyone else’s pristine grieving processes? Why don’t I have my shit together?

When was I going to be productive and fully functional again? Why do I feel depressed? What are the chances these are my hormones - it felt like the denial stage last night? Why did I want to punch everyone in the throat for a week? Wasn’t I meant to be in the bargaining stage already? Why did I find some bullshit excuse to berate someone who didn’t deserve it? Why was I feeling suspiciously good and distracted at this music festival my friends took me to? That feels wrong. 

And when will it stop hurting when I least expect it?

I’m trying to keep a volcano from erupting, and I don’t know how long I can deal with that force. Will it go to sleep quietly, or tear through whatever I’ve got going on at the minute?

Cue the rituals. When everything is uncertain, not even your behaviour when you try to keep it under control, or even your beliefs moulded and challenged in fits of rage, you so desperately yearn for some kind of a constant. Something you can return to that is stable while everything else seems to be like a mess. This is how I made the decision to, or rather gradually slipped into the idea to wear mourning. It just made perfect sense. 

I stuck to black clothes most of the time, to begin with. Even if we’re thankfully far from the eighteenth century and no one would see any deeper reasons for me dressing in one colour, it was meaningful for me. It honestly didn’t matter if no one else saw the point in it; it was that one thing that I was in control of, and it seemed like a relatively healthy way to express what I was feeling amongst constantly coming up with a sleeve of ideas that kept me far out of dealing with my emotions healthily. It kept that memory with me a little longer. And at the back of my head there was this assurance I could quietly withdraw it when I felt ready. My emotional crutches were propping me up in an uneasy mess that I was still trying to make sense of - especially since melancholia and anger still happened just as often.

And so I was performing my open secret for myself in plain sight, externalising my pain to the entire world without a single person being actively aware of it. I was wearing my heart on my sleeve, silent, unnoticed.

It continued for a while. With time, I started giving myself exceptions - on days I felt better, for example. And I started welcoming that change, too. When I returned to my wardrobe after a while, I felt I found joy in getting dressed up once again. It used to bring me a lot of joy pre-2020, and maybe I can find my way back there. 

Mortality is inevitable, unquestionable and final; yet the pain doesn’t get any smaller if you’re aware of it and comes back in waves months after, with more warm tinges than these blue ones as time passes by . Faced with grief we always sought solace in rituals and stories to give ourselves hope. And even if we’re disconnecting it from any philosophical framework, having this ritual helped me. Because in the end, I'm only human who looks for constants and answers.

[sumbreon]

just going over this whole past year, you know how it is

self harm and family death below so that gives you an idea of how its gone i guess

so january started on a nice high, i felt better than i had in a long time and then one week into january it took a complete nosedive to the lowest id felt in years. like i went from starting to talk and managing to push myself to do some stuff i wanted to/would be good for me to wanting to self harm for the first time in seven years. i was sat at work completely dissociated and got jolted out of it by an extremely vivid image of blood pouring out of my arm.

it was a double edged sword because it pushed me to finally reduce my hours at work which i really needed but like it meant i was doing real bad which really fucking sucked with how id been doing the past month. it was agreed with my boss that id start my reduced hours in april so we wouldnt have to mess around with annual leave calculation bullshit and just knowing it was coming helped but i was definitely pretty out of it for those months.

march rolls around, i have a week and a half booked off. im gonna decide on some things i want to do with my extra time after i recover mentally and then my grandmother is in hospital with some dark spot on her bladder and the care home she was in cant look after her anymore and she may have contracted covid in the hospital but its fine she didnt then michael tells me theres gonna be a band 4 coming up in pathology IT but i cant process that right now but its there in the back of my mind constantly then she gets bounced around a few care homes then shes back in hospital then it settles and shes in a care home 5 minutes away from our house but i still havent seen her in like a year and a half at this point and im wracked with guilt because what do i remember about her really? not much it feels like, i worry if shed even recognise me, what would i even say to her? but it doesnt matter because visitors are still limited and id rather my mum and aunties see her cause theyd get more out of it

then its april and my mum just snaps under her own job, i have this extra time at home but i gotta walk on eggshells cause march happened and now this and i have no idea how shes doing mentally because this family is so emotionally repressed so i just hide in my room, basically feeling kinda catatonic and just straight up lying at work like 'yeah its great!'

then may comes around and i do actually start to recover. the band 4 jobs still in the background of my mind but nothing mores been said about it but i cant not think about it. the time goes by so much faster than you think it would but i start drawing again. small canvas size just sketches nothing fancy at all just a minimum something once a week no pressure its okay

june is much the same, the plan had been recover mentally then start applying for jobs elsewhere but then the band 4 was there looming so the plan became wait and see what comes of that, i dont manage to get back to where i was at this time last year but i do my best to not hold it against myself, im getting better thats what matters

july. the band 4 goes up its all thats in my brain. i want to recind my application so i can stop worrying about it. i get the job its full time and day time hours as opposed to the 12-8 ive been doing for years but its too good an opportunity for me to pass up. its means i can get on paper IT experience

august comes around and im due to start my new job on the 8th. its the 7th i go downstairs see my mum and ask her how its going. my grandmother is dead. i start my new job and i say nothing about that, its a struggle though i dont show it im shown a few things but theyre done quickly and easy to stay on top of, i only know one person in this room, my desk is the first one you see when you come into the room so im on edge every time the door opens, i dont want to be doing this right now but sitting at home wont do me any good either so i bear it silently, the funeral is the 26th, i only mention this to my new boss because i need the day off, theres a moment of pity that i cant really deal with. i hate being pitied i know people mean well by it but it makes me bristle. its the 26th my mum starts crying as we get to the crematorium shes gripping my hand tightly and i wont let her go either, i sit there and feel the guilt about not remembering but then my great uncle starts to read her eulogy and its like 'oh. there you are. i do remember you. i remember so much of you' and then im crying too

september and october i mostly just continue to adjust to how things are, this new normal, the new job is good, my new boss is kind, i want to cry

november, the birthday month, the start of self reflection. what do i want out of life, how can i get it, who do i want to be. i never really know, i remind myself that this year has been a struggle and i do my best to be kind to myself, its birthday week and ive kept up the weekly sketching for 6 months now, i only missed one week and i dont feel bad about it. a band 5 has gone up in pathology IT, explicitly for me

its december and its come around so fucking fast, its over already. i get the band 5 we have a nice christmas. i survive. this year had such extreme highs and lows and i honestly have no idea how to like rank this year

i have come to the unfortunate conclusion that working in pathology IT will be temporary, my boss is set to retire july this year, working full time takes too much out of me so i dont have the energy to do things that i want, i miss my hours of 12-8. the plan was always stick it out for a year and see where im at but the hope was that id stay. maybe im not done adjusting but thats for the eden of june to decide.

thank you for reading i love you i hope things go well for you be kind to yourself - eden :] <3

[sethjarvy]

the constant struggle of wanting the flyers to be worse than bad so we hopefully win the draft lottery vs not wanting to be miserable all season long watching this team play

[heyyyharry]

Till Death (a Halloween one shot)

…in which Y/N and Harry share a flat but he cannot see her.

Warning: DEATH, MENTAL ILLNESS, MENTION OF SU1C1DE AND SELF-HARM (inexplicit). There's a happy ending tho 😬

Inspired by Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride and this song.

Word count: 3.9k

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“Oh, you’re home!” she said as he shut the door and kicked off his shoes. His hair was a mess, his eyes dark and weary. He leaned against the wall and released a long heavy sigh.

“Trouble at work?” she asked. He didn’t answer. He never did. But it was okay. She was used to it.

She watched him trudge toward the couch and slump into it with his head buried in his hands. It was so quiet. It was always quiet here, and most of the time, she enjoyed the silence. After all, it was all she ever knew. But she also liked his laugh and his voice when he talked on the phone. He never talked to her. He was a great listener though, and she liked to talk anyway, so she had nothing to complain about. He never interrupted her, never commented; he only listened.

He rested his head on the couch with an arm over his closed eyes. She sat down beside him, her legs together, her hands on her knees.

“Guess what I did today,” she said.

He let go another long breath.

Silence.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell ya.” She rolled her eyes, suppressing a grin. “I made a new friend. A bird. I saw him on our balcony this morning. I named him Steve. Can you imagine? A bird named Steve. I think Steve likes me as much as a bird could like someone–”

“Oh, shit!”

She flinched as he jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” she asked, slightly worried.

“Shit, I forgot,” he murmured, shoving his fingers into his already unruly hair as he reached for his phone on the coffee table. He sat back down and unlocked the screen. His handsome face was illuminated as he typed something into the chat. She rested her head on his shoulder and stole a glance at the screen, just enough to see who he was texting.

It was that name again.

She’d seen him text this person every day for the last couple of weeks. She didn’t know who they were or what they looked like or if they were male or female. All she knew was that they always got Harry’s full attention.

She thought it’d be rude to read other people’s texts, so she never did even though he would never stop her. Still, it didn’t mean she wasn’t dying to know what they said to each other. She would watch Harry as he talked to the person either on the phone or through texts. And he would always look so happy whenever a notification came and he saw the person’s name.

She bet they talked about more interesting topics, not just birds with human names. That thought alone gave a throbbing feeling in her hollow chest.

Sometimes, when she was with him, she forgot about its absence, which was good, because she wanted to forget.

But whenever she saw his eyes sparkle as he talked to this person, she would remember that there was somebody else out there with that thing in their chest, somebody he could feel and see and hear…

...and love.

Then she would remember what he was, what she was, and what they could never be.

After all, she was dead.

She didn’t remember how long she’d been dead. She only knew that she’d been alone for too long. Time didn’t really matter when you stopped growing older. She was stuck like this. Forever 21, as she would joke to herself. She didn’t know how old Harry was, but he had a job that stressed him out every day, so she assumed he was older than she’d been when she’d died.

She’d been trapped in this flat ever since. She’d watched people move her stuff out and other people move their stuff in. She’d forgotten about her loved ones or if she’d ever had them in the first place. She didn’t have any recollection of the life she’d had. She couldn’t even attend her own funeral. If she’d known that she’d be stuck in the place where she’d died, she would have probably not chosen to die here. She missed being outdoors, seeing new people. She wondered if she’d still be in love with Harry if he weren’t the only person she knew.

Honestly, she had never been in love when she’d been alive. She knew that, because even though the memories ceased to exist, she still would have remembered what being in love had felt like. It was funny, actually. When she’d had a heart, she hadn’t been able to use it, and now that she didn’t, she could feel it every day. Could someone love without having a heart? She didn’t know what love felt like to be sure that this was love, yet she knew that she’d rather spend an eternity with this man than to reincarnate into someone else.

They’d been living together for two years. Before him, there had been an elderly couple and a family of four. They’d been fun and lovely. But Harry was...different.

He was alone like her. She felt a deep connection with him in that way, as it was rare to find a person who appreciated isolation and not let it drive them insane. Almost everyone was terrified of being alone. Harry, however, found comfort in being alone. He always knew how to entertain himself. He read books. He sang in the shower. He cooked dinner for himself. He’d call his family to tell them about his day.

Sometimes, as she watched him talk to his mum and sister, she wished she remembered her own family. Would she still want to be alone if she remembered them? Well, she didn’t want to be alone now that she had him. It scared her sometimes. An attachment was a scary thing when you knew that you’d forever be temporary to the people around you. Like the elderly couple and the family, one day, Harry would leave, and she’d have to get used to new flatmates who would most likely leave again.

But that was for the future. Right now, what they had was enough.

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“I’m seeing someone,” Harry said one day.

Y/N didn’t want to eavesdrop, but she was sitting by the window talking to Steve while Harry was on the phone with his sister. It was the first time Y/N heard him say the person’s name. He was smiling the entire time as he talked about her. Y/N loved seeing Harry smile, so it didn’t matter what made him smile. She just wanted to see him happy.

He told his sister that the woman he was seeing was coming over tonight. He seemed excited. Harry had only ever looked this excited except for when his favourite show came on. That was how she knew he loved this woman as much as he loved that show, which was a lot.

“Can I join you guys tonight?” Y/N asked him when he ended the phone call.

He put his phone back down and looked right at her. If she had a heart, it would combust right then and there. But what she didn’t expect was him marching towards her, thrusting his hand right through her chest and shutting the window. Steve flew away. Harry turned and left.

The place where his hand had been burned with its absence, leaving her frozen as she watched the bedroom door fall shut. He couldn’t feel her, but she could feel much more than a dead person was allowed to feel.

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Dinner was nice.

And so was the other woman.

It was funny how Y/N would refer to her as ‘the other woman’ when she’d been the one getting all Harry’s attention. She was sweet, blond-haired, great smile. She sat at Y/N’s spot at dinner. Y/N didn’t mind as she wasn’t eating anyway, yet it saddened her that she didn’t get to tell Harry her boring stories; the other woman was doing most of the talking.

Harry listened to her and laughed at her jokes. He never responded to Y/N that way. She’d been fine with it before, but seeing how he interacted with someone else made her want to vanish into thin air.

It was the first time in two years that she’d seen another living person beside Harry, and yet she had never felt lonelier.

After dinner, Harry asked if the woman wanted to spend the night and she said yes, so Y/N retreated to her spot – the bathroom. For some strange reason, she found comfort there. She would just get into the empty tub and lie there until morning.

Before Harry had moved in, she’d stayed in the bathroom at night while the living were asleep. Since Harry, she would usually spend the night outside his room. He’d always sleep with the door open and a lot of pillows. She didn’t want to be intrusive, but she’d heard him crying one night. His stepdad had just passed away and she’d stayed with him to keep him company, even though he hadn’t been aware of her presence.

She’d sat beside him on the bed as he’d cried. She’d told him that dead didn’t mean gone, that his stepdad might still be around, or have gone to heaven to get a new better life.

To be honest, she didn’t know if heaven existed for she didn’t get to leave this place, but maybe heaven only existed for the ones who deserved it. She was too good for hell, not good enough for heaven, so she was still here.

That night, as she was lying in the tub, gazing at the shadows of objects cast on the ceiling, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d seen at dinner. A happy Harry. A truly happy Harry.

She’d always wondered what he looked like when someone made him laugh so hard he forgot about everything else, or when he blushed because of the things someone said to him, or when he looked at someone like they were the only person that mattered. Now that she’d seen it, it felt like torture.

She would never make him laugh. She would never get to hear him call her beautiful or tell her jokes just because he wanted to see her smile. He’d never get to know her. That was the worst part. It hadn’t bothered her before, and now it was too late to undo her feelings for him.

She didn’t have a heart, but as she lay her palms on top of her chest and shut her eyes, she could feel it breaking.

