#this has been in my head since november and i kept ignoring it but then SOMEONE (lol <3) wrote something in a comment that reminded me

[kinaesthetiqueer]

"no, wait, we were just trying to find a viable back up pulse point–! we were only practicing–! i mean, we were experimenting–! we were just testing something new–! we just didn't want to try it on the bed–!"

nora... there is no hetero explanation for this.

and once she comes down from that bloodhigh? weiss is gonna have a fucking fit.

[no, this scenario is not series canon for 10,001 reasons. yes, there are still a variety of later-series easter egg spoilers because i am incapable of shitposting inaccurately. yes, the femoral artery is located on one's inner thigh. no, this really isn't a euphemism; it just looks super suspicious to third parties. it actually is just the usual arterial blood drinking.]

[tpwkwriter]

hiii so i have a request! Could you do one like still in harry's 1d days. So like y/n is louis sister and she has been friends with the band since the beginning and harry has been in love with her since he first laid eyes on her and all that. But he never told her because she always had a bf but those bfs would never treat her right like always ignoring her and flirting with other girls so harry kept this like journal where he wrote how in love he is with y/n and how he would treat her right, how he know everything about her all the little things and how no one could love her as much as he does. So then one day like during prince hair harry her and harry are sharing a hotel room with seperate beds (ofc haha, but because they have always been best friends) and y/n finds this journal and like reads all the things he has written and then she goes to him and is like "well, if i didnt know any better i would say mr styles has a crush on me" and he gets all nervous and says that it isnt just a crush and he is in love and that and then he asks "will you be my girlfriend. I cant' go another day of not kissing you, hugging you, touching you I cant stand you not being mine" and y/n finds it very sweet but she is very insecure and kind of rejects him in a nice way because she feel they will critisise her because they expect harry to be w a model and gorgeous girl and harry is tells her how beautiful she is and how he feel in love the moment they met and how it didnt matter what the world thought because no one can love her like he can and he know eveything about her so he asks again "will you let me be your boyfriend" and she finally agrees and then he holds her close and protectively and then y/n starts tearing up and says sorry because she was being silly and he says "dont be. Its not silly, baby. I'll be her to wipe every tear and to comfort you. Your heart is safe here, you are safe with me, my love" and then how they spend the first night together because well they share a hotel room and then the morning after harry saying how happy he is and how he has always dreamed about it and then they meet with the boys and tell em the news and they are all very happy and are like "about time" and yeah hope you understand it thank you again so much it would be great i feel its so cute! <3

Does he know?

OMGOMG THANK YOU FOR THISS!! the detail you put in and the image it painted in my head AHHH❤️

I’m so sorry this has taken so long!! I really wanted this to be perfect!! 🌷 but thank you for your patience It means the world x

Warnings: jealousy, mentions of toxic relationships, cussing, smutty themes if you squint, pent up emotions.

— — — — — — —

— early 2013 —

Harry’s fingers held a ballpoint pen between his fingers, the lined paper sat empty on the table adjacent to him.

There new album ‘midnight memories’ was due mid November of this year, he loved his job but these deadlines took the piss.

‘Fuck’ he whispered to himself, he didn’t realise the clock had gone over midnight.

The shared tourbus was at a halt for the night the rest of the four boys remained in there bunk and no one heard a peep from them through the rest of the night.

“Y’alright H?” Y/n said Peeling the curtain that separated the bunks to the lounging area of the bus, and pulling it back behind her.

“Sorry y/n, did i wake you?” He quietly asked, dropping his pen instantly.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t have a crush on y/n, she was also the youngest of the Tomlinson family so her and Harry grew up together at the same time and age, hitting each milestone and big birthdays together.

“No, no not at all” she waved, sitting on the sofa next to his.

“What y’doing awake still?” She asked, taking a sip of her water.

“Tryna get song ideas, getting absolutely nowhere” he said, crossing his arms back and leaning back on the cushions.

“What are you doing awake? He smirked.

“Can’t sleep, excited for tomorrow” she smiles.

“Haven’t seen you all on stage for a while” she added.

They sat and spoke for awhile, what y/n was oblivious of is how many ideas he was racking up watching her.

She reached her arm out to grab her water bottle, her wrist was exposed from her hoodie sleeve for a second, what Harry didn’t expect was to see an inky drawing.

“Is that a tattoo?” He asked.

“Oh this?” She askers pulling her hoodie up her arm.

“Yeah, me and Louis got matching a few days ago, a random spontaneous idea that popped into our heads” she laughed repressing the day her and her older brother got matching ‘28’ tats.

“It’s funny because ben, hasn’t even noticed it, and it’s like our 4th month together” y/n mentioned, a slight frown forming on her face.

Harry’s heart teared a tiny bit, she was still with this ‘Ben’ it was clear none of the boys got on with him, he wasn’t the bestest of boyfriend.

“Really?” He asked, eyes widening.

“Mmhmm, don’t know what to do about this whole Situation-ship thing”

“Well, do you love him?” He asked, fiddling with the hem of his band tee.

“I can’t say I do Harry” she sighed, “but there’s a part of me that feels bad” she added.

“Don’t feel bad, if it’s not meant to be, s’not meant to be”

All y/n wanted to do was scream out her attraction to him, something clicked in, the soft and gentle words he spoke, the way he still looked good at 1am after a busy day, the way he made a band tee look like piece of designer. Y/n wasn’t sure what happened.

Y/n soon enough found herself back in her bunk, trying to push down her sudden butterflies, hoping it’s just a 1am sleepy thought, the last thing she wants is to thirst over her brothers best friend.

When y/n and Harry exchanged there goodnights, he instantly got back to his paper.

‘Does he know’ he whispered.

‘Does he know’ he repeated.

‘Your secret tattoos?” He asked himself.

He instantly jotted these phrases to himself.

Harry tried to think to himself of the little things you do.

Maybe you could be his muse this time around?

—

It was 8:45am the next day the bus was off again at 5pm so for now they could relax.

Y/n believed she was alone on the bus, she thought the boys were out doing the coffee run, she thought wrong.

“But she doesn’t know who I am, and she doesn’t give a damn about me” she sang whole continuing to organise her suitcase on her bunk.

As the beats of ‘teenage dirtbag’ continue, she moves her body to beat and sing.

“Cause I’m just a teenage dirtbag baaby” she sung.

“Y/n you may be a Tomlinson doesn’t mean you can sing like one though” he interrupted, almost kicking the tourbus door open and walking over to her bunk with her Starbucks in hand.

“Heeeey, I’m a lovely singer, it should be me selling out O2” she said with pride.

“She got you there tommo” Niall piped in walking in.

“See” she giggled.

“Thank you for this lou” she dragged taking a sip of her iced coffee.

“No problemo, me and and the lads are heading to the studio in a bit y’ can come if you want?” Louis offered sitting on his bunk opposite to y/n’s.

“Yeah will do” she answered.

At this point all boys were back on the bus enjoying some quality time together, but all Harry could think of was the remaining lyrics.

‘The songs that you sing when your all alone?’ He thought to himself, that’s a keeper.

——beginning of where we are 2014——

In past year y/n and Harry had become closer than ever, it’s was a night at the MSG, the boys opted on a hotel instead of the bus, to Louis’ dismay y/n and Harry were up for sharing a hotel.

“Neither of you better be doing anything” Louis called the opposite of the hotel door.

“Fuck sake lou, you can come in” she laughed, laying her head back on the hotel bed frame.

The door clicks open to see a wet head louis, who was still clad in his joggers and ‘the who’ tee.

“You nearly ready Harry!” He called, pulling his phone out and glancing the time.

“Yeah man” he said emerging from the bathroom.

“Have fun tonight guys” she called out as they both met each other at the door. “I’ll be sure to watch some shitty livestream of you all prancing about on stage” she laughed.

“Thanks love” Louis said rolling his eyes.

“See you y/n don’t get too lonely without us” Harry smirked flashing her a wink while adjusting his head scarf which kept his unruly curls at bay.

“Bye boys” she called as they slowly walked off and headed to the arena.

They had been gone about an hour and y/n knew they wouldn’t be back till maybe after midnight.

She decided to set down and get ready to stay in her bed and have a relaxed night.

When unpacking her bags and digging to find her favourite pyjamas she was sure she packed. A large ‘thump’ was heard the other side of the room.

“Shit” she jumped.

A relieved smile, when it was something falling out of Harry’s suitcase.

She turned her head and spotted a brown, leather notebook that was lying on the carpet by his bags.

Once y/n had picked out her pjs for the evening, she walked over to the bed she picked out in the hotel room.

She placed them down by her pillows and was about to reach out for her phone by the charging port until something about this note book, caught her eye, ‘one and only’ was scribed into the leather with black ink.

She knows she shouldn’t, she knows that not hers, that’s Harry’s, that’s his property not y/n’s but there was something pulling her in a feeling she couldn’t push down.