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Ever since that night, the other woman would come over very often. It had hurt at first, then Y/N learned to get used to it. It didn’t mean it stopped hurting. She’d still feel invisible tears rolling down her cheeks every time they kissed in front of her. She’d spend most of the day avoiding them. It was hard to do so when she couldn’t leave the flat. She’d tried before. She’d tried to follow Harry outside, but the second she stepped through that door, she was back in the tub.

She was imprisoned in her own home where she felt like a guest. She had no one to talk to, and it had never been a problem before but now it was driving her insane.

Sometimes, she even wished that the other woman was dead. It was bad that love made her blind and envy made her cruel. Whenever that malicious thought crossed her mind, though, she’d think about Harry and instantly felt bad about wanting his girlfriend dead. It wasn’t a nice thing to wish onto anyone, especially when Y/N herself knew how overrated death was.

It wasn’t a solution. Just more problems.

And at the end of the day, it shouldn’t matter if she was hurt. After all, she was dead. Dead people couldn’t feel pain. This was just an illusion. Her pain wasn’t real. If Harry lost someone he loved, that would be real. And she’d take all the hurt just to keep him happy. Always.

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Tonight, Harry came home alone.

She asked him what was wrong, knowing he wouldn’t answer. He went straight to the couch and buried his face into his hands. She wondered if he’d forgotten to take his pills again. She’d call them his happy pills. He’d been taking them for a couple of months now. He was always so sad and numb without them. Lately, it seemed like he hadn’t been taking them.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s on your mind,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

Silence sank in. The heaviness in her hollow chest became too much to bear.

Then, his shoulders began to shake.

He started crying.

She’d seen him cry before, but this time she could feel everything he was feeling. And it was even worse for her because she could not do anything about it. When a person cried, they’d feel better afterwards. There was no better for the dead. Just forever numbness. Forever pain. Maybe she hadn’t gone to hell because this was her hell. What had she done to deserve this?

Whatever. This wasn’t about her.

She wished she could wipe away Harry’s tears and tell him things that’d make him feel better. She felt powerless. There was nothing she could do to help.

She sat and watched him cry for what seemed like forever. When he finally stopped, he took out his phone and texted the other woman.

This time, Y/N read.

They’d broken up. The messages didn’t say why. All Y/N knew was that Harry was madly in love with the other woman. He’d sent so many messages asking her to stay, telling her he couldn’t live without her. And she never responded to a single one.

“Harry…” Y/N murmured.

Harry shook his head gently as if he’d heard it. Then, he got to his feet and padded to the bedroom. The door fell shut, leaving Y/N with the uncomfortable silence that could smother her.

She started pacing back and forth outside his bedroom. Her head swam with half-formed regrets. She wished she’d done something to stop him from getting to know the other woman and falling in love with her. But what could she have possibly done? She was dead. She was a ghost, floating around, haunting this place. She couldn’t keep two living people from falling in love. She couldn’t stop the woman from breaking Harry’s heart.

But that was one thing about not having a heart, you’d hurt twice as much trying to protect a heart that wasn’t your own.

Something crashed.

Glass shattered.

The world stilled for a second as Y/N burst into the bedroom.

There he was. Staring right back at her.

But there was also him. On the floor. The real him.

Those weren’t his happy pills.

“Harry!” she screamed and rushed towards the Harry on the floor. His ghost stood there watching in silence as she tried to wake him. She couldn’t touch him. She could only scream and if he’d never listened before, he wasn’t listening now. “Harry, please wake up...Please wake up…”

She lay her palm on his chest. He wasn’t dead. She could still feel his heart beating. His skin pale and his breathing slowed. Half of him was still fighting to live and as long as the other half didn’t overpower him, he might be saved.

“Who are you?” asked the ghost standing beside her.

She looked up. The other Harry was looking right at her, not through her. This one could see her.

“I’m Y/N,” she said, still in shock.

“Y/N,” he echoed.

She’d heard him tell the other woman that he would repeat a person’s name so he wouldn’t forget it. He could hear Y/N, see her and now he knew her name. Her invisible heart swelled for a second, but then she could feel it, the beating of that living thing under his chest. He was still half-alive. But he wouldn’t be for too long.

“You must hold on,” she told his ghost, panting heavily as she started freaking out. “You can’t...you can’t die...you must...I don’t know....get back into your body before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know how, and I don’t want to,” he said, staring at himself, and then at her. She didn’t like the look he was giving her. It was as if she was an exotic animal and he was a curious child going to the zoo for the first time. “Are you a ghost?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet, trying to avoid his gaze. “I-I died here…”

Silence.

“How long have you been here?”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember. When you’re dead, your memories start to fade. Now I don’t remember anything from when I was alive.”

“So there’s no afterlife?” Harry asked, his voice breaking a little. She looked up and saw him staring at his own body with a pained expression that could be regret. “You just...stay here?”

“I don’t know about the other ghosts, but that’s what it is for me,” she said, rubbing her arms.

“Aren’t you lonely?” he asked.

“Well, not really. I’ve got you.”

Her answer seemed to surprise him. He blinked. “But I couldn’t see you or talk to you.”

She raised a soft smile. “But I could see you and talk to you. That was enough.” Harry was giving her an expression she could not interpret, so she hurriedly went on, “Believe me. Death is overrated. You don’t want it.”

“But what if I do? I lost my job and someone I loved. I have struggled every day for the past few months, so why bother?”

“So you think it’s easy for me?” she asked. “I don’t have a heart, yet I still feel things and I can’t cry and the feelings won’t go away. They’ll still be here when everyone else leaves. Dead doesn’t mean gone but it’s the end of second chances. I’ll never get to celebrate my twenty-second birthday. I’ll never get to graduate. I don’t remember my family or if I ever had one. I don’t get to make friends. I don’t...don’t get to be loved…

“And if that doesn’t sound bad to you, just think about all the people you’d leave behind. Your mum, your sister. You won’t remember them but they’ll remember you. And they’ll have to carry the pain of losing you until it happens to them. I didn’t get to see them one last time because...if I tried to leave this flat, I’d just...just keep coming back here. I’d never get to apologise to them for abandoning them. I regret it every single day. And I don’t want it to happen to you.”

The Harry in front of her was quiet for a moment. The Harry on the floor was struggling to breathe.

“If I die,” he spoke, his eyes meeting hers, “you won’t be lonely anymore. Why are you trying to talk me out of it?”

She took a moment to think. Then, “Because I love you.”

His eyes widened as he parted his lips. He didn’t believe it. For the first time, Y/N could see herself in him. She wouldn’t believe it if someone told her they loved her, either. She thought she couldn’t be loved. That was why she’d chosen the easier way out. It wasn’t easy; she knew that now. So she wasn’t going to let him make the same mistake.

“You think no one cares, but I do,” she said, reaching for his hand. She held it, lacing her fingers with his. “So please hold on. If you fully give up, you cannot be saved.”

He looked at himself and then back at her. “Where did you die?”

A pause.

“The bathroom.”

Sadness set over his features. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, smiling. “I’ve never been better than I am now.”

“Harry!” shouted a female voice as the front door burst open suddenly and frantic footsteps rushed into the room.

The moment Harry saw the woman he loved, hope lit up his entire face. The woman screamed as she collapsed by his body and pulled out her phone to call an ambulance. She kissed his face and told him how much she loved him, that she was sorry, that she’d take back all the things she’d said, that she wanted to spend many more years with him.

Y/N felt herself losing grip of the other Harry. He started to fade. She tried to hold onto him, but it was no use.

And before he was completely gone, he smiled at her and said, “Thank you.” And she thanked him, too. For seeing her. And not giving up.

.

.

.

Harry didn’t remember anything when he came back from the hospital. He got back together with his girlfriend, who finally moved in with him. They lasted for two years and their relationship ended on good terms. After that, Harry, now with the job that he loved, started seeing other people and stopped taking his happy pills. He’d got better. He was happy all the time. He didn’t remember his conversation with Y/N, but sometimes she’d catch him staring at the bathtub. She’d pretend that he could see her and she’d smile and wave. Maybe he could, but he didn’t want to freak her out. Who knew?

He moved out of the flat after a few more years. The last night he was there, she’d lay on the floor beside his bed as he slept.

The ones after him were fun. Y/N liked meeting new people. One couple even had a pet and she finally had someone to talk to. Still, sometimes she would think about Harry and wondered what he might be doing now.

One night, while lying in the tub, she discovered a tiny word someone had written on the bathroom wall.

Hello.

She’d been here long enough to know that it hadn’t always been there. She recognised that handwriting. Though she wished she’d found it sooner, it made her happy as she traced her fingers over it and imagined him thinking of her.

.

.

.

Y/N didn’t know how much time had passed.

But Harry did return.

When he came in, she almost didn’t recognise him. He was an old man in a wheelchair. She’d overheard him talking to his caretaker that he wanted to spend his last days in this flat. He stayed in bed for that whole first week and she’d lie beside his bed and talk to him each night.

He died of old age.

One night, he went to the bathroom and lay down in the tub and fell asleep and never woke up.

She stood in the doorway, watching him.

Then, she felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned, she saw the same Harry who was young and handsome and wearing the same clothes as the day he’d first seen her.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” she said.

Apparently, when you died, you got to choose the age you wanted to be. She’d chosen to be twenty-one, the age she’d died. Harry had chosen to be twenty-four, the age he’d met the ghost girl who had saved his life.

[writing-red]

The Silver Letter | 1

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: It’s their sixth year, Draco and the reader are placed in an arranged marriage by their pureblood families, expected to follow through they navigate their feelings for each other amongst the many other social pressures at Hogwarts.

Warnings: PARENTAL ABUSE! (verbal & physical) murder, and cussing. I am serious these themes are heavy-handed, don’t read something that’s going to hurt you okay?

Word Count: 2.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

“Ooh, a letter from your mum? What’d you do to disappoint her this time?” Ron asked in between bites of his eggs at the sight of the silver envelope bearing your family crease.

“Being friends with you, Weasley is enough to disappoint any mother,” you teased back despite the lump of anxiety in your throat; letters from home were never a good thing.

You come from a line of influential, elitist, purebloods. All Slytherins, of course, and all married for status, never for love. Your parents stood with the Dark Lord in the last war, and stand with him now. When you were sorted into Gryffindor your first year, you expected to be disowned. Instead, you were just a stain on your family’s pristine reputation. You were simply a disappointment, but being that your brother was dead, you were your families’ last hope to continue the family line.

Now, you had been friends with Harry, Ron, and Hermione since your first year, and the four of you were inseparable. They knew everything about you, from your favorite sweet to the grotesque details of your family’s abuse. They cared for you more than anything, as you cared for them.

“Do you want me to read it for you?” Hermione offered, noticing your hesitation at the sight of the silver envelope.

“No ‘Mione, it’s okay but thank you,” you said and broke the seal. “At least it isn’t a howler.”

Darling Y/n,

I have incredibly exciting news!

As you know, your Father and I have desperately been trying to salvage your reputation ever since you fell in with that crowd of mudbloods and bloodtraitors. Luckily for you, we have found a way to do so.

Despite your abhorrent behavior at school, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have kindly agreed to an arranged marriage between you and their son Draco Malfoy whom you should know from school. He is a proper pureblood, and from what I have heard, a respectable young man.

Our families’ blood status and our standing in the community and with the Dark Lord secured this marriage. Do not ruin it with your childish behavior and silly ‘ideals’ as you know, they do not stand in our household.

This is your last chance to make things right with us. Neither your Father nor I will hear of any debate on the topic. Do not make the wrong decision; it could be your end.

The wedding shall be this summer after the two of you return from school. I suggest you spend this year getting to know your future husband, not getting into trouble with Harry Potter and his gang. It is time you start taking some responsibility for yourself and your actions Y/n.

We will see you home for Winter Holiday.

Signed,

Layah Y/l/n

You didn’t realize how long you were staring at the letter until Harry waved his fork between your face and the paper which had grown incredibly heavy in your hands.

“Are you alright Y/n/n? What does it say?” Harry asked gently, assuming the worst whatever that may be.

“They’ve put me in an arranged marriage with Draco Malfoy,” you whispered, shocked by the words that left your lips.

“You’re joking,” Ron deadpanned.

“Why in Merlin’s name would I joke about something like that, Ronald?” You seethed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” He paused. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” you said and passed the letter to Hermione so that she could read it. “Just, for now, please don’t tell anyone, I don’t want everyone talking about this.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “We’re here for you, Y/n.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Y/l/n.”

The voice came from behind you, and it startled you. He sounded stern. You turned around to find that the voice that belonged to Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy,” your voice was shaky despite your attempt at masking your panic.

“We need to talk.”

“Not here,” you said as you looked around at the third-years who were already staring.

“Of course not here, I’m not daft Y/l/n. We’re going on a walk,” He left no room for negotiation in his voice. You were going on a walk.

You rose, leaving your breakfast uneaten and the letter with Hermione. “I’ll see you all later.”

“Let’s go,” Draco said through his teeth.

He grabbed your wrist tightly as you stepped over the long bench in an attempt to rush you. His grip brought a sharp pain to your wrist, but you didn’t want to cause a scene so you exited the Great Hall without a word to the man at your side. It wasn’t until you were outside the castle that you ripped your wrist from Draco’s grip.

“Don’t ever grab me like that again. You understand, Malfoy?” You were still afraid and confused, but that didn’t mean he could treat you however he pleased.

“I’m sorry, I just-” you cut him off.

“I know it’s sudden and confusing, but we both knew an arranged marriage was coming. I just always figured I’d end up with Zabini or Nott,” you understood what he was trying to say, the two of you were an unlikely pairing. “Look, I don’t fancy the idea of marrying you either, Draco, but I don’t have a choice. I don’t have the luxury of parents who care about my wellbeing. I know you don’t like me, you’ve made that plenty clear over the past six years, but this arrangement means more than you think,” As far as you could tell, Malfoy’s were pure. They didn’t abuse and harm their children. They were just the perfect pureblood family, and Draco was their stuck-up, privileged silver boy.

“I’m sorry, loving?” He asked which piqued your curiosity, that’s what he got from that?

“Yes, I said loving, why?” You responded.

Draco scoffed, “Just because I’m not a bloodtraitor doesn’t mean my parents treat me with unconditional love Y/l/n.”

“I’m just a Gryffindor, I couldn’t have controlled that Draco,” you said through gritted teeth; why were you defending yourself to him?

“A Gryffindor who’s friends with a Weasley, a mudblood, and Harry Potter. That was a choice. You want your parents to be nicer to you? Stop being a fuck-up,” He said, acting exactly like the bully you had known all these years.

“So, this is why you wanted to talk? So you could bully me?” you said, you were unintentionally raising your voice.

“It’s your fucking fault we’re talking about this!” Draco matched your tone and volume, getting in your face and under your skin.

“Why did you bring me out here, Draco?” You asked, stepping back and crossing your arms over your chest.

“So we can figure this out,” he said, frustrated, as he ran his hand through his striking platinum blond hair.

“What is there to figure out? Are you going to go tell your mother this isn’t going to happen? That you’d rather be in an arranged marriage with some other pureblood because you don’t like me? You know that isn’t going to happen, Draco. We’d both ought to figure out how to live with this because it isn’t going away.”

“My mother said that I should try and befriend you, that it was my best chance at having a decently happy marriage,” he said under his breath.

His statement caused you to roll your eyes, “Oh well, I’m glad your mother cares about your happiness.”

“What’s with all of the snide remarks about my family?” He asked.

“Do you remember my brother Draco, William?”

“Of course I do, I’m sorry he went the way he did, he was a great man,” he said respectfully

“Yes, a great man who was murdered by his Father for ‘betraying his family’ and doing what’s right. William didn’t die from any accident, Draco, my Father killed him,” you said in a flat tone.

“You can’t know that Y/n,” he said, trying to reason his way out of what you were proposing.

“He did it in front of me and my mother, Draco. In the sitting room in the Manor. Why do you think they were so cold at the funeral, why they never speak of him, why he disappeared from the family tree and every single family portrait? He made the wrong choice, he was a stain on the family image, and he had to be removed. They won’t be afraid of doing that do me.” Red hot tears were leaking from your eyes, not from fear but from frustration. Frustration and anger that Draco couldn’t understand. With that, you pulled off your robe, letting it drop onto the grass below, your red and gold tie following along, and started unbuttoning your shirt.

“Woah, Y/n, what are you doing?” Draco asked, startled by you stripping right outside of the castle.

You pulled your shirt off and turned around, revealing a myriad of scars. Some were clearly fresh, the skin raised, red and angry, while others could have been there for years as they had started resting into your skin, some even beginning to fade. Only Hermione and William had seen them. Harry and Ron knew of them, and your parents had created them. You never planned on showing your scars to Draco Malfoy, especially not now. But you were compelled to prove a point, to show him what they put you through every day, so, here you were, with your arms over your chest and your bareback to Draco Malfoy. 

You could feel his eyes scanning your back, and it was so quiet you could nearly hear his thoughts, “Y/n put this on,” he said after a long moment, tossing you his Slytherin jumper, and picking up your school robes off of the ground.

You caught it and threw it on over your head, turning back to face him. The two of you were closer, and this time when he put his hand on your arm, it wasn’t out of malice, you could even describe it as gentle.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’m still in shock, and, well, Y/n, you’re not the only one with scars, okay? Now we’re going to make this work. For both of our sakes, I don’t know what that means right now, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out, anyways I-” He stopped as if he was censoring himself.

“You what? Draco?” You had no clue why he suddenly stopped.

“Nothing, just nothing, okay?” He was hiding something

“Alright,” you said, not wanting to push things

“Now, did your letter say anything about the winter holiday?” He asked, starting to walk back towards the castle, indicating for you to join him.

“Just that I’m expected home,” you answered.

-

“I showed him the scars,” you said to Hermione, sitting on her bed in your dorm room.

It wasn’t until after dinner that you had the opportunity to tell your best friend everything. After your walk with Draco ended, you had potions, after which came DADA, and so on. You hadn’t the opportunity to even think about the tumultuous morning.

“How’d he react?” She asked, utterly shocked.

“I honestly don’t know, the whole thing was so weird. He was almost kind about it, it was like speaking to a different person,” you said.

“It didn’t look that way when the two of you left breakfast,” she said, referencing his tight grip.

“He was confused like I was, we both got vague letters deciding our fates.”

“Don’t start making excuses for him Y/n,” Hermione shook her head. “He didn’t just change overnight, and he clearly wasn’t being all that nice.”

“Of course! I’m not trying to make excuses, but Hermione, the whole interaction was so different, I don’t know what to think.”

She nodded, “I’m sorry, I’m just worried for you.”

You appreciated the concern and nodded. “Thank you, and I’m worried as well, I just don’t know what for yet.”

“Of course, I’m really sorry that this is how the year is starting.”

“Hey, it isn’t us if it’s an easy term,” you said in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“That’s true,” she said and smiled, sadness still lacing her voice.

“I’ll be alright, Hermione, I promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said as she pulled you into a tight hug.

-

Draco had always known he’d end up in an arranged marriage of sorts, but he always assumed he’d have some say or warning. However, that morning his family owl arrived with news he hadn’t expected. At the head of the Slytherin table, Draco had the privacy to read the letter without bother.

Dearest Draco,

I know that this feels sudden, but your Father and I have news.

We have been corresponding with the Y/l/n family for some time now, and have come to the agreement that you and Y/n Y/l/n shall be married next summer. Y/n is in your year, I am sure you know her. She may not have the best history, but she comes from an important family in favor of the Dark Lord. This marriage will hopefully prove advantageous for your Father, and for yourself. The Dark Lord himself has approved it.

As your Father says, ‘Being a Malfoy means power, a power that needs to be cultivated, and strengthened with every generation.’ This, Draco, is part of your duty as a Malfoy.

While arranged marriages feel antiquated and stuffy, I admit they do not have to be loveless. Y/n is a passionate young woman, and should you put the effort in, I am sure the two of you could grow close. I would recommend befriending her and getting to know her before the wedding. That is your best chance at a loving marriage.

We shall be spending Winter Holiday at Malfoy Manor with the Y/l/n’s planning the wedding, so please do not make other plans.

Love,

Mother

Draco had to read the letter three times to even begin to understand the sharp turn his life just took, the change that took place with only one letter.

“Dray!” Pansy’s shrill voice cut through his thoughts. “What’re you reading, baby?”

“One, my private affairs are none of your business Parkinson. Two, and we have talked about this, we are not together. Understood?” His words cut her, as they were intended. With that, he rose from his seat and scanned the Gryffindor to find you. Of course, you were with Potter, Granger, and Weasley, you always were. It’s like the four of you were attached at the hip. Without a second look to his housemates and friends, he made his way over to you.

-

Draco always knew your family was far from kind, but he never knew your Father was cruel enough to kill his own son. The scars on your back, the ones that matched his, jabbed at the soft spot in his heart for you. The soft spot that had has always been there. Memories of you surfaced as he thought of the scars racing around your back. Being young and running around the gardens at Malfoy Manor, desperately dodging the peacocks who were not afraid to bite. Seeing you at society events with your Father’s iron grip on your shoulder, and a corset tied far too tightly. The dark bags steadily under William’s eyes despite his cheery demeanor, and his overprotective glance that was always on you. The shift in your posture when any authority figure entered the room or how you would wince at sudden movements or sharp noises. It all suddenly made sense, and Draco’s little crush on you grew even more. He also abruptly had an instinct to protect you and care for you.

At the same time, he knew the two of you disagreed, that you wanted out of the blood-purity culture entirely, that you had far more radical ideas than he, and that the two of you respectfully surrounded yourself with very different people. Your heart was kinder than his; the abuse you’d gone through strengthened you, while it beat him into submission.

Instead of reaching out with love and kindness, Draco did precisely what was done to him. He bullied and hurt people who he was taught were lesser than him. He became a Death Eater, and he would soon be a murderer.

Part 2 - The Red Bottle

[forabeatofadrum]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you @martsonmars @facewithoutheart and @urban-sith for the tags.

This time, I’m doing something different than a new snippet of Paradiso and I’d cry a river just for you. Welcome to the WIP Wednesday Hospital Ward. This is inspired by @facewithoutheart’s WIP Wednesday Graveyard, where she laid her WIPs that she will not finish to rest. I really, really liked that idea, but I quickly realised that I have the intent of finishing my WIPs and I will finish them. That’s a threat. To me. 

(Besides, I don’t look back to my abandoned fics. Oops. Not even a funeral!)

So instead of a graveyard, I welcome you to the (long-stay) hospital ward where my 10 patients will be waiting for me until I can tend to their needs. 

Please mask up, wash your hands, and leave your names at the visitors’ list @quizasvivamos @coffeegleek @captain-aralias @redheadgleek @dragoneggo @crissmastrees-and-candyklaines @esperantoauthor and other possible visitors!

Get ready, it’s a big hospital ward. I have... a lot of WIPs.

Patient no. 1 is a fic that I started writing before the release of AWTWB, so before we knew that Baz isn’t immortal. In this AU, Simon dies during his showdown with The Mage and Baz lives on on his own. (EDIT: I should maybe add that Simon’s still in this fic as a Visitor! Baz lives his immortal life, living for the moments that he gets to see Simon, which happen every 20 years.)

I almost did not go to the funeral.

In the end, I decided to go there to support Bunce. I wonder if I will ever forget the image of her screaming and clinging to Simon’s lifeless body. I don’t think I ever will.

It was short and, well, sweet. It was a private funeral. The entire World of Mages could mourn their Chosen One, the Greatest Mage who sacrificed himself to defeat the Humdrum.

We mourned Simon.

Patient no. 2 is a fix-it that I started recently after watching the glee episode A Wedding. Long story short, the Klaine and Brittana wedding is stupid, my boys and girls deserve better.

“But... But what?” Kurt asks, desperate to make some sense out of this situation.

“But... not like this,” Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hands. Kurt blinks, and he looks shocked, so Blaine starts to feel the panic rise. They just got back together and now he’s messing it up all over again.

In a rush of panic, he starts rambling. “I love you, so, so much and I do wanna marry you. You know I do. I asked you to marry me and I still want that for us, but our time apart made me realise that it’s okay to take things slow-”

“Blaine.”

Patient no. 3 once got mentioned in a Myosotis sylvatica author’s note, and that’s the last we heard of them. It’s a Kitty x Roderick fic called Drive Darling. Yes, it’s glee. Yes, these are glee characters. No I don’t blame you if you stopped watching before they appeared.

Alistair immediately kisses Spencer when he gets in.

“Only Roderick left!” Madison says happily.

“Oh, we gotta make a group photo for Myron,” Alistair suggests and Kitty still has troubles believing that Alistair is capable of talking. He’s incredibly shy, but Spencer makes him feel comfortable.

“We can do that at Roderick’s place,” Madison suggests, “He has a big garden.”

“You’ve been to Rod’s?” Spencer asks. It’s not a weird question. They barely hang out at Roderick’s place.

“A couple of times, yeah,” Madison answers and Kitty feels a pit in her stomach. She’s jealous. She knows where this feeling is coming from, but she tries to push it away.

Speaking of underrated ships, I’m not going to tell you what fandom patient no. 4 is from. If someone knows, please tell me. I will send puppies.

“Okay, whatever, why did you need to talk to me?”

Luke takes a deep breath. “So, before I met you, I asked Clyde about girls, so he taught me about girls.”

“I heard about that,” Rani waves it away. In fact, Clyde has told her everything, since he thought it was rather amusing that Luke got his first kiss in front of his mum.

“Now, I need you to teach me about boys.”

My longest running WIP is A rip in time, a Doctor Who universe crossover. I hope to have patient no. 5 discharged before the 13th Doctor leaves us.

All four Doctors are in their respective TARDISes and the companions take their time to explore the four space ships.

“I really like the addition of books,” Sarah Jane browses through the bookcases in Twelve’s TARDIS.

“Keep looking, Sarah,” Twelve says.

“For what?” Sarah Jane asks again. All Doctors seem to believe that one of the TARDISes has the key to the way out.

“Just… keep looking,” Twelve doesn’t sound convinced, but what else can they do.

Sarah Jane also sees a bookcase filled with old VHS tapes. She picks one up. “Marco Polo?” she reads out loud, “What do you mean, Marco Polo?”

“Oh, just one of my missing adventures. I call them my missing episodes,” Twelve says nonchalantly, while he’s reading the TARDIS’s scanner. He apologises to his ship before banging his fist against the monitor. “Come on, old girl, help me out.”

Patient no. 6 is a Zimbits Instagram influencer fic with a strong Lardo and Jack friendship.

“Cool. So, can I borrow that? I’ll buy you a beer.”

“I don’t drink,” Jack says and he holds the camera closer to this body.

Larissa notices and she raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to borrow it, do you?”

Jack slowly shakes his head. This woman, Larissa, has no idea what she’s asking of him. She doesn’t know what this camera stands for. She doesn’t know how this camera and Jack’s love for photography have brought light into his life after years of darkness.

She doesn’t know that this camera replaced his hockey stick.

I woefully admit that I forgot that patient no. 7 existed but I was going through my general Glee fic Word document and I came across Met hoeveel letters spel je dat, which is the unofficial second version of my abandoned Amsterdam die mooie stad, which has been a fic idea that’s been in my head since 2013 or something. Now that I’m writing Klaine in the Netherlands, I laughed when I found this. This patient has been on this ward for a long, long time.

“Stel Je Voor Draken,” Koen says, “It’s a small Amsterdam-based band. They’re really good. They mostly sing covers, but recently, they started playing some original songs.”

“Stel Je Voor Draken?” Kurt asks, “That name sounds ridiculous!”

“I know! That’s why they are so amazing,” Koen says excitedly, “Come on, Kurt. You’ve gotten better at understanding Dutch. What do you think Stel Je Voor Draken stands for?”

“Draken… dragons,” Kurt starts translating, but it’s difficult. He knows that je or jij means you. “Dragons… you… what do stel and voor mean? Stel… for. Dragons for you?”

“I’m gonna make it easier for you. What is voorstellen? There are two options. The first one is ‘introducing’, but the second one…” Koen trails off, waiting for Kurt to continue.

“See in front of you,” Kurt tries, “Im-Imagine. Imagine dragons?”

“Exactly!” Koen makes a small twirl with his bike, which is probably not a safe thing to do in the middle of the street. “It is an Imagine Dragons cover band.”

I’m riding the Dutch train for patient no. 8, but this isn’t a story that only takes place in the Netherlands. It’s a glee x Sense8 crossover that takes place in New York, San Juan, Jacksonville, Dublin, Amsterdam, Cebu City, Ljubljana and Melbourne. I don’t think I am ever going to fully write this fic. Maybe I’ll just post random snippets without it being a cohesive story, but I did publish an introduction to the Sensates here.

Artie sighs and he turns around and he sees that he’s stopped right in front of a body of water. That shouldn’t be here.

“You were about to dive right into the canal,” Puck says, “I had to stop you. Welcome to Amsterdam.”

Puck is right. Artie’s seen photos of Amsterdam, so this is definitely it. It’s dark outside and the air is chilly. They’re no longer in Melbourne.