A shaky breath left her mouth as her fingers reached out towards the book in front of her.

She peeled back the smooth cover:

23rd of February 2013

Ben doesn’t know how lucky he is, such a smart, beautiful, caring woman, how could he take her for granted??.

Y/n’a heart was running a Marathon.

“No” she said louder than she anticipated.

She flicked to the next page:

28th February 2013

‘All of us were at the studio this evening I couldn’t stop staring at y/n, I feel terrible knowing it’s my best friends sister, but she is wonderful’

Her mind was now matching her palpitating heart, a million thoughts were being processed at that moment.

He really thought the same the whole time?

She quickly flicked another.

3rd of March 2013

Write a couple of songs for midnight memories is it bad to say there all inspired by one person.

If she was mine she wouldn’t be ignored or treated terribly, I hope Louis talks to her about this Ben.

Y/n did agree with this statement getting rid of Ben was the best thing she’s done.

But she didn’t know Harry was the one with a crush.

She couldn’t believe her eyes, he really felt the same? He really did like her? She was almost hyperventilating.

10th of March 2013

I’ve noticed when y/n gets anxious she plays with the ends of her hair, I wish I could just scoop her into my arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Ben is finally out the picture, hopefully she can be with someone who knows her self worth.

Her heart is beaming, butterflies fill each side of her tummy, her mind still feeling a little delusional and still very much in disbelief.

Maybe this was her sign to take there friendship another level up.

She slammed the cover over the paper and decided if she’d read anymore she’d become a crimson red mess.

She gently tucked it into the suitcase of where it fell and tried to go on as normal.

She decided to wait up for Harry and see what she could do about this, she couldn’t hide this any longer she wish she knew sooner about his little crush.

It was just past midnight and she heard the hotel room key click in approval.

A tired looking Harry appears.

“Y’alright” she quietly asked.

“Mmm” he hummed shutting the door behind him.

Y/n move to one side of her bed, and patted the empty space beside her, inviting him to join.

Wether it was just his sleepy mind, but he took no time and accepted her invitation.

Y/n let him adjust to the light, and get comfortable not wanting to overload him already.

“Y’okay” he asked, noticing her thinking face.

“Yeah” she smiled.

“Well if I didn’t know any better, than I think that you mr styles have a teeny crush” she said, a breathy laugh leaving her mouth.

His eyes widened, now it it was his time to go red.

“Wha-“ he nervously laughed.

“I guess y’right” he said looking straight ahead at the blank wall.

“Y/n, m’gonna be honest”

“I’m in love with you”

Y/n’s heart pounded inside her chest, this is real? This was real life, he admitted.

“Harry” she blushed.

“And I know, it’s probably weird, we’ve been friends for 4 years now and on a random night , I’m now saying this but, seeing you keep hurting yourself on these boys that don’t understand you, it hurts”

“Harry-“ her cheeks becoming a strawberry colour.

“Be my girlfriend?” Harry blurted.

Y/n’s ears almost burned at the question, Someone she actually had interest in liked her back? And wanted to be with her? She felt like. Lovesick teenager again.

She wanted this, more than ever.

But Louis.

Realistically there was nothing wrong with it, they were the same age, and both wanted it.

“I can’t stand another day, not touching you, not hugging you, not wiping your tears away” he added, which caused y/n’s thought process to halt.

“Harry, y’too good for me” she started, a glossy layer had formed over her eyes.

“Y’need someone better, your options are so big” she said head almost dropping to her lap.

“Hey” he said taking using his index finger and thumb to guide her chin up.

“What I’ve learnt is your the one I want, haven’t been able to settle because of you y/n”

“Be mine?” He asked once again leaning his forehead on hers using his free hand to wipe the tears away.

“Please” he whispered, this is all he’s wanted.

Worried that her words would fail her at that moment all she could do was frantically nod.

“Yeah?” He smiles, there noses basically touching at this point.

“Words baby, need y’words” he reminded.

“Yeah, yes harry yes” she smiled, tears still manage to cascade her cheeks.

“Thank fuck” he breathed, now hesitating to wrap his arm around the girl, oh how he’s longed to do that.

The girl crashes into his touch, not taking her time either.

“Your okay, y’safe in my arms love” he whispered into her hair, pressing his long awaited kisses.

— the following morning —

Both Harry and y/n were getting ready to meet the rest of the lads on the bus, which was round the back of the hotel.

“How are we gonna tell them?” Harry asked getting the rest of his stuff.

“They’ll understand, Louis will be unsure but he’s my brother he can’t hate me forever” she laughed.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and they made there way to the boys.

“Guys we have something to tell you all” y/n began.

— — — — —

[mikrokcsmos]

Evermore

synopsis; in which you can no longer ignore all the signs of your husband’s affair.

pairing; husband!kim taehyung x wife!reader

genre; angst, marriage au

rating; PG-13

warnings; infidelity, not so much a warning but mentions of Yeontan to help keep you sane yw

w/c; 889

a/n; happy angsty reading! pls keep sending more if you enjoyed! <3 this is a repost from my old account.

song to listen to; evermore by taylor swift ft. bon iver

It was currently November, though it all started in July, or so you think. Least, that’s when you first started noticing the signs. Who knows exactly how long this whole affair has been going on.

Gray November, I’ve been down since July.

Your whole body felt heavy due to all the bottled up anger, sadness, and despair you kept inside, selfishly trying to keep yourself alive amongst all the chaos and denial you dealt with daily.

It was the night before the 4th of July, you recall. You were supposed to meet up at the movies to watch the third installment of your shared all time favorite franchise. A movie that you booked tickets for together months in advance. Only to be left in the dark room all alone, the only light illuminated from the projector. Glancing down at your phone that emitted a soft glow, you let out a quiet sigh of discontent not wanting to disturb fellow movie goers around you.

From Husband:

Sorry y/n, won’t be able to make it. This meeting is going on for way longer than expected. I’ll see you at home later, don’t wait up for me, okay? Save me some popcorn, though! Can’t wait to hear all about it! Love you.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

Motion capture, put me in a bad light.

Not that he left you to watch the movie alone, but yes, that sucked. He’s done it before, though. When you know for a fact he was caught up in a meeting, or so you hoped, thinking back on it now.

No. No, it was a detail that no one would’ve picked up on besides you, and in fact, most people would just scoff at and say you were over reacting. He was probably in a rush to send that text, they would say. He didn’t have time. Yeah, okay. Sure, whatever. But you knew.

Especially since you made a pact not too long after you started dating that you would use your pet names instead of your actual names when addressing each other. Or, not so much a pact, but more so just an unspoken rule you developed out of a daily habitual use of said pet names. He literally hasn’t called you by your name in years.

I replay my footsteps on each stepping stone, trying to find the one where I went wrong.

It was engraved in you since you were a little girl to be the ever doting, ever loyal, ever loving, ever faithful wife. Whenever you so chose to be one. Lord knows you were never in a rush. In fact, it wasn’t until you hit your 5 year anniversary that he got down on one knee and popped the question. Yet, you were still surprised when it happened. Still not expecting it for another 5 years later, at the very least. But, Kim Taehyung had other plans it seems. Ever the hopeless romantic, you should’ve known. Him always being the one to talk about your future together, hinting at a wedding and a big family with a little dog. At least you were able to cross off two of those, you thought bitterly. Contrary to the gentle pats you were currently giving to the Teacup Pom, Yeontan.

As the months progressed, he became less subtle. The lipstick stains on his collar of a color that didn’t exist in your make up collection, the waft of perfume you would smell as he kissed your cheek upon coming home that you knew wasn’t yours. And yet, you were still in denial. Not willing to risk losing him, your heart suffered instead.

Writing letters, addressed to the fire.

The only solace you had, being to write out your aggression of the day onto a piece of paper that would then meet the kiss of fire you would ignite nightly in your fireplace and burn, each time hoping and praying for it to cleanse your head and heart along with it.

It never worked. And you always cried silent tears of misery so as not to wake your peacefully sleeping husband curled up with the Teacup Pom in the next room over who came back from yet another late night out.

You never thought you would end up here. Being that wife that would become the gossip of other fellow wives. Becoming the ever pining wife that would stand alone in the dark at two o’clock in the morning looking out the window and waiting for your husband to come home. Craving his words and his touch. Knowing you weren’t currently getting either of those. She was. Whoever she is. You had no clue.

And I was catching my breath. Staring out an open window….

You stared longingly at your husband who just pulled up in the driveway. Yeontan running around your feet in excitement upon recognizing the sound of his human’s car. As he went to step out of the car, an article of clothing fell out, one he was quick to recover and throw in the backseat. More importantly one that was very obviously, not yours. Looking around to see if he had been caught, he locked eyes with you in the window. His widening in guilt, yours crying unrelentless tears as you stared emotionlessly, arms crossed over your chest where your heart just broke for the last and final time.