“Am I contact high?” he asks Puck.

“I’m sober,” Puck tells him, “At least, I am now.”

“But… this is Amsterdam? This is really Amsterdam?”

Puck grins when he sees the excited look on Artie’s face. No one understands what just happened, but if he’s really in Amsterdam, then that is pretty amazing. 

“Amsterdam, die mooie stad…”

“... met hoeveel letters spel je dat?” Artie finishes. 

“You speak Dutch?” Puck asks in amazement.

“No.”

Puck pats Artie’s shoulder. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Artie answers. Then, embarrassed, he asks: “But, uh, can you wheel me to the Red Lights District?”

Puck laughs loudly. “Tour de la Hoer, here we come!”

Truly, both don’t understand what just happened, but they can think about that later. This might not even be real, so Artie decides to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Patient no. 9 has been here for a while. It’s a Zimbits timetravel fanfic.

“Jack, calm the hell down. What has happened, has happened, and there is no way to change it. Besides, I wouldn’t change it for the world.” He holds up his left hand.

Jack looks down on his left hand. He will marry this man one day, and all because they met at Samwell.

Maybe that is why his future self doesn’t want Jack to know what is going to happen to him. What if future him remembers it wrongly? What if Jack wakes up in 2009 in four days, and he knows what is going to happen at the draft, and he will change his future?

Maybe his future self is just securing his life with Bitty.

“Oh.”

And lastly, patient no. 10 and I am so sorry to this fic, since my computer tells me that I haven’t opened this document since 2018. It’s once again a glee fanfic and it’s about Asian identity, diversity and intersectionality. Tina, Mike, Blaine and Wes are the main characters. Tina’s story is about being adopted into a white family, Mike’s about moving to America as a young child, Blaine’s about being biracial and Wes’s about being the child of immigrants.

Glee sometimes made their identity the butt of the joke (or they erased it in Blaine’s case) and this is me trying to give the jokes about Asian camp and Asian online forums a place. 

There’s so much diversity in the Dalton Asian Union. Wes hates it when people all lump Asia together and basically call it China. Wes grew up in a traditionally Chinese household. His parents moved to America to flee the Cultural Revolution and Mao’s dictatorship when they had the chance. At home, Wes speaks Mandarin with his parents, but English slips in every now and then. Sure, they changed their last names in order to have a better chance of getting a job, but that’s not because they hate being Chinese. No, America is just racist.

In the DAU, there are a lot of students who can relate to that. There are other Chinese students, but also Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese, Thai, and so on. Just like Wes, they all hate the fact that people immediately assume everyone’s Chinese. Asia isn’t even South East Asia only. There are also Pakistani and Syrian students in the DAU, because that’s Asia!

Outside the DAU, Wes is also part of the Ohio Asian Forum and he has two internet friends. Tina XxGothGirlTayTayxX, who is Korean, and Mike AsianDancer, who is Chinese as well. He’s never met them, but that is the beauty of the internet. He has told them about Blaine and they both agree that Blaine should be able to join the DAU.

Wes has tried telling Blaine that, but Blaine is sure he won’t join.

“I’ll never feel fully at ease, Wes,” he’d said and Wes was angry about that. The DAU is diverse. There are already other Filipino students in the DAU, so why can’t Blaine join?

Or better yet: why do they still give Blaine the feeling he can’t join or that he doesn’t belong? It basically sends a message to white-passing students that they’re not Asian enough.

Wow, that were 10 patients! If you’ve made it to the end, thank you for paying all of them a visit. Feel free to leave flowers. 

[nooneelsecomesclose17]

Go to the ends of the earth for you - Part 4

Bet you thought I'd forgotten this didn't you? I have no excuses, except that it's been misbehaving and would not go right. It was meant to be the last chapter but they had a lot to say even though not much happens!

(AO3 link)

Fourteen months later

Aaron couldn’t stand still, never mind Seb. It was early, he’d left the village far too early in his excitement, but he hadn’t wanted to be late, that would’ve been unbearable. It’s two months since they’d found out his release date, it coming through the day of Annie’s funeral and now the day was finally here.

“How long Dada?”

“Not long mate. Do you want to sit inside the car? Are you cold?”

“No. I don’t want to miss Daddy.” He smiled and wrapped an arm round him, sitting next to him on the bonnet of the car. He couldn’t help wondering if this was how Robert had felt all those years ago, waiting, wondering.

“You won’t. Promise.”

“And he’s staying, not goin’ away again?”

“No, definitely not. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Not even if those people don’t like him?”

“What people?” He could sense a note of fear in Seb’s voice, suddenly quiet.

“The man with no hair, Granny Faith took me to get a cookie and I heard him, he was talking about Daddy.” Aaron let out a sigh. He’d had very little to do with Paddy or his Mum the past year but he knew their dislike of Robert hadn’t dimmed one little bit, and now it was affecting Seb. He crouched in front of him, ruffling his hair a little.

“Daddy’s not going anywhere, no matter what anyone says. So if you hear anyone talking about him again take no notice ok?” Seb nods and leans forward for a cuddle. Aaron doesn’t want to let him go so he just stays like that.

“Can I get in on that hug.” The voice startles him so much he almost drops Seb in shock. Turning he finds Robert standing there, familiar grin in place, and he laughs a little.

“Daddy!”

“Hi little man.” Aaron hands him over to Robert with a smile, content to wait for his own moment with him. “You’ve got so big!”

“I’m almost half the window!” Robert looks confused, looking to Aaron for help.

“We’ve been marking how he’s growing haven’t we? Every Friday night he stands next to the window and we put a mark on the wall.”

“That’s amazing.” He lets Seb chatter, eyes never leaving Aaron’s, eventually pulling him into a one armed hug, that would have to do as it seemed Seb was in no mood to let go of his Dad anytime soon.

The excitement is clearly too much and by the time they reach the outskirts of Hotten, Seb’s dropped off in the back of the car, head leaning against the side of his car seat, giraffe toy clutched in his hand. Aaron reaches over and squeezes Robert’s hand.

“You ok?”

“I am now. So, what am I facing back in the village?”

“Nothing much, I promise. Gran said she might pop in, and Vic wants you to meet Harry, at some point but I told her to leave it for today. I don’t think Paddy or my Mum will be hanging out any bunting, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

“I got that much…Seb heard him?” Aaron nods. “Great.”

“Hey, it was a one off. It won’t be long before we’re out of there will it?”

“You still want to leave?”

“I want what’s best for our family, and I don’t think that’s the village is it.”

Robert doesn’t answer and he’s quiet for the rest of the drive. Aaron leaves him to it, knowing it takes some adjustment when you first get out of prison. The village is quiet when he pulls the car to a stop at the house, Robert looking around seeing if anything has changed.

“You want to go inside?”

“No. I…can we go to the graveyard?” Aaron nods. “I just want to say goodbye.”

Aaron had hated going to the prison, telling Robert that his Gran had died, knowing he wouldn’t be able to go to the funeral, and say goodbye. Instead Aaron had stood next to Vic in his place, but he knew Robert felt guilty anyway, that he’d not been there.

Robert’s quiet as they stand there, the plaque on the wooden cross glinting in the sunlight. He shifted Seb in his arms so he could take his hand.

“Vic wouldn’t hear of sorting out a stone, not until you were here, same with her will.”

“I should’ve called more, should’ve visited, but I got so wrapped up in everything, and I suppose, I knew what she’d say about Chrissie, knew she’d see through me especially after I met you, so I stayed away. Then everything just kept getting in the way.”

“You called, I heard you. She knew you loved her Robert.”

“Maybe. I wish she could’ve met him,” He runs a hand through Seb’s hair, the little boy still sleeping, head resting on Aaron’s shoulder. “And you.”

“What would she have said about me then?” Robert chuckles.

“He’s a nice enough lad, Robert, but he could dress a bit more smartly. You know what I think of those hoodie things. She would’ve loved ya, known how much I love you.” He takes another look at the grave. “Come on, let’s go home.”

————

The next few days are quiet, the weekend allowing them the excuse to stay indoors away from everyone. The only people they see are Vic with Harry and his Gran who drops in with some supplies insisting she knew they wouldn’t want to go to the shop, full of apologies for what Seb overheard, which they wave away because it’s not her fault that Paddy just can’t keep his mouth shut.

After that Aaron has to go back to work. Cain probably wouldn’t mind if he took some more time but he doesn’t want to take advantage, and besides they have to try and get back to normality at some point.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take him to nursery?” Robert’s staring at a cup of coffee and has been the past twenty minutes, but he looks over at Seb who’s playing by the sofa.

“I can take care of him.”

“I know, but…I s’pose I thought you’d want to check in at the haulage firm. He’ll be fine there, he likes it.” He steps over, hands resting on Robert’s shoulders. “I can come with you if you want, Cain will give me an extra hour.”

“You think I can’t cope?” He doesn’t react, he’s gotten used to the defensive tone in Robert’s voice over the past few days, knows it’s not directed at him.

“No. Of course you can, but I know how strange it is coming back after you’ve been inside, and that’s without wanting to avoid my family.” Robert looks up at him. “I���m not daft Robert.”

“I know that.”

“So…why don’t we take Seb to nursery this morning, and you pick him up and the three of us will have lunch. We can’t stay shut in here for the next year.” Robert nods. “Come on monster, you ready for nursery?”

“What about Daddy?”

“I’ll pick you up at lunchtime, and then me, you and Dada are going to the…where are we going?” He asks as he tries to get Seb to stand still long enough to get into his coat.

“Pub?”

“Feel like living dangerously do you?”

“I’m not hidin’. We can do the cafe if you’d rather.”

“No, no, it’s been a while since I’ve felt the death rays, I almost miss them.” Happy that he’s brought a smile to his face, Aaron kisses him goodbye and hurries Seb out of the door.

————

The pub is about half full when they get inside and he points at the table by the fire telling Robert he’ll get their drinks while he settles Seb down. He can see his Mum by the bar, pretending not to look at them but he knows better. She’s next to Cain who lifts his pint and winks at him. He’d told him his plan that morning. He wasn’t going to let Robert feel as though he couldn’t go about the village because of his Mum and Paddy. Robert hadn’t said as much but Aaron wasn’t stupid. He goes to order but Robert’s hand on his arm stops him and he smiles.

Matty takes their order and everyone leaves them alone. There’s some kind of delay with their food, Marlon’s probably having one of his tantrums so he goes to order another drink. He knows his Mum has been watching the whole time.

He subtly waves Matty away when he tries to serve him, locking eyes with his Mum and staring until she comes over.

“Two pints and an orange for Seb please.” He bites back a laugh when she all but snatches the money from him without saying a word.

“Playing with fire aren’t you?” Cain sidles round the bar to his side.

“I told you, I’m not hiding away and neither is Robert. Are you going to throw the Dingle code in my face if I don’t stop?”

“Nah. I reckon it’s about time she got a taste of her own medicine.” He says seeing her going into the back, their drinks abandoned on the side. He looks over at his uncle, surprised. “Tried telling me I shouldn’t have given you a job not long after I took you on.”

“What?”

“Said I was going against the family. Told her it weren’t me doing that…she ignored me for a few weeks but I reckon she found not many people wanted to listen, so now she’s talking again but she’s frosty. Suits me. Less earache that way.” He snorts a little as Matty brings over the abandoned order. He gives him the rest of their order before going back to the table, not that surprised that Cain follows.

“Alright Sugden. Good to see you.”

“Er, cheers Cain.” He gives Aaron a look but he shakes his head. He’ll tell him later.

“Here.” He hands him his drink when Cain’s gone back to the bar without another word.

“Ta. What’d your Mum say?”

“Nothing. Literally. Guess it’s a good job she’s not like that with all her customers or her trip advisor rating would be rubbish.” He lays a hand on Robert’s knee at the look on his face. “Leave it, she’s not worth the trouble.”

“She’s your Mum.”

“Mmm, who can’t support my decisions. I’ve had a year to get used to this Robert. It’s better than her being in my ear all the time about you.” He looks down at Seb, thankfully engrossed in his colouring and not listening. “She can get as annoyed as she likes, this is our local for the next few months and I’m not avoiding it because of her.”

“I quite like this new you.” He laughs at Robert’s face as Marlon puts their food down with a smile.

“Eat your food.” He can’t help smiling to himself though.

————

“You ready?” Aaron can’t help pulling at his tie as they stand outside the solicitors office in Hotten, the sunshine making him feel hot in his suit. He supposed he didn’t really need one, it was only the reading of a will but Robert had put his on so Aaron had followed suit.

“I think so. Where’s Vic? She said half past?” Robert worrying about being on time was a new thing, probably left over from prison Aaron mused, you lived by timetables in there. He rubbed a hand up his arm to reassure him.

“She was taking Harry and Seb to Diane’s remember? She’ll be here.” Robert nods. He’s been quiet all morning. Aaron supposes he’s still grieving for his Gran and the fact that he couldn’t say goodbye properly. “See, here she is.”

Vic rushes up to them, complaining about Diane keeping her talking and then Robert’s ushering them inside, taking charge and the two of them let him. Aaron wants to laugh at how much time he’s spent in a solicitor’s office this past year for one thing and another and not once because he was in trouble. It made a nice change.

Thankfully they’re not kept waiting and then they’re sitting in this posh office and Aaron can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He’s always thought of Annie Sugden as a typical farmer’s wife and mother, not well off, just comfortable enough for her old age. Neither Robert nor Vic seem surprised at the sums been bandied about so he keeps quiet.

“No.” Robert’s whisper drags him out of his thoughts, just catching the man in front of them mentioning a house, looking straight at Robert. “She can’t.”

“Mr Sugden…”

“No! She wouldn’t.” He’s out of his chair, all but running from the office before Aaron can stop him. He goes after him, hoping Vic will make their apologies, hoping he’s not got far. He’s right outside, leaning against the wall, breathing hard.

“You ok?”

“Did you hear?”

“Yeah. Your Gran left you her house.” He’s confused by the reaction because surely Robert knew he was in the will, he’d been invited to the reading after all. “That’s…good isn’t it?”

“I don’t deserve it. She…can’t. Not after everything I’ve done.”

“She knew all that, and she still wanted you to have it. She obviously loved you Robert, you were her grandson.”

“No, if she’d know I was in prison she wouldn’t…she’d be so disappointed in me, ruining the Sugden name.”

“Rob?” He moves aside to let the siblings hug each other. He feels out of his depth because he didn’t know Annie, has no idea if Robert’s right. He hopes she wasn’t like that, wouldn’t disown her grandson given everything, but he was so convinced. “It’s what Gran wanted.”

“Should’ve been for you, not me. You’ve been here all these years, I haven’t even visited or anything.”

“You called her, she told me how much she used to love hearing about Seb. Anyway she left me money which is better than a house. It’ll help me more.”

“Vic, did the solicitor say when the will was written?” Aaron can see that Robert’s gearing up for another bout of convincing himself he’s not worth any of it and he says the only thing he can think of.

“About a month before she died.”

“And she knew…about Robert, about what we’d done, everything?” She nods and he smiles in thanks before turning to Robert. “See? She knew everything and she still wanted you to have it.”

“But…”

“No buts. I didn’t know her, so you tell me, did anyone ever make your Gran do anything she didn’t want?” He snorts and Vic’s laughing, leaning against her brother.

“I suppose not. Still…seems unfair, that house is worth more than what you got Vic.”

“Maybe but Gran’s helped me out a lot over the years and not you. I’m not bothered by it Rob, so you don’t need to be.”

“Besides, if you keep it I expect Vic will be quite happy to borrow it every now and then, eh?” She shoves him playfully but his words have the desired effect, Vic’s love of the sunshine is well known and Robert teases her whenever she moans about the lack of it in Yorkshire. “Might have to up the rent mind or she’ll never leave.”

“Oi you! You might be my brother-in-law but I knew you long before he did.”

“Yeah yeah.”

“You didn’t you know.” Robert says as they’re walking back to their cars. “I met him at Katie and Andy’s wedding.”

“You did?” Aaron can just remember being dragged to some party because his Mum was working. He’d just been glad to be away from his Dad for a few days but he can’t remember Robert.

“Mmm. You were sat at the bar on some manky video game. Had a right face on you. Mind you, so did I. I wanted to be anywhere but at their wedding.” His face changes, memories coming all at once and Aaron takes his hand, knowing exactly where his mind has gone. “So…I fancy some chips.”

“Dressed like this?”

“Why not. There’s no law says you can’t eat chips in a suit.” With that he walks ahead leaving Aaron and Vic to catch up, smiling at each other. Aaron’s not blind, he can see just how Robert’s mood has improved from being out of the village, despite the circumstances.

————

“Seb, come on bedtime.” Robert’s in the bath so it’s his turn to try and get the little boy into bed. Just lately he’s become determined to stay up as late as possible even when he’s falling asleep on his feet. “I’ll read you two stories if you go up now.”

“No.”

“It’s already late and you have nursery tomorrow. You don’t want to be too tired to play with Isaac do you?”

“Not go to nursery.” He carries on colouring, despite the adamant statement.

“Why?” Aaron sits down beside him, instantly worried, because he loves nursery and hates leaving.

“Stay here with Daddy. So he’s not sad.”

“Why do you think Daddy will be sad? He knows you like nursery, he won’t mind mate.”

“Cos he was, other day.” Seb whispers, looking up at him with big eyes.

“He was? Do you know why?”

“The man. He saw him. Uncle Cain was there and he told the man to be quiet but Daddy’s still sad.” He crawls into Aaron’s lap, picture abandoned. Aaron doesn’t need to ask which man, Seb only uses those words for one person.

“Oh, well you don’t have to worry about that mate, I’m here now. I’ll make sure Daddy isn’t sad anymore.”

“Why doesn’t the man like Daddy? He’s fun, he plays with me when I ask.”

“I know he does. You don’t worry about any of that ok, I’ll sort it. That man won’t upset Daddy again, promise.” He hugs him tighter before tickling him to make him laugh. “Now, come on, bed. I’ll even let you stay awake until Daddy’s done in the bath, but you have to get into your ‘jamas first.”

He tries his best not to let Seb see how angry he is but he has to take a couple of minutes to himself in the kitchen calming down before going upstairs. He was going to pay a visit to Paddy the next morning because he wasn’t having the little boy upset, let alone Robert.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

handmaid - 11

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap, mentions of violence, gun mentioning

A/N: i watched endings, begginings again solely because of the scene we get a close up of seb making out with shailene and that scene will forever make me want him in unholy ways. hope you enjoy this chapter xxx

NEXT CHAPTER

    - What? - Y/N stared at him, not because she hadn’t heard what he had said but because her brain seemed to have stopped mid synapse. She wondered if this was the hopeless romantic in her mixed with the lack of sleep that were making her hear things. But no. That confirmation came to her through his actions as he stepped close enough to her she could feel his breathe on her cheekbone. His hand cradled her face, looking at her with the uttermost adoration, almost like a scene straight off Springtime by Pierre-Auguste Cot. 

   - I’m here, nothing and no one can harm you. I don’t think you understand the things I would do for you. - he traced her bottom lip with his calloused thumb causing her small hairs to raise up as a shiver rolled down her spine. 

   - I ... You shouldn’t. - she was too immobile to even try and step back, but in all honesty, even if her nerves weren’t stopping her from moving, she herself would’ve stopped herself from moving. It felt nice. - You make me very nervous, Mr. Stan.

She took a step forward, hearing the shift of the gravel as her sock covered feet moved so her toes touched the point of his shoes. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do but there was an overwhelming need to be close to him. As so, she stretched her arms to him, wrapping them around his neck and burying her head in his pyjama shirt. It was a very baggy shirt with the logo of Regis High School. She guessed it had probably been his during his high school years and the little holes and slight thin patches of fabric spread across the tee contributed to that guess of hers. Sebastian sighed at this motion, his hand coming to rest upon the small of her back while his lips pressed against the crown of her head, slightly inhaling the faint scent of her lavender shampoo.

They remained in that same position as the bird slowly awaked as the very first sun rays broke through the night sky, the sounds of nature making them both forget they had just escaped a crossfire. They continued in that embrace until his phone loudly rang from the backseat where he had thrown it before. 

With much regret, he broke the embrace, hand taking slightly longer to her waist as he grabbed his phone, angrily answering it. Y/N just stood there, hand hoovering over his like someone who really wanted to hold his hand but was too shy to do so. Of course she was to shy to do so, this was her friend’s future husband. The same future husband who she would have to kiss and some day give a child to and here she was fully considering the idea of entering some sort of Anna/Vronsky relationship minus the opium and suicide.

   - I’ll be there in a few. - his words as the phone beeped off took her off her thought pattern.

   - Is everything alright? - she questioned, worry laced into her sleepy sounding voice. It was 4 AM after all, Y/N guessed that all in all, she’d probably gotten about an hour or two of sleep. 

   - Yeah. - he sighed, rubbing the side of his neck out of tiredness. - We need to go. 

   - Where are we going? - what was she doing? she asked herself as she noticed she was already sat in the shotgun seat without getting an answer. Was she that enamoured that she would get in the car without any response? Maybe, yet he did let this particular sight of safety. 

  - Airport.

She watched as his eyes were kept on the brightening road. Y/N didn’t know exactly what to say, all she knew exactly was that he made her feel warm and nervous but not in the way that being next to a mob boss. You should fear contact with one not crave one. 

Things were rather silent until the crash of noise from the airport made her look at something rather than the side of his face, watching as various airplanes landed a bit closer than she’d ever seen them land. He just drove as if a plane couldn’t misdirect or mislead and hit them, he drove with that sort of confidence that made you want to throw your arms in the air in great Taylor Swift music video fashion. He drove with the confidence she wished she had. 

The car slowly yet surely came to halt and as she turned her face to the window she could see the airplane from a few days before. She guessed they were going home for safety and despite her love for Paris, right now she wanted to go somewhere familiar. 

   - Gwen’s already inside. - he put his hand on the glove compartment, picking the music box and handing it to her. - Make sure you don’t lose this one too.

   - Are you not coming? - she noticed his hand was still very much gripping the wheel of the car. 

   - After this, I think I have some matters that need resolving. 

   - Why won’t you come with us? Surely it is Mr. Williams’ job to look over the Paris affairs. 

   - He’s very useless, angel. If I leave him to do anything, I’ll have to fly back and fix it. Besides, I’m sending him to New York for a bit after his disastrous deal.

   - Oh ... - she cradled the music box closer to her chest. - Are you gonna be alright?

   - Are you worried about me, angel? - he smirked at her, immediately causing her cheeks to heat up. - I will be just fine, you need only worry about Gwen.

   - That’s not what I meant. - Y/N faintly smiled at him, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek which took Sebastian off guard. It was so sweet and so young that half the rage he had accumulated towards whoever shot at his hotel. She just stared at her lap, lightly tracing the golden details of the box. - I don’t exactly want to go to your funeral.

   - I think I’ll be fine, angel. 

He is a mob boss, he will be fine. One does not become notorious by being easy to wound or easy to kill. Nevertheless, so had been the man who raised her and Gwen and he had still gotten a pretty bad wound shot every once in a while. No one is invisible. Achilles had his heel and Odysseus, Perseus, Theseus all had a lot more and they were all heroes who were eventually defeated. Dynasties fall and Y/N had seen it plenty of times.

She opened the door of the car, her sock covered feet reminding her that she was about to walk into a private jet in her pyjamas and socks. Gwen surely had thrown her into some wild situations yet none seemed to quite match up to this one. 

Closing the door behind her, she walked to the stairs that led to the door of the plane, turning around to briefly wave at Sebastian before he took off. Maybe it was best they were separated for a bit, maybe it was just a little crush that would vanish with a bit of time. What she wasn’t expecting was to walk into Gwen having her neck peppered and sucked by one of the bodyguards, Christian. 

    - Morning, Y/N. - she pushed the man away, giving her an enthusiastic smile as Y/N sat in the leathered seat in front of her. - Where have you been? Elias said Sebastian took you during the crossfire.

    - Yeah, are you okay? Sebastian said you were, I’m really sorry I didn’t come to find you.

    -  You two are sure buddying up. - she opened one of the magazines that were on the stand as the plane prepared to take off. 

    -  Oh, it’s not that. - she bite her lip looking at her feet.

    - Of course it is. You better not tell him about any of the boys or Christian, the last thing I need is to have someone dead because my fiancée is jealous. 

    - I’ve told you I’ll never tell on you besides he’s not jealous, he’s just worried about you. 

   - Well ... - she smirked, lowering the magazine. - He does employ some very fine men, specially at the art of bedding.

   - See, this is why your dad didn’t want you to watch Sex and the City when you were younger. - Y/N laughed, remembering when a teenage Gwen would sneak in at night along with her to watch Sex and the City reruns on the TV which would constantly annoy Mr. Forrest. 

   - You can’t be such a prude, you must have someone on your radar. Seriously, has there never been a guy who made you want to take a cold shower just from looking at him?

   - Guys don’t tend to look at me Gwen, they look at you. 

   - Bullshit. I could just bet you have someone and you’re just not telling me. 

Y/N just laughed it off, leaning against her pillows and the sleep finally won her over, throwing her for a nice slumber. She was awoken by the faint sound of rain hitting glass and as she slowly opened her eyes, she came to see the airport of what she called home for now. 

Rather quickly and wearing one of the bodyguards jacket in order to not look like a public threat to society in her pyjamas and socks, both her and Gwen were hushed into the limo which drove them back to their penthouse. The building looked darker and the weather was even darker. She prepared to go inside the bed and sleep more, despite having slept for 9 hours on the plane from Paris to NY. 

   - You look terrible. - Y/N heard a familiar voice as the lift doors opened. A big smile stretched on her face as she saw Dan standing there. - Are you even wearing any shoes?

  - You’re here! - she jumped into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck before stepping away for a bit. - I wasn’t expecting you to be here this soon.

  - After the crossfire, I decided to spend some time with you and Gwen at least until Mr. Stan returns

  - Oh great. - Gwen rolled her eyes. - Another babysitter. 

  - It’s good to see you too, Gwen. - he turned his gaze back to Y/N. - You look unharmed. Survived your first crossfire

  - Yeah, it’s been a crazy few days. Enough about me, did you bring Sophie? 

  - No, she’s staying at her mum’s for a while but we can go and visit I’m sure she’ll love to see you. 

  - Just set the date. 

  - So ... - Daniel took a seat on the living room’s coach while Gwen returned to her room, Christian in her foot. Y/N guessed she would be better sat by Dan’s side than in her room where she would possibly hear sounds of things she didn’t really feel like hearing right now. - I heard from Gwen that Sebastian was the one who took you during the crossfire. 

  - Yeah, his room was closer to mine ... - it wasn’t, it was as further from hers as it was from Gwen’s but she didn’t exactly felt like telling Dan that she had kissed his sister’s fiancé. - He’s not as bad as you think, Dan. 

  - You always try and see the good in people, Y/N. It is remarkable but please be careful. Seriously, there are things in this whole world that you are not used to. 

  - I’m not exactly clueless, Dan. He hasn’t been rude to me, he’s treated me as well as he treats Gwen. Besides until he mistreats any of us, I refuse to have such a deep dislike for him. 

  - Y/N, c’mon. I know you don’t get to see it but his kill count? It’s high even when compared to my dad and grandfather’s count all together. You step out of the line, you get erased. 

  - That’s not true. Mr. Williams stepped out the line in France and he’s still not dead.

  - Mr. Williams? When have you even met Thompson Williams?

  - At Gwen’s engagement party. What I mean is, I’m safe here, Dan. I would love if you stopped treating me like I’m the most clueless thing ever.

  - But you are clueless, Y/N. We’ve sheltered you and Gwen for most of it, you don’t ...

  - Oh ... - Y/N interrupted, getting up. - Since I’m that clueless, I think our conversation is over.

  - Y/N, don’t take it personally. 

  - I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Daniel.

tag list: @lilya-petrichor @xoxohannahlee @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater @nikkipea @madisonpillstrom @cevans98 @thelostallycat @sideeffectsofyou @anxiousdreamersworld​ @sarge-barnes-sir​

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Tis the Damn Season

Chapter 6- Last Christmas

Hi all! Sorry she took forever- I edited all by myself, so be gentle!

Plans change. Tickets do too, it seems. Harry's beautiful hope, his gift, it came in handy.

Not in the right way, the intended way. Not because she came to him, ran around the world or even an unfamiliar city with him. Those were dreamy ideas, when she wound up spending all of fall semester in Holmes Chapel. Those daydreams shaded the hospital walls and funeral home with sunny possibilities.

Her father had a heart attack and her mother a breakdown. It was too late, when her mother noticed he'd been out with the dog for too long and the dog was inside whining.

"I knew, in my gut. Day dawned wrong. And then never ended." She'd cried. Her mother had cried in her arms in a reversal Emma felt was way beyond her maturity level.

That hadnt been over the phone. Over the phone had only been muffled sobbing and her dad's name, "John."