Catching my death.

[blubushie]

Tell us about Vegas?

YOU HAVE CHOSEN THE [BUSHMAN GUSSIED UP] ROUTE!

A TALE OF HIGH-ROLLERS

Warnings: Absolutely none! This a fun story. :]

So in November of 2021 (yes, a month before the Pig Incident) I went back to the US to see my family for a bit. I came back loaded with cash as a peace offering for my family (it didn't work) and so I left and went up to Oregon with a mate of mine for a few days to relax, recoup, and discuss work.

This went (mostly) ok minus a brief blue between us (I say "brief" but he's Still Mad About It, in my defence it was not my fault) and I left for Las Vegas, somewhere I hadn't been since I was very young. I got a flight out there and lounged for a bit and made my way to the only place I know would have me, a historical casino that's very popular (but not as much as it used to be.)

I went in the first night with $20k to blow away. I was upset because of the fight with my parents, further upset by the blue I had with my mate, and I wanted to be a little reckless and a little 20 and enjoy life for a week before I had to leave.

I have a quick meal in town at the Peppermill (incredible place), do some drinking there, then stop by Dream Exotics, rent out a 488 Ferrari, and head for the casino where I end up getting a cheap room.

It's $1500 per 24 hours, I had it for 3 days.

I head downstairs to the tables, sorta keep to myself and eventually I get to come up and play. If any of the you have read my fic, the scene in chapter 9 where Jess and Mundy play poker? Those were my winning hands. So we do a couple rounds.

Something that I didn't know, since I don't make a habit of high-profile gambling, or high-stakes gambling, is that casinos will comp you if they think you're rich. You put down a lot of money and they worship you. They'll spend top dollar on you in the hopes that you lose it all. It's fucking predatory, but it works. What's $20k spent on a gambler if he loses out $60k to you? That's still a $40k profit, and casinos are in the business of betting and winning.

They bet on the wrong bloke. I came in with $2k to piss away and bet $1500 first game. Lost it. Bet the last $500 and got it all back plus $2k more. Wagered that $2k, kept it and gained $1500 more. Bet the $1500, lost that. This repeated, maybe 12 rounds and until 2am, until I decided I'd had my fun and walked out with my $2k plus $6500 richer than I went in.

I'm an addict of one thing--alcohol. I am not a gambling addict. I know when to stop. I stopped. Everything after this was the casino wagering money on me in the hopes I'd come back down to the tables with more cash and lose it all.

I go back to my room. When I get there there's a bloke in a suit waiting for me and he says that the casino's "impressed" and has decided to comp my room and is upgrading me to a second-class suite, free of charge.

Who'm I to say no?

I get my shit and go with him. The suite's incredible. Spa Tower--a fucking two story suite with a spiral staircase, and it comes with a private chef! We're gonna call him C for Chef.

So I get there, set up, stare at this giant fucking bed, and wonder what kinda mess I just got myself into because everything has its price. I didn't get much sleep. Most of my time was spent cleaning my rifle very nervously as a soothing mechanism and muttering about "Oh we're really in for it now, Winnie."

But! I'm here for work. I want work. I love work!

So I finally head to bed around 4am, get a few hours of sleep, and dismiss the chef when he comes in the morning. He insists on making me something and I tip him $50 for some eggs and bacon.

We don't talk much, he's quiet and nervous and I remember where exactly I am and it occurs to me that maybe most people aren't exactly nice to him.

He comes around again for lunch--I don't remember what it was, think it was a panini--and dinner. Dinner was very very very good salmon. He's still not talking much, we mostly ignore each other, but I make him a martini as a courtesy and he seems to warm up a little.

(The suite has a wet bar and you can bet I drank practically all of that $700-worth of booze in it. This is when I first got into making cocktails, and I still enjoy making cocktails today. Thank god for fake IDs.)

Third day comes around, and this is when I get my arse in gear. I am in Vegas in a very high-profile casino. I'm playing with the big boys now and it's time I fucking act like it instead of hiding away in here. I've got impressions to make. I phone the front desk, as to speak to the hotel organiser, we get to talking and at my request he sets me up with a private barber and private tailor. Excellent. This will work. Chef comes in and makes brekkie (potato hash with eggs and chopped bacon) while I'm on the horn with the tailor and giving him the measurements I remember from the last time I had a suit tailored (for court, yay).

I tell the tailor to meet me at 6pm (giving 2hr for suit adjustments) and that I want something black and blue and very formal. I want to look like money. I ring the barber and tell him to come at 4pm, which gives us an hour to get my hair fixed before dinnie (because a mullet is NOT going to cut it here). I tell the cook to take off lunch, I'll meet him back here at 5pm for dinnie. I get dressed and dip.

Spend all day out on the town, seeing the sights and walking the strip and drinking for The Nerves. I head to Dream Exotics and rent out the Ferrari for another 2 days.

I don't get lunch on accounting for big dinnie. Eventually I get back to the casino, valet takes the car, and I head back to my suite.

4pm rolls around and 5 till, I hear a knock at the door. Scramble down the spiral staircase and make my way to the door. Answer it. There's my barber. He's short, very unassuming, older than me by about two decades, scrawny but with bony fingers that show he's been a barber for a long time. He has Those Kinds Of Hands--the kinds of hands that only people who work intricately with their fingers get; hairdressers, barbers, tailors, seamsters, artists, pianists... Wiry knuckles. You get it.

So I let him in and show him around the place. He comes inside and I ask to see his bag. We go through it. It's everything you'd expect. Ok, you're clear, I'll show you the bathroom. We head upstairs. Fifteen minutes later he's drawing the water up in the shower (yay detachable nozzles) and I'm trying my best to avoid looking in the mirror. And this blokes look at me and says my hair looks very thick. And that he likes this, because it means he doesn't have to use volumiser since my hair already has volume.

And then he says "You have hair like a woman's." There's a pause. "I mean that as a compliment." Thanks I guess?

I'm sitting on the edge of the tub and looking out the window and wondering why the fuck I even put this plan in action to start with when he asks me what I'm thinking. You know, in terms of style. And I say honestly, I don't know. Listen, I've got a meeting tonight, I know you should sleep on a fresh haircut but I'm a bit pinched for time. I have to look professional. I have to look good.

He looks at me, seems to have this eureka moment, and we get started. "I've got you." So I take my shirt off cuz it's just gonna get wet if I don't, my hair gets washed, and we head downstairs to the bar. I'm sat in a barstool we pulled from the bar at the eating bar in the kitchen and he gets to cutting.

And because this was pre-stroke I had a Texan accent at the time. So my barber, who I'm gonna call B, he gets curious and asks if I'm a Texas highroller. I tell him I'm a highroller but I'm not from Texas. A guessing game starts. I'll give you a $100 tip if you can guess where I'm from. The cunt guesses South Africa before he guesses Australia. Do I look South African to you? "No, you look like a cowboy." Pssh.

Eventually he guesses Australia. Ding ding ding, we have a winner. So we move on and chatter for a bit about this that and the other, he blows my hair to get the cuttings off but air dried hair is Special so we decide we'll let it air dry. Eventually C gets there, I let him in, and he makes us some steak and potatoes (FUCKING INCREDIBLE) and my hair dries as we all eat. This is the only time I've ever eaten wagyu steak. This shit was A5. Holy fuck the marbling. Melts in your mouth, absolutely incredible.

While all three of us are eating, I pitch the game to the chef. Barber and I are giggling as he thinks. His first guess is Oklahoma, because "Texas is too obvious." Buzzer. He guesses a couple of times. Gets them all wrong. He keeps guessing and he ends up getting a little red-faced in his frustration so I say if he can just guess the country I'll give it to him. He guesses South Africa. "That's what I said," goes B.

"Why South Africa? B guessed it too."

"There's a lot of rich white people in South Africa."

Fair. The game continues.

C names practiclly every European nation there is and then some. He names Canada, he names France and I wrinkle my nose. He names Spain. No. "You look Spanish." My mum's Portuguese?

To hand it to him, my freshly cut hair was drying, I was sitting at the dinner table shirtless and actually eating my steak with a knife AND fork, looking a bit professional despite my state of dress, and drinking a bottle of 1970-something Macallan off the spout. Plus I was freshly de-mulleted. I wasn't exactly the shining example of Aussie. More "American cowboy plucked fresh off the ranch."

But I get bored of the game eventually and I'd finished eating, so I say I'll give him the letter. Starts with an A.

"Aus-"

Yessss…

"-trian?"

NO!

His reasoning is that I'm drinking Macallan off spout for the past hour, it's not affecting me at all yet, and Germanics have a high booze tolerance?

"You know who else has a high booze tolerance? The drunkest nation on the planet."

C is confused.

"He means Australians," chimes B.

"Australians?" C looks at me. "You mean…" He grabs his knife, kinda points it at me but in the faux-threatening way. "'Now that's a knoife' kind?"

Sigh. "Yeah. Aussie."

"So where are you from? Sydney? Where's your accent? Have you ever seen a kangaroo?"

"Are you from Melbourne?" asks B. It's a good guess--there's a lotta rich people in M*lbourne.

"Someplace you never heard of."

The topic drops.

We yarn for a while longer about nothing in particular, mostly about food. I find out that B spent some time in Italy and really loves Italian food, C's favourite food to cook is Italian, they hit it off and I'm sitting in silence as I listen. Not in the third wheel kinda way, but in the intrigued kinda way. They're having a conversation that I'm glad to be a part of. It's interesting.

I make a mental note to have C cook me something Italian for dinner tomorrow.

B decides it's time for the dry cut, so we head back to the kitchen bar (I bring my whikky) and C goes about cleaning up the kish. He's humming as he tidies and eventually he looks over at me and goes "So nowhere Australia?"

"Woop woop, yeah."

"How'd you end up here? With the suite and us? How'd you make it?"

There's a hope in his eyes that's kinda sad. In that childish "I wanna be like him one day" kinda way. He thinks I'm something to aspire to be like. Sad.

"Cattle baron's son?" asks B. He's polite about it. There's no implications there. It's an honest question. He wants to know if I came into money or if I was born into it.

"Nah. Just know the right people."

Topic drops again.

It hits 6:30 and I say goodnight to C, tell him I'll see him in the morning, and he leaves. B is just finishing up with the last trims on my beard--he did a fucking excellent job, made my sideburns sharp and my beard looked perfect--when T gets there. We brush me off, he blows my hair and face and shoulders and chest, and he rubs up my face with an aloe-free aftershave before blotting it try. I get up and let T in and I can see the look on his face when he realises I am in fact as short as I said I was. Kinda funny!

B gets to watch, very amusedly, as T tries to get the bushman into a custom-tailored suit. T thought I was very strange at my initial refusal to wear undergarments (autism no like), but he insists that he can retailor the suit and reuse it for someone else if I do wear underclothes, so I agree and put on some trunks and an undershirt.

The suit was a little loose since this was the start of summer in Australia and I was down quite a few kilos. So some last-minute adjustments have to be made.

After an hour it strikes 7:45 and I'm now fully dressed in this suit. It's tight at the wrists in a way I don't like, but it's a pearl-buttoned jacket, pearl-buttoned dress shirt, pearl cufflinks, and black silk bowtie. I look good.

Black sleek suit, blue velvet lapel, all the pearl accents and everything else? I'm looking good. I get a little blue velvet handkerchief that goes in my breast pocket. I look built for a wedding. Or making connections.

Best $2k worth of clothing I ever spent. Except maybe the $150 I spent for my hat. But still. I'm rocking this shit.

So T is adding the finishing touches, tightening hems and adding little folds on the inside that you can't even really see so that the suit fits me just perfectly, and B is chuckling about this. I glare at him. He stops chuckling about it. Very amusing. T hands me my sunnies and explains that the piss-yellow of the sunnies compliments the black and blue nicely despite the contrast. And I might not be much an artist, but I am a colours bloke, and I can see it. I can understand it. Makes sense. I put them on.

B wets my hair a little, breaks out some hair gel and rubs it on his hands, styles my bangs over to one side, makes some quip about how I should've let him clip the sideburns, and the two fellas back up to get a good look at me. I Am Nervous.

T makes a comment about my hair, B agrees and walks up and fucks with my bangs until a little piece of them dangles at my forehead over my widow's peak instead of combed to the side like the rest. I cock my brow at him but then he steps back and dries his hands and puts them on his hips.

They're not saying anything.

"…How do I look?"

T asks B if he has a mirror. No no no, no mirrors, just tell me.

"Like a million dollars."

Aces.

I pay them, thank them for their time, agree to return the suit to T at the end of the week, and get on my way after they leave. Get my knife in my jacket pocket and my revolver in the other, head downstairs to the lobby, then get the lift down to the subfloors. I flash my card to the bouncer and when I walk in the smell of smoke hits me. In this casino you are not allowed to smoke inside. The highroller floors are an exception to this rule.

I get a glass of champagne off a waitress' tray and find my way to the bar and I sit there for a bit and start yarning with the bartender. The night's quiet, there's not many people in. Most are out at dinner. It didn't get lively until 10pm, and that's when the real fun started. I played a few more games, won $1500, went back to the bar to drink and people watch and wait. Work as usual.

And that's about it. Ended up walking away with a job that night and it was fun! I met people! I socialised! I didn't make an idiot of myself! Yaaay good impressions!

[bonebirds]

I don't normally do this and I honestly feel like it's... bad, somehow, but it's a pretty small circle here and idk, I just need some kind of validation or... something? Look I'm bad at this but I am really trying /o\ Everything is just fucked and internet hugs would be nice.

Work:

ignored my original request for medical leave in March

instead tried to PIP me in April (HR intervened and was like, why? All this employee's feedback is positive and they've never been an issue?)

ignored my request for medical leave in May

granted 2 weeks PTO for me to move in the summer but my director also included things like "you will never get benefits for medical issues" and "if you have to quit, I'll help you get a job somewhere else" (paraphrasing) but that if I kept asking for time off, I'd... be... in trouble, vaguely? I'm basically treated like he wants to fire me but alas, cannot :( He does promise to look into any employee emergency funds or help given everything outside of work sounds Bad. He never does.

I emailed HR in June to be like, "my doctor is advising I stop working because I am becoming physically ill from stress and can't function, I am having daily panic attacks logging into work, and btw, my manager has been emotionally manipulating me into working through this illness despite my doctor's documentation" and never heard back.

After I moved, in September they moved me to a team where they did not train me on anything, and my health continued to deteriorate until I just didn't show up for a week and my new manager actually helped get HR involved. I was at this point visibly in meetings losing my fucking mind and calling out former managers for driving this all.

work agrees to grant me paid medical leave but will get back to me about how much of my salary I'll collect on leave. I am given Sept 20-December 31 off.

They don't get back to me at all, and I collect a full month's salary in October. NB: we get paid once a month, at the end of it. This took 5-6 weeks of ignoring the process on their end.

9 days before being paid for November, I'm told I can burn the rest of whatever PTO I have but they will not be paying for this leave. They don't tell me how much that is.

undoing pretty much any and every progress I'd made on de-stressing and recovering from everything else, triggering a shingles attack, and I have zero savings, zero benefits, and zero fucking idea about what to do aside from try to fight for paid leave

I am putting this here mostly because it's too much to hold in my head all at once, ever, and I try to break the last 9 months down and just... like, my god? I showed up to work during all of that. I asked for more and more to do. I did the training and the meetings and the job, and... I am paying out of pocket for treatment because no one there gives a shit and everyone believes the manager I emailed HR about (since fired!***) because she never documented... anything.

So I look like I did nothing for a year and then just asked for leave to cover my ass.

*human trafficking**

**I'm not kidding and I'm really fucking tired of trying to kid about it or talk around it because just being like 'haha, life events" or "drama!" is vague enough I guess people are like "yeah I stress sometimes too" when it's more like "my organs were physically shutting down from stress and I had a complete nervous breakdown when I realized what was going on" :|

*** There's so many layers to this because we were friends before co-workers but she also spent months trying to keep me in a city where I was actually in danger and gaslighting me about helping with it all so she could keep me in the city, so, you know. That was going on too?

I'm not really looking for advice (I'm in the process of looking into what legal protections I have, don't worry) so much as... I don't know. This is fucked, right? This has just reached a level of fucked where I don't know how to keep trying. I was fighting for this job because if I could just pay off another, like, ten grand of debt I'll be okay enough to breathe a little, and I like the folks I work with and it's not a bad gig, and I quit a PhD for this place, and them paying this leave was literally going to be a saving grace I so needed, and...

Yeah.

If nothing else, like, I get to be mad about this, right? I'm trying so hard to actually let myself be mad without flinching from that feeling because it's like all or nothing, I am just defeated and crying and giving up or I am breathing fire and going for their jugular, and neither is practically helpful.

I don't know, man.

But yeah there you go, that's why I had to move accounts suddenly and lost, oh, 98% of my social circle earlier this year 😵‍💫

Jusssssst.

At least typing it all out and looking at it square in the face like that is, yeah. That's horrific treatment. And worth fighting. Even if it's just a few grand, or... something. I don't know. I'm just so fucking hollow all the time again. I was just so close to somewhere less precarious, emotionally and financially.

[morphofan]

Hyper-Fixation and The Bad Batch

Or, "WTF Is Going On With Morph, Lately?"