Emma didn't call him John, but she could forgive her mother. It was up to her mother's good friend Di to share the news: Emma had always looked up to Di, she'd had some tragic marriage in her youth, and then decided god damned men weren't for her.

At the moment, Emma was of a similar mind.

Emma assumed she'd have a similar life to Di, had planned for it actually. Di had her own house, a thriving career as a solicitor and no children. A life like that, of her own, was Emma's dearest wish before she wished to be able to say yes to Harry.

Now she just wished her dad was still around.

There were so many plans to make, a funeral to finance and a mother to support, to put back together.

It's a wonder Emma wasn't an outright romantic, the way her parents had been, lifelong sweethearts. They still had moon eyes for each other until the very end, could be found holding hands on the couch often. Emma had come home unexpectedly early last year and found her mother sitting on the kitchen counter with her father between her legs making out like teenagers.

It was a lot to live up to.

Emma supposed it was why she kept all her heart eyes and love life in the closet and saved it all up to spend once a year. Just like an old lady's Christmas budget.

This year, she didn't think it would be happening. Harry must have had some rich person thing going on with the ticket, because the minute she decided that rather than ask her mom to buy her a ticket to get home, for the funeral, instead use the one she  had from Harry, he'd called. There was clear excitement in his voice, hot on the heels of her phone call to the airlines. It was August. He was set to embark soon, she'd just got back to Amsterdam. He must have thought she was gonna sneak in a cheeky visit.

"You're coming?"

"What?" She was so disoriented. Coming where? What was going on? Her brain was muffled with plans her feelings kept stumbling over at the knees like a trip wire.

"To see me? I got a notification you used the ticket?"

Her brain was muddled, like an egg in a hot pan, what? How did he do that? "No, Harry, umm I'm not coming. I don't even know where you are right now." She barely knew where she was.

"Whose fault is that?" There was a tiny edge to his voice that would cut her if she could even notice. "You could have answered my calls."

"Harry," she sighed, she had been avoiding him a bit. Mostly because she had an evergreen memory of his disappointed face when she told him going on tour was too much, that she simply didn't have the time. She was glad she couldn't see his face when she said the next bit. His voice was buoyant with hope, she was about to pop that balloon. "I need the ticket to go somewhere else." She couldn't bear to say it, was biting her lip hard not to think it, the liquid memory brimming anyway.

"Yeah, ok. Well, Happy Christmas I guess. See you in four months, maybe." The bitterness in his voice was like an old lemon and she didn't even have time to sweeten it with truth when his phone clicked off.

That made her resentful. How could this truth be sweet in any way? It got worse over time, the resentment just nestled among her other griefs.

Then he wouldn't answer her calls. She supposed that was giving her a taste of her own medicine and it was a quick wash down her throat with no water after the other jagged pill life had just forced down her throat.

And it didn't get better. Though, she had to scoff at herself for even having a square of heart for Harry to break leftover.

Break it did though, when she heard he had a new girlfriend, a blonde, a model, a French blonde model.

Of course.

Emma couldn't help but stalk her instagram. His was useless, ill used, so when she'd finished a day of running the house she'd been a child in while taking care of her grieving mother, she'd torture herself some more and watch stories where the beautiful blonde played in a pool, or made jokes, or showed the big mirror over her bed.

That one hurt most. She'd never seen Harry's bed, nor he hers. The little devil voice inside her head whisper shouted that he much preferred the one he was in now, with the mirror and the model to the tiny inn room they'd spent all their overnights in.

She didn't hear from him, and she never called to explain herself either. What would she say? My life fell apart and I needed your ticket, but it hurt to much to say it out loud and you were to much of an asshole to let me say it.

Harry wasn't an asshole, not really, he was hurt. Emma was stunned she had that power, though she had admitted to herself there was more between them than mistletoe kisses and holiday fucks.

She'd admitted it was more to her.

He acted like it was more to him, unless this was just a bruised ego. She didn't like to think that. Harry had every reason to have a giant head, figuratively to go with the oversized cranium he actually sported, but he'd never shown it. He was cocky at times, just enough to be sexy. All of that was a veneer over a sweet vulnerability that made everybody want to be around him, protect him, love him.

Did she love him?

No, she didn't think so, but given more time, the potential was there, like a rock at the top of a hill, all it would take was a push.

Which, time on tour with him would have been. If she could have went. Which she couldn't. She wanted to explain all of this to him as soon as she has the chance- which she would in 6 hours.

Her promises to herself were that she would not cry and that she would accept his new relationship. His real relationship. Emma would not try to touch him, or kiss him, or confess her almost love to him.

He was probably in love himself, from her internet stalks, she was halfway there, with both of them. Harry edged it out by being perfect in person. Camille, that was frenchies name, could only be half as perfect as Emma made her in her head.

"Do I wear the sweater?" She asked her reflection. She'd had to become her best friend the last six months. Emma might have called her mom her best friend, just based on time spent together, if their relationship was reciprocal, but at this turn of the road, she was supporting her mom as she grieved and got back to herself. Emma could see glimmers. She had hope.

She however wasn't sure she had hope for herself. Was she really contemplating wearing the sweater Harry gave her last Christmas to his mother's Christmas party? How pathetic was that? She was rolling her eyes at herself. He'd had a big year, and he bought lots of gifts, probably for his new girl, so her thinking he'd remember felt narcissistic.

Plus, it was her favorite, which mostly had nothing to do with the fact it was from Harry.

Emma really didn't want to go, but Gemma was expecting her. And she really needed to see her, have her support. They'd been texting, a lot. Gemma had heard about her dad and reached out. It was the only emotionally connection Emma really had, those texts, and she needed to see Gemma, honestly. Even if it meant seeing Harry.

She might have wanted to see Harry.

To explain, and maybe just to see him. Make sure he was happy, feel his warmth, steal him back.

No, that was unlikely. See if he was happy and wish him well.

She wore the sweater.

The house was cozy when she arrived, like it always was and it thawed her heart enough for it to ache a bit. For something new. Her heart ached a fair bit off and on, then went numb. It was the only way she'd survived lately. Emma knew she was putting off really feeling her major loss.

It was a strange pleasure to mourn something as minor as heartbreak.

The hug from Gemma made the trip through the snow and down memory lane worth it. And the people all around her and their laughter were invigorating.

The alcohol helped as well. Their house was pretty dry but had been especially when she started to notice her mom was unconsciously developing a bottle a day habit. When it wasn't there she didn't mention it though, so Emma didn't buy it, except for special occasions.

She was merry, and felt held. Her hand was in Gemma's. She'd stayed away from the back bathroom and the kitchen, even come in the front door.

Emma felt like she was getting away with it.

Harry wasn't there, with girlfriend in tow or not. So all her pontificating about checking on him was all for naught, and she was getting all the crosses. She certainly felt like today was a plus.

Until she heard a tone of elation issue from Anne's happy voice that only motherly joy could produce.

Harry was here.

"Fuck!" Came out of her mouth, and Gemma looked at her sharply.

"What?"

"Nothing, guess I'm jumpy, your mum's shout made me spill." Emma thought she shouted an excuse me while she hurried up the stairs to hide, find a place farthest away from Harry and his happiness. He might be alone, but if he was glowing like a brand, the way he did when they holed up together only slightly dimmed by their parting, now because of it, from some other lover, Emma couldn't stand it.

Plus, she thought she'd heard another name connected to his over her own rated r exclamation.

She was coming out of the bathroom. Emma had suppressed her tears ruthlessly and her bottom lip might bruise from the brutal teeth marks she employed. She'd have given herself some words in the mirror, affirmations helped, but what was she gonna say. "You're happy for him."

She wasn't. She was happy with him.

"Fuck this." Emma decided the only course of action was a straight line to her parents house. her mother's house, she mentally corrected and gave herself a more legitimate reason to cry than over a boy. Even if that boy was Harry Styles.

Who she barely stopped herself from running into as she kept her head down and rounded the bannister to head down the stairs.

"Jesus! You gave me a fright!" She dramatized and kept a hand over her heart and her tear stained face down.

"Emma." His voice was flat, and not cold, but the warmth that snuggled around her name was absent and she shivered. "I wondered if you'd be here." Not Hoped, she noted. "What are you doing up here? Don't your usually use the back bathroom?" There was just a bit of heat in that statement, but it didn't warm, it burned. Was he being mean, that wasn't like him? "Nice sweater." Ok, definitely mean.

Her face came up with that thought, it shocked her out of the sense of control she was exercising.

He did look hard, mean, for a moment, but soft around the edges like a melting popsicle when he caught her face.

"Are you crying?" His hand came up and he stopped it mid air before it wiped away her tear.

Emma felt her body lean into him and another tear slipped out when his warm palm and always chilly finger tips touched her cheek.

God she'd missed him! While she was bolstering her mother, she'd needed support. He was supportive, or would have been. But he wasn't taking her calls, and she couldn't bring herself to text, "my dad died". Then, it was such old news, she figured he'd have heard from Gemma.

He took his hand away like she was a hot cooktop.

He pushed his hair back off his forehead with the hand probably damp with her tears and bravely changed the subject. "How long you in town for this time? Jetting off to some climate refuge hotspot soon?"

Emma flinched. Oh- he didn't know.

"Un, no, I'm living here." She didn't elaborate, maybe saying it out loud was as hard as texting it. "I was actually just about to head home to check on my mum. The back bathroom was in use, and the cold makes me need to pee." What the fuck was she talking about, he didn't need that information.

His dimple pressed in just a bit and he went to say something, but Emma just couldn't. She couldn't look at him anymore, or tell him about why she lived there, or about the ticket he seemed to have been hurt enough to move on over. She definitely didn't want to see evidence of his movement, especially not his upgrade. "Anyway, nice to see you," the words shot out of her mouth, impresonal and true. "Bye Harry."

"Wait Emma!" She thought she heard, but she just kept going. She'd tell Gemma she was sick.

She nearly was when she saw Harry's girlfriend hugging her closest friend in the living room.

"Oh god."

Luckily, when she got home, her mum was awake and feeling chatty, not blue. Emma focused on her and the special she was watching. Let the warm sound of her mother's once common laughter wrap around her as a blanket. It was more comforting than a cup of tea.

She waited until later to cry herself to sleep.

The next day was Christmas- the first without her father. She dried her rightful tears before she saw her mom, though she would have had all the standing in the world for them and she felt better about them than those she's shed the night before. She knew though that her wet face would cause a cascade event, the first drop in a waterfall, so she dried them up.

They had traditions to get through.

And get through they did. They each wrapped a gift for her father that they left under the tree and held each other right before tucking into a late brunch and preparing a boozy and sweet laden Christmas dinner, Emma contributed the puddings.

They were very much her mother's favorite, and she broke out a scandi recipe she'd enjoyed the last several years.

She Skyped her university friends, they exchanged the small gifts she'd mailed them and them her. She missed them something awful. She missed school horribly, so much she even emailed her advisor. All of her heart hoped to return after the winter break.

Emma thought the feeling of missing something was a bit like a paper cut and losing your keys combined.

Harry called late Christmas Day, just a few minutes shy of Boxing Day. That more than stung, it was a gut punch, or a knife plunge, though she'd never had either.

Emma ignored the call from Harry. What was there to say?

Boxing Day, well, Emma wasn't much of a drinker, but it was basically a tenet of British culture to get obliterated while watching the queen.

For the last several years, Emma had been off her face on Harry. This year she chose savingnon blanc with her mum. Two days, then they'd go back to a dry house. Tradition was tradition, and she couldn't think about the one she'd started and ached all over for.

What a pale imitation of ecstasy drunkenness was, though she supposed they both left a hangover, a residue.

Her bed, when she begged off to it early was warm and fragrant, but it smelled all wrong. No sandalwood or black coffee, not even the mint she'd come to associated with the comfort of love, or something like it.

It was worse, because when she closed her eyes, having seen Harry's someone in person, she could see him snugged up to her, so cozy. It was in their place, their room at the Boat's Head.

It was over, Boxing Day, when she puked.

She had another missed call from Harry. 11:59 Her personal witching hour.

The next day was a little bit better, either because she had her literal hangover to tend, or because she'd ripped the bandaid off her hurt and let the wound air.

"Hiya!" Gemma's voice and face were bright, unlike the gray day.

"Hello." Emma smiled and her voice held it, she held onto it. "You're merry!"

"Yeah, I'm at the pub. Everybody is at the pub," she flashed the phone around so Emma could see the waving swaying people, "we wanted to get you outta the house, you made such an effective Irish exit the other day you've let your people down, we need to see your smile. You feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you." Emma thought about it, there was a pull to the pub. "Um, maybe I can swing over."

It only took a few minutes to throw on jeans and a jumper, not her former favorite. The walk was a little longer.

When she found them, her first comment was "Im not drinking!" Over a grimace.

"Too much wine with old Elizabeth, huh? " Gemma Laughed

"Yes! Did you know my mum has a long pour?" Emma shared with a laugh.

"No, but mine's gotten more heavy on the booze with me lately, they must like the new stages. Daughters as actual friends and drinking partners. Mum is thrilled!" Gemma grinned.  "So am I! Harry's a little jealous."

Emma tried to catch her grimace before it stomped across her face. Gemma kept talking and she thought she'd got away with it.

"He wants to be one of the girl's! He came down last night and mum, Camille and I were sharing wine and mum was showing her atrocious pictures. You'd think he'd be mad or embarrassed! He was like, 'Where's my glass?'" Gemma was staring at her while she chuckled.

Emma had less success not responding. Her face was a picture she was sure, a jealous one. And then she heard herself asking, "what's she like?" She gulped down the g word she almost voiced. "Camille?"

Gemma made a funny face, then looked at her again. "Um, she's silly and kinda quiet and I think she's worried my mom will care she's posed nude."

She wouldn't. That wasn't Anne's style. And if she did have an issue, she'd never voice it. She was really big on respecting her kids choices. Even some of the stupider ones Harry had made.

Was she ranked among those now?

"Why do you ask?" The gentleness in a Gemma's voice told Emma she knew more than she was saying.

Emma couldn't explain, she was still in such a tender state, like a fissured piece of glass, she knew she couldn't go over it. "I just hope Harry's happy."  It was the only true thing she could say.

And Gemma, bless her just looped her arm through Emma's and said like she was holding a cracked egg. "He is." She left it at that, before she stood, pulling Emma after her. "And we need another drink." Apparently Emma was drinking, she needed it.

They spent another couple hours at the pub and Emma walked home through the soft snow. Her nose was stuffy, and her eyes were leaking, and she was drunk. Least she realized she must be, cuz she was crying. She really hated crying.

She was still weeping under her breath when she got home and found Harry on her doorstoop.