Me and The Bad Batch

SO, I first started watching The Bad Batch during the hiatus between S1 and S2. I was big into Boba Fett (thanks to The Mandalorian) and so I found The Bad Batch because Boba was mentioned in one episode. But I didn’t sit down to watch it until my friend, Cyn, told me I HAD to watch it.

So I watched the whole first season, and then had to go back and watch The Bad Batch arc in Season 7 of The Clone Wars. I was hooked. I couldn’t wait for Season 2. I was writing again, inspired again, hyper-fixated.

My sweet cat, my baby, Thomas, died at age 5 in November of 2022. It emotionally destroyed me.

Then my desktop computer had a total hard drive failure. Up until then, I was backing stuff up in a separate folder on my computer, which did f*ckall because the entire hard drive went bad. This was before I learned about backing stuff up on a cloud or OneDrive or whatever.

I lost all my fics, including a half-dozen Bad Batch fics in various states of completion. It was some of the best work I’ve ever written, and it was gone. Poof.

So, there was that sense of lost, and I almost left the fandom from sheer depression. I tried to rewrite the fics, but it wasn’t going to work because I knew I could never replicate what I had written.

Then came “Plan 99.”

I didn’t eat for a week. Not a bite, not a calorie. For seven days. I dropped 16 pounds. At the time of this writing, it’s been nearly 10 months since the finale of S2. The Bad Batch has occupied my mind this entire time. I couldn’t tell you what I did over the last ten months, because it was all just a long blur. I neglected my family, my duties, all the things that a grown ass woman is supposed to focus on.

I still tried to contribute to the fandom, with “Travels With Tech,” fic and video edits, but most of it has been more or less ignored.

A week or so ago, the friend that originally told me about TBB died, very suddenly, of a heart attack at age 45, leaving three kids.

We still haven’t been publicly shown the S3 Bad Batch teaser that was revealed at Star Wars Celebration back in May 2023. There’s been no word of a release date, aside from 2024. It feels now like the creators are mocking us by dropping little comments on TwiX about S3, but not actually giving us anything.

And I’ve realized now, that I’ve built up S3 in my head so much, and imagined so many scenarios I want to see, that I am destined to be disappointed when it does finally air. No matter how amazing S3 is, it cannot live up to the standards I’ve assigned it in my mind.

I did the same thing with S3 of The Mandalorian. I kept thinking, if I could just hold on until S3 of Mando, everything would be good again. But when it came, I was disappointed. And I know the same thing is going to happen with The Bad Batch.

Hyper-fixations always follow the same pattern. I get obsessed with something, and then, quite suddenly, it passes over and I become ambivalent to it. It’s happened with every fandom I’ve been with. Something that, for a time, I thought I could not live without becomes ho-hum. I don’t ever want it to happen, but it always does.

And now I have the guilt of wasting the last two years of my life on yet another hyper-fixation, only to lose interest in it just as suddenly as it started.

S3 of TBB is NOT going to make everything right again. It might provide some happiness for a few months, but then it will end and that will be it.

So anyway… sorry.

END

[eyeopeningarchivist]

Statement of Marjorie Evans

Concerning: What she describes as "The Backrooms"

Original Statement taken 4th November, 2010

Transcription by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, Magnus Inst. London (1818)

Statement begins....

I knew it wasn’t right, the buzzing lights above making it clear I wasn’t home. I rolled over to find carpet beneath me. I also couldn’t be at work as there should have been tile. I opened my eyes to a dim, grungy room bathed in a sickly yellow. The air felt thick and sticky, reeking of mildew. The carpet was damp and it appeared the wet had crept into the wall as it was starting to rot. The foulness permeated everything in this soggy and sparsely furnished place. I made to stand and a little water pooled around my fingers. It was yellow too, though from the carpet or the lights or something somehow more repulsive I’d rather not know. I finally looked around and knew at once where I was, a chill settling over me despite the muggy atmosphere... The Backrooms.

I kept my head down and kept moving, listening for anything in the corridors and hoping I’d find a way out rather than a way deeper in. I wandered for a while, seeing an entity only once and it seemed wholly uninterested in me. After what felt like weeks but really must’ve only been a few hours I came upon a sort of chute. It looked like an air duct that had been opened for repairs and had never been put back together. Down appeared to be a bottomless drop with rushing wind coming up from the pit. I looked up and saw a ladder reaching up into darkness and took hold of the first rung, pulling myself up. I’d never heard of the way up but I was sure down lead to death.

I climbed long after there had been a screaming ache in my arms and I ended up closing my eyes, not noticing when the drowning murky stillness became the steady sweeping sting of salt water soaked concrete and it wasn’t until someone shouted to me to hold tight and stay calm that i realized i was out. I looked around and found myself clinging to the weather worn rung of a canal maintenance ladder, swirling black water below and the dreamland familiar building in the impossible distance. I was inches away from the icy embrace of the Thames, the biting cold making my hands hurt. I almost fell but the rescue team caught me and pulled me to safety. I’d been missing from my home in the states for two months and had hypothermia but I hadn’t actually been in the water.

I moved to London a month later, feeling like I was put back here for a reason...”

“Right...” The man sitting across from me said softly, looking a little quizzical but not like he thought I was lying. More like he was doing a difficult crossword. “You’re hired.” He said at last. “You’ll be working downstairs in the archive under Mr. Sims.”

Statement ends...

Notes:

Ms. Evans is currently an archival assistant here, showing high levels of competence and intelligence. It is clear by Elias’ immediate hiring of her that he believed her. She has asked not to make any further statements concerning her experience, saying only that it wasn’t nearly as scary as people say it is. It is my belief that she did not enter "the backrooms" but was instead a brief guest of The Spiral, possibly there by accident since she said in her statement that the single entity she encountered while she was there was either ignorant or uncaring of her existence. Normally The Spiral comes back for victims who escape in a matter of between six weeks and a year but it’s been much longer for her... Who knows, maybe she has some kind of protection. Maybe she’s a blind spot... It may be useful to find out for sure, The Spiral being a dangerous and unstable entity means we can’t really study it...

That said, her reluctance to even talk about it means she probably wouldn’t agree to that sort of thing anyway and we can’t exactly force her to. Besides, she’s too valuable to the Institute. She’s taken on a lot of work since she took the assistant position and she already reordered a whole shelf of statements to fit the system I’ve been trying to put together... She’s even managed to find some lost obituaries for some of the people we haven’t been able to track back down. She can speak fifteen languages and can read hieroglyphics, Sanskrit, Japanese, Chinese, Cyrillic, Greek, and Nordic runes. She has no time for frivolous activities or time wasting and she seems to be on excellent terms with everyone here including Elias... No small feat. I’ve even seen her discussing poetry tips with Martin in the break room. An enigma...

[philanthropicfeline]

Too much, even for me...

A continuation, or rather an update on what it looks like in my head and my home. Originally I wanted to include images of Toronto to help convey my thoughts and to highlight the severity of where hate stands in this city, but I'd rather not.

This post is not meant to hurt anyone. I condemn "governments" and "organizations" that threaten humanity. I also recognize that I come from a country and position of privilege and freedoms that may make my opinions sound slightly dystopian. But i am always willing to admit any ignorance i hold and i'm always open to learning more. I understand there's always more to conflicts than what the media will portray.

My thoughts of today:

I attend a pentecostal church in a Jewish community. Since October 7th, there's been an increase in security. But let's be honest, the things happening today, go far back and beyond just October 7th.

Today is Sunday, November 12th. There's an even bigger police presence. On the way home from church, I sat beside a young woman on the bus. Across from me was an elderly man. As the bus made its route, a car with Israel's flag drove past us. The elderly man than starts yelling on the bus saying antisemitic things. Then I noticed the young woman crying beside me, silently. She then quietly asked the man to stop the hate. I asked her if she was okay and all she did was nod. The man kept yelling hateful things on the bus and to my astonishment the driver agreed with him. Maybe he agreed with the man to de-escalate the situation, but the woman got off the bus and that's when I noticed her blue ribbon in her hair that had Hebrew on it. I wish I did more for her, but what could I possibly do?

A few hours later, I make it home. I reside in the heart of Toronto, downtown. It looks much different compared to a few days ago. Graffiti is everywhere. Graffiti of hate and things that I never imagined would be carved on Toronto's body. Then I witness Islamophobia. People yelling Islamophobic things left and right. The pictures of dead and missing Palestinians, ripped or damaged. Young children exposed to racism and Islamophobia; yet there's still nothing i can do about it. It became so overwhelming I had to find a park to simply breathe. But even as I sit in the park, echoes from the rallies surround me. I hear the pained voices of people wanting justice and liberation and all I am capable of doing is sitting in a park, gathering my thoughts. I'll admit, I cried.

But where are my thoughts exactly? What good do my crocodile tears bring? Why am I flipping through various moments in history, searching for an answer? Why am I searching for an exact moment in time where peace was the chosen resolution? That has never existed. Exactly where do I find solace? if I even deserve solace at a time like this. Maybe it's time I accept that I'm starting to grow an irrational fear. Why is this situation affecting me more than the other conflicts of war? Maybe it's because the children we made Christmas presents for, were wiped out. I don't know, maybe it's because we're reverting to hurtful assimilation and stereotypes. Maybe it's because Toronto is giving the hateful extreme right winged parties a reason to laugh at our diversity. I know there are good things about humanity and even Toronto, but give me one moment to despise and despair. Just like mourning, I need a moment to be angry and frustrated. I can't just skip over those emotions.

"But this too shall pass" just like many other moments in history, but clearly humans have learned nothing but to give in to our destructive nature...

While governments and bodies of authority rarely, if ever, but most likely have never "chosen" peace or the people, i wont ignore the individuals that have.

My mind travels back to 1992, the LA riots. Reverend Benny Newton. He stood over a severely beaten truck driver who was driving in the wrong place, at the wrong time (which doesn't make sense if you really think about it). As Fidel Lopez lay almost lifeless, Reverend Benny Newton stood over him and yelled at the angry rioters "No more, this is enough. You're going to have to kill me too!" The Reverend chose peace and saved that man's life. He saved a life from warranted anguish. Rev. Newton was just as angry as the rioters but he chose the path of life and love. The rioters had every right to be angry, but violence and destruction will not bring anyone justice.

God forbid Toronto reaches a point that we are so blinded by hate, we begin to kill. Education of history and kindness are vital for the youth in Toronto. I'm not condoning senseless death and eradication of a people nor am I invalidating peoples pain. History has repeated itself over and over again, shouldn't our goals be for life and shouldn't we stand for humanity?

There's hope out there for a peaceful future. I just hope Toronto doesn't lose sight of that.

[love-anddeepression]

Hi!!

I absolutely love your writing🤍

and I wanted to request something

Could you write a Kaz Brekker x reader where she’s been gone for a month or two (maybe she was on a job or something) and he writes her a lot of letters during those two months

And when she comes back and he helps her unpack her bag he finds a little box where she kept all of the letters he wrote

Dear Y/n.....  Regards, Kaz - Kaz Brekker x fem!reader

“ Kaz it’s literally been two hours since she’s left, you can’t start writing letters now!” Jesper said as Kaz walked up the stairs to his office, blatantly ignoring every word that came out of the sharpshooter’s mouth.

“ I’ll do what I want to do Jesper, I need you to go and pick up a package at this address, it has all the materials Wylan needs for his demo.”

“ Why do I have to go?” Jesper whined.

“ Because I said so, and take the merchling with you.” Kaz ordered.

Jesper’s mood lightened at the prospect of going with Wylan and he all but flew out the door, much to Kaz’s amusement.

He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper and began to write.

Dearest Y/n,

The date is twenty-ninth of October.

I’m writing this letter two hours after you’ve left and you’ll be pleased to know that everyone is fine. I sent Jesper to pick up the material for Wylan and he seemed to not want to go until I told him to take merchling with him, of course, he then proceeded to almost fly out the door in typical Jesper fashion.

Stay safe, I’ve hidden a small gun in the third zip of you’re travel bag, and a few knives in your suitcase , because I’m sure you would’ve forgotten to take something to defend you, other than you’re sword.

Write back when you get this, I’m obviously not going to send it now, you’ll get this by tomorrow.

Regards,

Kaz.

~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>

“Kaz! No not that way-”

Bonk!

“Ow!”

Dearest Y/n,

Today is the first of November.

This morning I walked into a wall and hit my head pretty bad. I heard Nina warn me but it seems my mind did not absorb it, because honestly, I was thinking of you.

Everyone’s fine, but we all can sense your absence, the cups and bowls can sigh in relief as there’s no one to drop them. I hope you’re doing well, write back if you can.

 In a few days, you’ll be meeting our target, you know, the guy with the black hair and green eyes, the person you wouldn’t shut up about? Him. I trust you’ll know what to do, and by that I mean don’t run away with him. My poor heart would not be able to take it.

Stay safe.

Regards,

Kaz.

~<~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

“Kaz, calm down! She’s not going to run away with him! She loves you too much!” Inej tried to calm Kaz down.

“ Wraith, you are not helping the situation! Now leave before I kick you out myself!” Kaz shouted, making Inej’s eyes widen.

“ Wow, you’re being a real ass Brekker.” Inej scoffed, clearly hurt, before leaving swiftly.

Kaz dropped his head in regret, Inej was one of his dearest friends, he couldn’t deny that before you came along, he had harbored feelings for her, but it all changed when you entered the picture. He needed your advice.

Dearest Y/n,

Today is the fifth. I trust you’ve met our target and I hope you haven’t run away with him.

I need you’re advice, I screwed up, I shouted at Inej and she clearly felt hurt and now I don’t what to do. I know that if you were here, she would have headed straight to you and you would have listened with you’re eyebrows furrowed, eyes slightly squinting, and then you’d hit your forehead in exasperation before heading my way to chew me out.

Please write back, I don’t know what to do, and tell me how the target was.

Love

 Kaz.

~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~<~

“Inej, listen, I’m sorry. I should not have snapped at you.” Kaz said.

“ It took you two days to come and apologize?” Inej raised an eyebrow.

“ To be honest, I didn’t know what to do, so I wrote to Y/n and I asked her advice. I’m sorry Wraith.”

Inej wondered if the end times were finally coming, Kaz Brekker apologizing? She never ever thought that Kaz would apologize, but here he was, and that was only because of you. She thanked the saints you existed,

“ You’re forgiven Kaz, and Y/n wrote me too, she got the package. ” Inej said, trying to supress a grin at Kaz’s poor shielded shock.

“ Yes, she wanted me to tell you.”

“ Why?”

“ Because I’ll be able to tell her how shocked you look right now.” she grinned and slipped away before Kaz could do anything.

>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>~>>~>~>>~>~>~>~>>`

“She’s back!” Nina shrieked as you strode through the doors of the Slat.

“ I’m back!” you raised your arms as Nina, Jesper, Wylan, Matthias and even Anika rushed to hug you.

Matthias picked you up and hoisted you on his shoulders, making everyone laugh at your shrieks.

As he put you down, Inej ran over and pulled you into a hug, “ We missed you, and Kaz’s face yesterday was a mixture of shock, and he still doesn’t know you’re back. I managed to distract him.”

“ Thank Inej, you’re the best.” 

“ I know now go!” she laughed and pushed you towards the staircase.

You went up the stairs and headed for Kaz’s room. As you reached his door, you wondered if you should knock or just walk in and scare the shit out of him.

“ Who am I kidding? Kaz probably sensed me from the harbour.” you cracked your knuckles and pushed open the door.

Kaz immediately looked up, his face annoyed, but it immediately changed into shock and saints. the Bastard grinned.

He walked over to you and stood in front of you.

“ Hi Darling.” he greeted, smiling like a lovesick fool.

“ Hello Kaz.” you smiled.

“ Good to see you haven’t run away with Mr.Sharpe.” he held your hand.

“I know right? Something compelled me to stay and come back, it probably was Inej’s letters, saying that you threw a tantrum at the thought of me running away.”

“ Oh hush.” he headed to his desk and cleared whatever he was doing, neatly stacking papers and putting away other things.

You lugged your suitcase over to the bed and began to unpack, taking out the package and handing it to Kaz, who looked at you proudly.

As you began to take out other things, Jesper  appeared.

“ Y/n! Why the hell are you unpacking now? We’re all going for drinks! Boss come with us too!”

“ Jes-” you began, looking at Kaz.

“ Yeah, we’re coming, go on Y/n, I’ll be down in a minute.” Kaz assured.

Jesper took that as confirmation and dragged you out the door.

Kaz stood up and went over to the bed and took out all your other things, putting everything in your drawers, but a small stack of papers caught his eye.

He picked them up and his face reddened at the realization.

You had kept all his letters, and had annotated them with your own comments,

“ You’re so adorable”

“ Oh wow, that must been something.”

“ Nina, our queen.” That one made him chuckle

“ I love you” he froze.

His heart fluttered and he had to suppress a huge grin. He went over to his desk, letter in hand, and wrote,

“ I love you too”.

[jungkxook]

—amortentia.

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ genre: hogwarts/harry potter au / enemies-to-lovers + fluff

⟶ words: 5,486

⟶ rating: pg-13

⟶ summary: jungkook loves everything strawberry but the simple pleasure is always kept hidden, stowed away as if some hideous secret to protect the rumours that had built up around him — until a love potion outs him.

⟶ disclaimer: this is a repost of an old fic from my old blog since i know some of you were asking about it! i hope you enjoy!!

Jungkook loves strawberries.