"You're still here?" She boggled. She assumed he'd taken his girlfriend to his big London home Emma had never been to, since she wasn't ever his g word.

"Yeah." He rubbed his hands over his corduroy flares. She'd consider what that might mean, but the pants distracted her. Those were new, must be getting fashion influences from new places, mew people. Those pants were roomy for him. He looked good in them. He looked good, happy.

"Did you need something?" Seeing himwas ripping her guts out and she could barely keep more tears at bay. Her insides were dangerously close to the skin now, tender and exposed. She hoped the distance between them and the weather and, well, maybe his rose colored glasses brought on by loving some other girl, he wouldn't notice her crying.

Over him. At the moment.

"No, I, um," he swallowed. "I thought we might talk." He made those green eyes at her and she hated it. Cuz they were soft and for someone else these days.

"I think we've said it all."

"We haven't said anything, not really, in a year."

"Yeah, well actions over words mate." Good, she was angry. She tried to go around him, into her door. Out of the cold and this situation.

"Emma, wait." He caught her shoulders and her blood froze in her veins but her tears were hot on her cheeks. "I'mso sorry about your dad." He choked up too.

She looked at him and let hurt run down her face, didn't even bother trying to stiffen her upper lip. When he opened his arms, she went to him and cried in a way she really hadn't let herself, into the comfort of his scent, the hurt of his presence.

Emma wasn't sure how long she cried, they wound up siting on the cold stone bench when their knocking knees froze.

"S that why you used the ticket?" He whispered against her hair sometime later.

She nodded. Sniffed up her tears and his pain laced smell.

"Why didn't you call me?"

She shrugged.

"I would have understood. And I would have come, to be with you."

Her tears apparently hadn't run out. She knew that, but she was hurt, by his hurt and his expectation.

She looked up at him. Her lips were so close to his, the outer edge that felt so plush and lovely.

That was a Liberty she didn't have. Maybe never a right she had, like him just expecting her to drop her goals to go to him.

"Where's your girlfriend?" She said the word like the four letters it felt like it was to her.

"Um," he stumbled over the subject change . "She was tired."

"You tell her you were coming to see a girl you used to fuck?"

"What?" He looked at her with a frown and Emma supposed she was being mean, mean but honest. "Don't say it like that. That's not what we were about."

Emma quirked a brow at him. "No?"

"Listen, why are you being like this?" He swallowed and looked like the wronged party when he was the one who assumed the worst of her, then abandoned her, moved on, and showed up, she could only assume, to rub it in her face.

The last year had been the worst of her life, and he'd been part of that. Mostly his absence.

Whoever's fault that was.

"Look, I don't need your pity or your condolences. Or your forgiveness. You just assumed I was taking advantage of you like you didn't know me at all. Which I realized is true apart from knowing what I look like naked, right? Let's be honest Harry? Huh, I'm just the girl you used to fuck over break. Your Christmas bit of fun. Til you found your next model. Who you couldn't wait to come home and show off, right in my face. So if we were more, you're a heartless asshole." She was crying over him now, but half the tears at least were angry and her face must be bright red.

The kicked puppy look on his face was so genuine and felt so false to her she could scream. "Why would I even think you would care if I had a girlfriend or not? If anybody was just the person the other thought of as a holiday fling, it was you about me, Emma."  He huffed, took down the finger he'd stood up to point at her. "I tried for more, asked for more?"

"When?" He'd asked for more, how'd she miss that?

"What'd you think the ticket was for? That was me asking you for more, at least more time?"

"I don't have extra time." She countered. Emma supposed that was some mealy mouthed passive way of saying you wanted to spend time with a person at least.

"And I do?" He yelled that before taking a big breath and muttering sorry. "Listen, I know what you're about, and that you are very serious saving the world, but I'm just as busy as you, more, and I would have made time for you."

"Why?" She stood up into his space. "So I could just miss you more, fall more for you and not get to have you in any real way? To torture myself?" And there is was. Emma knew the ache of the first weeks without him, and she'd always counted their brief time together as worth it. Subjecting herself to more just seemed masochistic. "Have more time with you so I have to get over you all over again multiple times a year."

"Who says you would have had to get over me? We could have been together!" Both of their voices had escalated past the bounds of polite disagreement.

"Together in every way except literally?" She threw her hands out at her sides. "What's the point of that?"

"The point?" He huffed. "The point is that I wanted you and you wanted me, and we could have had each other, but you're too busy," he sneered, "and couldn't talk to me."

"I couldn't talk to anyone!" She screamed. "I was supposed to text you that my dad died and I needed to use the ticket that was supposed to be a gift but was more like a curse, to take care of my mom. That my dream was at best on hold while I made sure my mum could get out of bed?" He looked a little slapped. "While you were off what? Being a rockstar? Having a record breaking year? Moving on? Out of spite?!" She didn't want to think that, but she'd wondered. She knew she was giving herself to much credit. "Why you made sure to bring her to Holmes Chapel? You take her to the Boar's Head too? Or just fuck her in your mum's powder room?" The words were explosive, the cadence like charges lighting off each other. Emma felt like a powder keg.

He was shaking his head. "Stop it. No, no, I didn't move on, not until I thought you were done with me."

"Oh, when I needed you and you wouldn't answer my calls?"

He looked at the ground then. When his eyes came up , the lovely green of them was even more vibrant, due to the tears crowding around their ages. "Emma, I'm so sorry about that. I'll never forgive myself."

His sincerity softened her, though the anger she'd wrapped around herself like a coat was all that was keeping her ribs together.

"I'm so sorry, I know the last year has been more than anybody should have to bear, especially alone." He took  a big breath. "But Camille, I didn't, it's not," he stumbled over the words like they were glass edges, but Emma had a feeling she was the one who was about to get cut. "Um, she and I just met and, well, we, we get on." That was a kind way to put it. "I wasn't looking for somebody else. But I was lonely and she's," the changes on his face ripped through Emma. "She's lovely. I brought her home, because I wanted mum to meet her." That told Emma everything.

"You love her?" She already knew the answer.

He ran his hand through his locks, avoided eye contact until the last second, "yeah, yeah, I think I might."

Emma was nodding, biting her lip to gatekeep the fresh round of tears threatening. "That's good Harry, I'm," she breathed, "I'm happy for you."

He looked at her then. "Really?"

"Course, I care about you, your happiness." That brought on the tears and he reached for her and she had to throw up her hands to keep him away. "No, no, please don't touch me."

His phone rang, he was the only person she knew who actually kept their ringer on. Well the only person under 50, it made her smile. Then cringe, the weird personal knowledge she had because of how much of an almost they were. From his face, Emma knew it was his actual calling.

"Um," he shady buttoned the call. "I have to go."

"Yeah," was all she could respond with, she already knew that. "Well, have a happy nee year Harry. You sticking around?" God she hoped not. May have to convince her mum to go to London if so.

He shook his head, "Um no, we're going to Paris." Ouch. Emma tried for subtle when she wrapped an arm around herself. "Sorry, I'd like," he always looked so genuine lately, in every interview she'd watched to hurt herself, his heart on his sleeve, in his eyes now. "I'd like to hug you, think you could stomach it?"

Emma nodded and went to him for the barest second and then concentrated on the pressure behind her eyes while he kept her close. "I'm so sorry Emma, for everything. I'd really like to be friends," he'd pulled back to hold her eye line at that.

She nodded, she wasn't sure how she'd handle that, but at best it was a couple phone calls, and no weekends away, they hadn't mentioned that in their middle state, she didn't think it would be to hard to keep him at arms length when they had continents between them most times. "Yeah, ok, friends. You take care of yourself, Harry." Emma was a strong girl, woman now, she could handle some texts and a phone call or so.

He kissed her cheek, a continental affectation she closed her eyes over and turned to go. He was almost out of the gate when he turned back. "I'd never take her to the Boar's Head, by the way, that's our place. I'd never take anybody else there." Before she could even think of a response he looked away quick and started to go. "Take care of yourself, Emma. Happy New Year." That came back to her on the wind.

Blew away like the hold she had on the heart she'd given him last Christmas. At least he was someone special.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Summer Nights: Part 1

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x Overweight/Plus size Female identifying Reader

Series: Summer Nights

Warning: Fred’s death, the series will mention issues such as guilt, grief, etc.

Writer:  @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ (formerly imaginesofeveryfandom)​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Summary/Request: You’d always had brief glimpses of Charlie Weasley throughout your life, but despite your closeness with the rest of the Weasley family and your friendship with the Weasley Twins, you had never officially met. Until Charlie Weasley decided to take the summer off from his work as a Dragon Keeper at the Romanian Reserve and come back home, to the Burrow, that is. 

Notes: Gif is my own, using my art of Charlie Weasley which you can find on my art blog @artisticwarnug here. If you use please make sure you credit me and my art blog properly, that the ownership is clear as it is my own art and I would hate for it to be unclear that I made it <3 x 

Reader was a Hufflepuff in school but it probably won’t be mentioned that much!

Prologue 

After the war you’d found it harder and harder to spend long periods of time with your family. Not only were you working and living within a magical world that they were not a part of, but they didn’t know of the war or understand the true trauma of the experience for you and most of the wizarding community. You’d lost one of your best friends...Fred wasn’t coming back and your family had no idea that any of it even occurred. You’d seen your own friend alive one minute, and dead the next. Nothing could quite compare to the feeling, like choking on your own breath. Like drowning.

As a result you not only lived with the Weasley’s, Molly protesting whenever you tried to pay her money (you had Bill help you put some into their vault anyway, feeling the need to give them something for their kindness), but spent most of your holidays there as well, rarely returning home for Christmas, Easter, or the summer time. As much as you loved your family you struggled to be around them and they didn’t understand you either. 

In your grief you’d found that helping others made it easier, or at least helped you forget the feelings of guilt and grief that sat so heavy in your stomach. Helping George get back on his feet, helping Lee get his enthusiasm back, helping Mrs Weasley with dinner and around the house, helping everyone just seemed to make it easier to handle. That and working relatively long hours as a healer at St. Mungo’s often took your mind off of the war and what had been lost. You often chose to hide your feelings from the war behind Hufflepuff cheer. But, sometimes you wished someone would notice. You didn’t blame them for not, everyone had their own problems, your remaining best friends most of all. Grief and running a business took much attention. 

You woke up that Saturday morning fully aware that you should get out of bed, but that you didn’t want to. It wasn’t a particularly important Saturday, no plans had been made, no work to be done, no visitors expected. Yet, it would turn out to be a Saturday that completely changed your whole life. 

Since moving into the Burrow, 2 years prior, you had been staying in Fred and George’s old room, seeing as George lived above the Flat. You had spent the first few weeks simply making sure the room was safe, the twins had left many pranks around their room, but also all sorts of potion ingredients. You’d packed everything up and taken it to the Flat...It had been hard, going through all their childhood things with George. Hard for you, but harder for George. Years on and George was doing better, but you knew he still didn’t feel complete, like something was missing. But he slept better, stopped having nightmares, and generally seemed to have some of his old cheer back. It helped that Angelina was there for him as well. He was moving on and growing happier each day. 

The few things that you had been given by the Weasley family included clothes. At first it had been odd, being given some of Bill or Charlie or George’s old clothes to wear to bed or around the house. But, that had gone away quite quickly considering the oversized quidditch jerseys, jumpers, and shirts, were incredibly comfortable. Bill’s fit most snug, being a plump woman, with wide hips and a stomach, and Bill being one of the lankier of the Weasley’s. George and Charlie’s clothes fit much larger on you, however, seeing as they were some of the broader, stockier Weasley’s. It still surprised you that Charlie had been a seeker and not a beater.

The night previous you’d gone to bed in Charlie’s old quidditch jersey and a pair of pajama trousers with little snitches on, that had previously belonged to George. The trousers were much too long on you, covering your feet, and the Jersey while it clung to your hips was loose in every other aspect. It was a pairing that you enjoyed simply for its comfort. It was not something the Weasley’s even blinked at or questioned, after all you’d been gifted the clothes and had been wearing them for the last few years. So you hadn’t really thought twice, as you stumbled out of bed, feet hitting the powder stained floor, about going to breakfast as you were. 

You yawned loudly, covering your mouth with your hand, as you walked into the kitchen, not really taking in which Weasley’s were at the table, being much too tired to do so. 

“Morning” You sighed out as you grabbed a plate and collected your breakfast, Mrs Weasley having already placed dishes of eggs, toast, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, and sausages out on the dining table. 

“Good morning, dear!” Mrs Weasley called back, followed by a variety of familiar Weasley voices, and one that you did not recognise, that gave you pause. 

You wouldn’t say you were mortified to look up from your breakfast and realise that Charlie Weasley, the very attractive Charlie Weasley, was sitting in front of you, with an amused half smile and a raised eyebrow. But, you certainly were mildly embarrassed, simply because you were not exactly dressed for introductions and you were almost certain that you had a million knots in your hair. 

“Uh, hello...” You wave awkwardly, a little stinted, with an embarrassed smile. 

“Hello, love. I see mum finally gave away my jersey” You’re certain that Charlie is trying not to laugh, although you don’t feel hurt by this fact. Much like the rest of the Weasley’s Charlie comes across as laughing with you rather than at you. 

“I can...you can have it back, I...”

“It’s alright, looks better on you than it does on me. Might be a tad small for me now actually.” You relax at his easy going manner about it. You were sure it would be a little weird for the second oldest Weasley to finally meet someone while said someone was wearing his clothes. But, apparently not. 

“Y/N, right? I don’t think we’ve properly met?”

It had been two years since you’d last seen Charlie Weasley, that had been at Fred’s funeral and you’d not really taken much notice of him at the time. You had been, naturally, more concerned with and consumed by your own grief and the proceedings before you. 

You’d forgotten how handsome Charlie was. With broad shoulders and deep red hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Charlie was by far the most freckled of the Weasley’s with dense freckles across his face and sharp jaw, down his neck, and over his arms. The last time you’d seen Charlie he’d been dressed in a full suit, covered head to toe, the time before that he’d been a teenager, now you realised that he had a tattoo that you had never previously seen. It was a beautiful tattoo, a welsh green on his neck that twisted its head and puffed smoke from its nostrils. 

“We haven’t, just crossed paths, here and there. Surprising, really.”

“Considering you are not only friends with my brothers...” he pauses just a moment, before correcting himself, “brother, and have been living here, yeah, just a little surprising. Hufflepuff, right?”

“Yeah, managed to make Head Girl in the end, much to...much to Fred and George’s delight.” It was still odd wanting to mention them both, but realising that one of them wasn’t around anymore. But, it was true, Fred and George had teased you for weeks, over the fact that you, best friend to the biggest pranksters at Hogwarts, managed to make Head Girl. “Are you still working at the reserve in Romania?” 