He remembers fondly the warm summers as a child when he would go strawberry picking with his grandmother, and revels in the taste and the memory each time he bites into a fresh berry, the juices coating his tongue in sickly sweetness; he likes the smell of all the lotions and lip balms, candles and fragrances, that carried notes of the red fruit in comforting wafts, remembering distantly a time when his mother’s fruity perfume would breathe warm life into his cold house in the middle of a dull winter; he remembers sentimental times spent at the local cafe near his home, loving and basking in the way the homely and warm aroma of a freshly baked pie and the sugary tartness of strawberry lemonade would fill his nostrils and consume his senses, leaving his mouth watering. 

Jungkook loves everything strawberry but the simple pleasure is always kept hidden, stowed away as if some hideous secret to protect the rumours that had built up around him.

Ask any girl that thought Jeon Jungkook is handsome or any boy that thought Jungkook is a god and they would say he smells like the purest form of any man with a harmonious scent of musk, cedar wood, and oak; like fresh rain that soaked in the middle of a mossy forest, spices, and black coffee — but they couldn’t have been more wrong. Maybe he did smell of musk or wood or rain when he was continuously outside, practicing every moment he had with his Quidditch team, but Jungkook was more than just that. Really, though, it made sense as to why people thought that way about him when he had left such a lingering impression on the school.

You can still remember the very first day you saw him; the very moment you had, from your spot in line in front of the Sorting Hat on the first day as a first year, saw the stoic boy step forward. Made up of a nervous face and obsidian locks that fell into his equally dark eyes, the Hat had instantly deemed the boy a Ravenclaw — and perhaps the house’s reputation was what added to his mystique and strange charm. Even then, from what you observed, he had been a silent boy, making his way to and from classes usually alone, and somehow ignoring the gaggle of girls (from all years and from all houses) that trailed along behind him, giggling and clamouring over how cute he is.

As the months went on, you never witnessed much change in Jungkook safe for the friends he suddenly made in the first half of second year (a surprising mix of Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and Slytherins) and the smug attitude he began to develop. A rebel, they said, a bad boy at heart, the very antithesis of Ravenclaws. Someone all the girls craved for and all the boys yearned to be. And while you tried to assume that perhaps there was more to the boy than meets the eye — that maybe he was built on different layers you could one day explore — when he begins to become too conceited with the way he is praised, you grow disenchanted by him and his cocky smirks. Yet, for some reason, he finds it necessary to go out of his way to talk to you no matter what — and you were quick to learn to despise him and his constant mocking, all possibilities of trying to get to know him diffused. 

In first year, you had to endure a whole semester worth of Jungkook tugging at your hair when he sat behind you in Charms class. In second year, an unspoken rivalry began in which the two of you would compete to see who could earn the better grades. You can’t quite pinpoint when or where the hatred for one another began, but the irritation that comes as a result of it only grows more adamant with each passing day.  

In third year, you distinctly remember being confined to the many dusty oak shelves and rows of leather bound books in the library, your eyes constantly flickering to the ornate grandfather clock nearby you as you wait alone. An agreed time of 6 pm to meet in the library after dinner to work on a partnered assignment had otherwise vanished from the boy’s memory. Had it been up to you to decide what partner you wanted, you would have much rather preferred to pick one of your friends and not the Ravenclaw who was fifteen minutes late. With the project due in two days, and with the nearly three weeks you had to finish it, you had constantly asked to meet with Jungkook to work on it and each time he had made a different excuse. 

As time crept on and the waning hours of the daylight dwindled to a dull darkness, twenty minutes would pass and it was then that you would grudgingly begin packing your belongings. The wait was not worth the trouble. Yet just as you are standing from your seat, the boy waltzes into view, coming to a nonchalant halt in front of you and placing his bag on the table, as if he didn’t know how late he is. He has abandoned his robe to wear only a grey fleece pullover on top of his white button up, his torn up Converse shoes ruining the uniform outfit with his casual flare. Your stare flickers up to meet his smug face and a frown forms on yours as you spot the other third year Slytherin girl giggling a flirtatious goodbye to the boy who winks in response. Finally, he turns to look at you.

“You’re leaving already?” Jungkook asks. “I just got here.”

“Twenty minutes later, Jeon,” You snap.

The boy quirks a brow, twisting around in his spot to look at the clock. “I could have sworn you said we should meet at six-thirty. I’m ten minutes early.”

“I remember saying six o’clock,” You say. “As well as you telling me that six was perfectly fine. Look, History of Magic isn’t my favourite either but I would appreciate it if you at least put some effort into the class and this project.”

“Shh!”

The hiss that comes from the student studying near you only makes you scowl. You turn around hotly to continue shoving your books and papers into your backpack.

“I was busy,” Jungkook says.

“Busy flirting with every living thing?” You asks.

“What?” Confusion paints his face, and then he is shaking his head furiously. “No!”

Your eyes narrow into a scrutinizing glare. You point over your shoulder at the same Slytherin girl who is still within the library, standing just a few feet away from the pair of you. She has an opened book in her hands in an attempt to look distracted but her eyes are fixated solely on Jungkook. When she catches Jungkook staring, his gaze lifting over your shoulder, she hurriedly looks away and blushes.

“So I assume she’s just a friend?” You retaliate. “You know what your problem is, Jeon? You never take anything seriously.”

Immediately, Jungkook tenses. His arms snake around to cross in front of his chest.

“Well, you take everything too seriously,” he says. “When was the last time you had some fun? Any time I talk to you, you’re always fussing about the work or about how much you hate me—  it’s like you’re a walking, talking, breathing dementor! You suck the life out of everyone.”

“Shh!”

The snarl this time is much harsher, coming from yet another student who has been devoting his time to writing an essay. But now you can’t be bothered to worry about silence. You slam shut the book in your hand with a very loud thump that seems to echo around the eerily silent room and fling a strap of your bag over your shoulder.

“Well, I’m sorry that I, and this assignment, are such inconveniences to you,” You say, “but from now on I give up on making sure we both don’t fail this class. If you need me, which I assume you won’t, I’ll be in my room, far from you.”

“Excuse me!” The familiar bark of the librarian’s voice hardly makes you jump even as she comes marching down to the two of you. “This is a library, a quiet place to study. It would be greatly appreciated if you could bring your conversation out into the halls.”

Had she not interrupted your conversation with Jungkook, you would have never realized just how loud your voice had risen. Clearing your throat and tightening your grip on your bag and the book, you tear your eyes from Jungkook and stomp defiantly out into the corridors to retreat to your common room, leaving Jungkook alone. He would find you the day after in a sluggish state, his hair dishevelled and his clothes askew as if he had slept in them — or, rather, had not slept at all — showing you all the work he had finished for the assignment the night before.

In fourth year, you are leaving the stands of the Quidditch pitch on a surprisingly warm November evening. Following the slew of students back to the school after a heated game between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor — where the latter team won after a fiery race between the two Seekers for the golden snitch — the eager chatter buzzes in the air. Beside you are your two friends who are, just as many others are doing, whispering excitedly about Jungkook’s role as Seeker and his “amazing performance.” 

“Did you see the way Jungkook played?” Hana asks from the right side of you. “How can someone be so attractive?”

To your left, Nayeon is practically standing on the tip of her toes, desperately craning her neck to search the crowd for the boy and his friends. “Oooh, look! There he is! He’s so sweaty! Imagine his muscles—”

“You’re ridiculous,” You sigh with a disapproving shake of your head.

Despite your condescending tone, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder to follow your friends’ gaze. Laughing in triumph with his team and friends, Jungkook stands adorned in the usual Ravenclaw royal blue Quidditch uniform, the robes somehow accentuating his tanned skin and dark hair that clings to his sweat-covered forehead. Since when had he grown so tall? And maybe Nayeon was right — since when did Jungkook start looking so muscular? 

“Your staring is obvious, Y/N,” Hana says. 

“And so is your crush on him,” Nayeon murmurs. 

“Crush?” You burst out into laughter. “Now that’s funny. I could never have a crush on him!”

“Have a crush on who?”

The familiar voice makes you groan inwardly and the arm that is tossed around your neck almost makes you gag. Your body grows rigid under Jungkook’s touch, though he doesn’t seem to notice that or the way you carefully try to peel his arm off of you but to no avail. Joining him is his typical duo of friends. The other Slytherin boy next to Jungkook is the shy and soft Park Jimin, accompanied by their inseparable Hufflepuff friend, Kim Taehyung. The two boys smirk wolfishly down at your friends, both of whom are so suddenly at a loss for words.

“Evenin’, ladies!” Jimin says. “Enjoy the show?”

“We hate to brag but we taught him everything he knows,” Taehyung says, ruffling Jungkook’s hair.

Jungkook rolls his eyes and swats Taehyung’s hand away. “Maybe the three of you can come down to watch us practice one day.” 

Your friends exchange glances and giggle nervously. 

“We’d love to,” Nayeon smiles.