“Yeah, thought I'd be head keeper by now...but...”

“Bad boss?” 

“He’s not bad, but we don’t see eye to eye when it comes to the dragons.” You raise an eyebrow, curious for him to continue. You’d never really been especially good at Care of Magical Creatures but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fascinating to you. “He wants to commercialise the reserve, make it a place people can come visit rather than a place for us to keep the dragons from the Muggles. Daft really, dragons’ll sooner eat a bunch of tourists than sit pretty for them.” 

“The reserves aren’t supposed to be tourist attractions though...why would...surely that’s dangerous and also not exactly fair on the dragons?”

“Oh, it’s definitely dangerous, it takes multiple keepers to restrain a dragon and the dragons aren’t exactly in cages on the reserve like a muggle zoo. Luckily he hasn’t gone through with the idea...yet.” He frowns in a way that tells you he suspects it’ll happen anyway and his tone suggests irritation with the situation. You’re sure for someone who loves dragons so much and wants them to be kept away from muggles and left to their own devices, it must be terribly frustrating. 

There’s a beat of silence as you continue eating. You feel a little awkward, although that certainly isn’t Charlie’s fault. It’s made worse by the sensation of Mrs Weasley’s eyes on the two of you. You were more than aware that Mrs Weasley’s one goal in life since the war had been to marry off each of her children, you included in that. Ginny had since been dating Harry, Ron was with Hermione, George was with Angelina, Bill was already married and Percy...you weren’t sure about Percy.  But, that left Charlie as the oldest single Weasley child, and yourself...still not dating much to Molly’s dismay. She was constantly asking you if you’d met anyone lately. 

“You’re a healer right?”

“At St. Mungo’s, on the Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites, although I'm often dragged away if someone's had a few too many hexes that have interacted poorly.”

“Ever had any dragon bites?”

“Once, a Peruvian Vipertooth, lady was in a right state for a while. Came out the other end though.” 

“Nasty bites, aggressive little buggers. You’d probably have a field day on the reserve the amount of bites and burns we have each day.” At that Charlie lifted his own arms to show an array of burn scars and old bite marks. Some had healed well, others less so.

You pointed at one, “Looks like you avoided seeing the healer.” You raise an eyebrow and make the face you learnt from Madam Pomphrey, the one that explicitly says you disapprove of avoiding proper medical care. You’d spent a great deal of time with Poppy not just because of the twins but also because she’d helped you prepare for your healer training. 

He lets out a slightly nervous laugh and looks away from you, red rushing up his neck in traditional Weasley fashion at being caught, “Didn’t want to bother anyone, it wasn’t serious. No need to worry, love.” You grab his arm and pull it closer to get a closer look. Trying to ignore the fact he had very strong forearms and incredibly warm skin.

Working on the Serious Bites Ward meant that you had a good eye for bite marks and what might have made them. Some dragons had very distinct bite marks. A Peruvian Viper Tooth had a different set of teeth to a Hungarian Horntail for instance. 

“Ukranian Ironbelly, right? Young one, by the looks of it.” 

“Just a baby really, got a bit over excited is all. Hurt like a bludger to the head though.”

“You should always see the reserve healer, you know? You could get a serious infection from a bite like this.” You let go of his arm and lean back in your chair, arms crossed, fixing him with the same look again. 

“I would if our healer was as nice as you. He’s got the personality of a fire crab who’s had its tail yanked.” You try not to take the compliment as more than it is. 

“Grumpy and explosive?” You knew a few healers like that. They didn’t exactly have the best bedside manner and it made many a witch or wizard reluctant to seek treatment. 

“Exactly. Augustus Pye still working on the ward? He tried to give dad stitches that time...” 

“Yes...” You sigh, it wasn’t that Augustus was a horrible person to work with so to speak, but you’d had a few awkward encounters with him when you’d first started working on the ward. 

“You don’t sound happy about that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the man...he just...it's a very small ward you see and he may have...there were a few times where...”

“He asked her out on a date and she said no and embarrassed the poor bastard.” George’s voice comes from behind you with a laugh, before he takes the seat besides you. You’d been flattered, really you had, but, Augustus wasn’t someone you were particularly attracted to. Not physically, nor intellectually nor in regard to his personality. He was nice...but that was just it. You hadn’t expected to go into work and be asked on a date, either, it had been all a bit of a shock really...you hadn’t gotten a great deal of romantic attention in school. Being a big girl meant that boys were more inclined to tease you than date you. Not that you were upset about that, teenage boys were the worst. 

“Thank you, George. I obviously couldn’t disclose that myself.” You roll your eyes

“I still don’t know how you did it, you’re far too nice to say no to anyone.”

“I...” You look at all the curious eyes watching you, feeling a wave of genuine embarrassment as you realise you’re going to have to tell them the truth...that you’d really struggled to say no and had instead, “told him I was already seeing someone, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings!” You protest as George lets out a loud laugh next to you.

“It’s not funny, George! I was very flattered but...I didn’t want to tell him he was just...meh! How do you let someone down nicely? At least this way he thinks it's because i’m already taken not because I find him lacklustre!” 

“Just say it. You don’t find him attractive, you don’t want him to ravage you in the store room, it’s not that hard. You do know you’re an adult and not thirteen, right?” 

You let out an unhappy moan as you let your face fall into your hands at George’s teasing. 

“George Weasley!” You hear Molly scold him about talking about private matters such as ‘ravaging’ and teasing you so much, before turning her attention to you. “It’s okay not to like someone, dear, you don’t have to lie to save someone else’s feelings. Although, it would have been lovely for you to go on a date...it’s been a while, dear.” 

“Mum.” Charlie gave his mother a look which you knew too well, many of the Weasley children had given their mother that exact same look whenever she tried to encourage them to find a date. It was a relief to have someone else tell her to leave well enough alone. You loved Mrs Weasley dearly, but you’d rather date someone you wanted to rather than date someone simply to please her. 

“Oh, alright. Charlie, I need you and Ron to degnome the garden, you too George since you’re here. Y/N, dear, could you water the vegetables in the garden today?”

“Of course, Molly.” You’d long since learnt not to call her Mrs Weasley to her face. Molly hated any of her ‘adopted children’ calling her Mrs Weasley, Harry and Hermione still hadn’t quite gotten out of the habit yet though. Much to Molly’s dismay. 

After much more teasing from George and a shy goodbye to Charlie, you rushed up the stairs to get ready for the day. A day that might very well end with Charlie Weasley being the death of you, death by embarrassment that is.

[jatparker]

Stars

Word count: 1.9K

Summary: Best friends Peter and Y/N loved to watch the stars together. They’d climb onto the roof every Friday night and stay there until the sun comes up. One day Peter finally plucks up the courage to ask her out on a date

Climbing onto the roof of her apartment shouldn’t have been such a big deal. She’d done it so many times before, but she’d always had Spider-Man, fucking Spider-Man!, by her side. It didn’t help that she had to sneak her way up with a backpack full of picnic food, but having Peter there made it less daunting.

Of course, this had to be the one time Peter was actually interning under Tony Stark. He wasn’t swinging around the city; he was making coffees and organising paperwork. Sucks to be him, she thought with a smile. But he promised he would be there and Y/N knew he would.

Since they were fourteen, Y/N and Peter made their way onto the roof of their apartment complex to watch the stars. They were kind of hard to see, blocked out by the light pollution. So, when Y/N was fifteen, she bought him a telescope. She’d saved up for weeks and done countless shifts at the little pizza place where she worked. But it was all worth it, just for the smile that came with it.

They’d both agreed, once they’d got their licences, that the two of them would take a trip out of Queens. Leave everything behind, their worries and responsibilities, and go stargazing in the middle of butt fuck nowhere. They’d bring a telescope, a few blankets and a change of clothes. All they needed was each other and the stars.

Y/N was setting up the blankets and setting out the food when the red figure swung into view. The expensive telescope was precariously under his arm (it was a wonder he hadn’t broken it yet). “You need to be careful with that thing,” Y/N warned in way of greeting. “I’m not buying you another one if you break it.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter pulled off the mask. But he grinned once he saw their usual set up. Cushions, blankets and a bowl of crisps, he didn’t know how Y/N managed to carry it all up here. “You ready to gaze at some stars?”

And so, Peter set about setting up the telescope as Y/N began eating the food. She already had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and the temperature outside had yet to drop. Or maybe Peter's superhuman body just ran a little hotter than everybody else’s. He was content to stay in the spider suit while she hogged the blankets.

And so, they watched the stars, taking turns with the telescope. Peter had actually taken the time out of his studies and the internship to research constellations and became quite the astrology nerd. He searched for the constellations in the telescope and then pointed them out to Y/N.

The two sat on the roof for hours, talking, looking at the stars, bitching about Y/N’s least favourite teacher and so on. They stayed until the sun rose and the sky was painted orange.

Peter stood and began to stretch. “I better go before May starts to panic,” he said and gathered up the telescope.

“Hold your horses, Pete.” Y/N still had a blanket around her shoulders and had a cushion tucked under her arm. She was in the process of gathering up everything, but things kept falling out of her arms. “You’re not going to leave me here with all of this, are you?”

He only smiled, pulled the mask back over his face and leapt off the side of the building. That fucker, she thought and continued gathering up her stuff.

***

Y/N couldn’t quite understand it when Peter had called an emergency stargaze on a Monday. Ste had a tonne of homework as well as a lack of sleep to make up for.

She trudged up the fire escape, rather unenthusiastically, only for Peter to not be there. Instead, blankets were spread out in their usual spot and pillows surrounded them. But the telescope wasn’t there. Instead there was a note taped to one of the cushions.

Please don’t leave! I’ll be back soon, I promise. The answers the the algebra and biology homework are on the back - Pete

It wasn’t like Peter to just give out answers. He was always pushing Y/N to do her best, to try and work out the answers on her own before he swooped in and saved her ass from detention. Y/N wasn’t going to pass up this rare opportunity.

She watched the sunset alone, snapping a quick picture when the sky turned pink. Her homework took hours, even when she was copying Peters (slightly confusing) answers. By the time she was done she was using her phone as a torch and her hand was cramping.

A sudden woosh! filled the air and someone landed on the roof beside her. The person stumbled ever so slightly, but quickly regained his balance, somehow keeping hold of the boxes in his hands. “Did somebody order pizza?”

“Peter Parker you’re a lifesaver!” Y/N called as he sat beside her and opened the first box. She stole a slice and quickly ate it. “And thanks for the answers. God knows I wouldn’t be graduating without you.”

They made light work of the pizza, sitting silently as they ate. Y/N had had head on Peter's shoulder as she stuffed her face. A little bit of cheese had stuck to her face, but neither of them had noticed it yet.

“So,” Y/N started after wiping the sauce (and cheese) away from her face. “Why did you call me up here? What’s going on?”

Peter suddenly panicked. He had been going over this in his head since he first picked up the pizza. And ate the first two boxes because of nerves alone. It was why he had left her up here for so long. Being in love with your best friend was never easy.

“I just…” He struggled to find the words, wringing his hands together to try and somewhat calm his nerves. “Today was tough and I thought we could use it,” he said quietly, looking at his feet. He blew it. He totally blew it.

“You’re the best, Parker!” She grinned and leaned her entire body against him. Without the blanket around her shoulders she was shivering in the cold night. Peter wrapped his arms around her and looked out across Queens.

***

There was a lot Peter wanted to say to Y/N, he just didn’t know how to do it. Every time he tried his words would get jumbled or he’d chicken out.

“What do you actually like about her?” MJ asked as they waited for Y/N and Ned in the cafeteria.

Peter considered her words. He’d never really thought about it that far, he knew he liked Y/N (knew he liked her a lot) but he’d never tried to put those feelings into words. “She’s my best friend, right?” He started, still trying to find the words. “She knows everything about me, everything I like and don’t like, and for some reason she still chooses to be around me. I don’t have to hide any part of myself around her! She makes me feel comfortable to be me where I’ve always been made to feel like I have to be more than I am. When I’m with her I don’t want to swing off and disappear until she leaves. And she’s just incredible.”

Peter fell silent as Ned and Y/N approached the table. They slid themselves into their seats and instantly dominated the conversation. They spoke about Star Wars or the Hobbit or whatever they were into that week.

A note was suddenly placed in front of Peter. Tell her everything you just told me. He snatched it up before anyone could see and hit it in his pocket, his cheeks pinks. “You feeling alright, Parker?”

“Yep,” he choked out and cleared his throat. “Everything’s fine.”

But Y/N wasn’t convinced. “As long as you’re sure,” she mumbled and eyed him suspiciously. Ned quickly pulled her back into the conversation and Peter silently thanked him.

***

It was their usual Friday when Y/N took a trip up to the roof. He had been quiet and distant all week; she wasn’t sure if he was going to show or not.

When she got there, with a blanket stuffed into her bag and a pillow under her arm, she gasped.

There was Peter Parker, looking dapper in a tattered suit. His arms were braced against the railing that went around the roof and looked down at the bustling street below. He knew she was there, but chose to let her come to him.

Y/N set down her bag and her pillow and slowly approached him. “What’s going on, Parker?” Her voice was quiet as she reached for the railing and stood beside him. Last time this had happened, he’d just come from his Uncle Ben's funeral. The two had spent that night crying and reminiscing.

He turned to her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You took Liz Allen to homecoming and her dad was one of the bad guys, you can do this. He was still nervous, but he had to do this. It was now or never.

“I’ve loved you since we were kids.”

“I love you too, Pete. What’s going on?” She urged.

So, Peter tried again. “Y/N.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “You’re someone who makes me feel comfortable being myself. You know every part of me and there’s nothing I have to hide from you. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anymore than I am and-” the paper slipped from between his fingers, pulled away by the wind. “Shit,” he mumbled, trying to reach for it. It tumbled through the air, out of his grasp.

Y/N was silent. Peter had half a mind to get on his knees and beg for her to say something, anything.

“I think I get what you’re trying to say,” she said at last and stepped closer. Peter sucked in a breath, his chest tight. “Can we start this night over? This time, I’ll do the talking.” Peter rapidly nodded his head and Y/N took his hand.

They pulled the blanket from Y/N’s bag and sat on it. She took a minute to gather her words before finally speaking. “Hey Peter, I’m in love with you and I have been for the last year. I think we should go on a date,” she said, words filled with confidence. “This Friday, before we come up here for stargazing.” Y/N was looking at him, eyes filled with hope.

“I’ll pick you up at six.” Peter grinned and leaned back, opening his arms for her.

“You better bring flowers for my mum. It’s not a real date without them.”

“What do you take me for? Cheap?”