Your lack of response clearly doesn’t go unnoticed by your friends, nor Jungkook and his friends. As you turn your head to look away from the group, you briefly catch the sudden scent that is Jungkook and your face scrunches. It isn’t so much as gross as it is overpowering. Passed salt and sweat, you can smell something clean like freshly cut grass or some sort of lemongrass shampoo. But instead of telling him out loud what you thought, you pushed him away.

“You smell terrible,” You said. “Go take a shower, Jeon.”

“Always playing hard to get,” Jungkook sighs. “Sorry we can’t all smell like your floraly essence after playing an intense Quidditch game.”

You only hum in response, turning your head to look away from him and his friends. The act seems to earn a smirk from Jungkook and then he and his friends are parting from you, walking back to the locker rooms. After that day, your friends’ profuse pleads and begs for you to come with them one day when the Quidditch teams are practicing would eventually make you cave in. When Jungkook sees you sitting in the stands burrowed in a wool scarf and heavy robes, albeit with a frown on your face and your eyes scanning the pages of a book in your lap, he catches your attention by shouting your name and then winking at you. Seconds later, a Quaffle is thrown his way by a fellow teammate and nearly knocks him off his broom.

In fifth year, you are seated in your Transfiguration class at the back and nearly dozing off as your Professor drones on and on in the early morning about some boring lecture. Jungkook sits in the row opposite you and a seat behind but that doesn’t stop him from constantly trying to catch your attention, whispering your name. It is only when you hear a few classmates near you break out into wondrous awes that you lift your head from its resting place wedged between your folded arms on top of your desk and turn. Soaring above the students’ heads is an enchanted paper bird, its thin wings fluttering its way to you.

You gaze at it for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips, before noticing that it is Jungkook who had magicked it, wand in hand as he waves it towards you. As soon as it reaches your table, it floats around your head and lingers in front of your face, beckoning you to take it. Instead, your hands try swatting it away though it doesn’t seem to budge. When you relent and succumb to taking the bird, it is not before you shoot an annoyed glance back at Jungkook. Then, you unwrap the bird in your hand. With thin black ink sprawled out in perfect cursive writing, a single dreadful question is poised in pretty script: Meet me tomorrow at noon at the Three Broomsticks? It’ll be my treat.

“Is that from Jungkook?” Hana asks. She peers over your shoulder from beside you to look down at the paper, her voice incredibly louder than you would have liked. “It is! Is he asking you out? You know, I always knew you liked him. You’re a terrible liar— ”

You gasp. Your hand quickly covers the paper, yanking it out of Hana’s view. “I do not like him!”

“Do too!” Hana laughs. “So, what are you going to say? Huh, who knew Jungkook was so soft and cute? Have I told you how cute the two of you would be together?”

Maybe it’s the way she so suddenly begins to gush over you dating Jungkook, or the way her voice garners the attention of those sitting around you, letting other girls fawn over how cute his simple gesture is, that makes you curdle with embarrassment. But what are you so shy of? You are insistent that you don’t like Jungkook but you were certain that if word spread that you did have feelings for him, your whole life would be drastically ruined. Or maybe you were more fearful of the idea of possibly liking Jungkook in return, even if you had so profusely been lying to everyone and yourself.  

“Stop it!” You hiss. “I would rather kiss the squid in the Black Lake than date him!”

Then, as if to emphasize this apparent hatred, you grab your quill and furiously write in big scratchy letters “NO” before crumpling it in your hand and twisting in your seat. Set on chucking the balled up piece of paper right at Jungkook’s smug face, you are startled when you feel the paper being plucked from your grasp by none other than your Professor. She stands before you with a sour look on her face, a willowy old lady with gray wisps of hair pulled back into a tight bun. 

“Ah, Miss Y/N,” she hums, “if you have more important matters that you seem to want to discuss with Mr. Jeon, surely you can divulge with the rest of the class too.”

Your mouth clamps shut. You watch, stricken with horror, as she unravels the paper in her hands, her glossy eyes skimming its contents from beneath her half-moon spectacles. She purses her lips, and then shifts her gaze to you and then to Jungkook sitting behind you. The silence that follows as she moves towards him is near unbearable, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“If you would have much rather preferred to flirt with Miss Y/N than listen to my lecture, feel free to leave my class, Jeon,” Your Professor says. She drops the paper onto his desk with a flourish. “Though, it’d be in your best interest to stop your daydreaming and pay attention to my class because I’m afraid her answer was no.”

Your eyes widen as you twist in your seat to look at your Professor and a startled Jungkook. And, maybe, if you looked hard enough and passed the smug smirk, you could see his conceited stare falter as a look of hurt flashes across his eyes. A few murmurs and giggles break out amongst the students, making your cheeks burn hot and forces you to turn back around and away from Jungkook.

“And I suppose that now neither of you are busy tomorrow, you wouldn’t mind spending it in detention with me,” Your Professor says. Then she was rounding on her heel, marching back to the front of the classroom and restarting her lecture.

After the torturous detention where Jungkook suddenly refuses to look or talk to you after what had happened, and a week after the missed Hogsmeade trip, you would find Jungkook walking the halls, hand-in-hand, with another Ravenclaw girl. As they pass you, seemingly unaware of your lingering presence, you see the girl stop Jungkook and lean forward to kiss him, his own hands resting on her waist and tugging her closer to him. Though you tell yourself you’re free from his constant flirting and mocking, you can’t help but feel somewhat let down as you walk away that day.

In the beginning of sixth year, when all the students had found a moment to themselves and a much needed break from all the sudden stress of homework, you would wind up at a party being held in the Room of Requirements. Though you weren’t quite sure how the students were able to smuggle alcohol into the school, you remember drinking until you are blissfully numb and without a care in the world. Most of the evening had been spent chatting to Nayeon and Hana but when they become distracted with flirting with their crushes, you are left alone. It isn’t much long after that you stumble into Jungkook. Drunkenly dancing to the upbeat thump of music that reverberated around the room, you had, somehow, lost your footing. As you fall into the thick crowd, a pair of strong hands reach out to swiftly catch onto yours arms and hold you up. Jungkook’s surprised when you don’t bother pushing him away and let him help straighten you up. Clearly, you’re much too drunk to function, and he makes sure to hold you at a comfortable distance away from him. Then, there, under the dim lights of the room, you are met with his typical smirk tugging at his luscious pink lips (which you find yourself gazing at for longer than necessary). 

“Ah, if it isn’t Jeon Jungkook,” You rasp. You sway dangerously in his hold and nearly fall to the floor again. He tightens his grip on you and catches you once more before you can slip away. “What do you want from me tonight?”

“Hey, you bumped into me. I’m just being nice and making sure you don’t face-plant the floor.” 

“Yeah, but of course you had to be right beside me. I think I’d rather have face-planted the floor.”

He quirks a brow. He feigns dropping you, momentarily loosening his grip just enough for you to come flailing forward with a yelp of surprise. He doesn’t let you fall too far, though, and catches onto you swiftly once more, hooking his arm around your waist. When you meet his stare with a scowl, he grins. “You were saying?”

“Do you remember that one time you told me I never have fun?” 

“Not really.”

“Ah, well, you say a lot of shit to me,” You say. “But that stuck out the most. You called me a dementor. A dementor. My thirteen year old self never forgot that.”

Jungkook winces at how carefree you seemed to say it, at how you still remembered it three years later. His hands drop from you once you’re steady and he runs his fingers through his locks, softly pushing them up and out of his eyes before they ultimately fall flat against his forehead once more. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I mean, look at you now. You seem to be having a lot of fun. How drunk are you anyway?”

“It’s not fun when it feels like I’m trying to prove a point to you,” You sigh. “But I already know you don’t care about me.”

“That’s not true,” Jungkook says. “You’re the one who doesn’t care about me.”

You burst out into a fit of mocking laughter and shake your head at him. Swaying forward, almost precariously close to him, you tap the tip of his nose with your finger. “Jeon Jungkook, you can be real oblivious.”

And then you are kissing him, pressing your soft lips to his. He doesn’t push you away, albeit however incredibly surprised he may be. Instead, as he feels your lips move against his, he finds himself basking in everything that is you. All he can smell is your floral perfume and, passed the liquor that stained your lips, could taste your peach lip balm and the bubble gum you had been chewing earlier in the night. He hates how much he loves it. His hands lift to rest on either side of your face and he gently brings you closer to him, his tongue laving at your peach flavoured lower lip. He hears you moan softly in content as you melt against his chest, your fingers suddenly tugging desperately at the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s then that you realize that all you can smell is the scent of freshly cut grass and his lemony shampoo, but all you can taste is something warm and sugary that feels all too comforting.

You come to the conclusion in your drunken mind that you would have loved to keep kissing him. That, maybe, kissing Jeon Jungkook wasn’t so bad. But then just as suddenly as you had kissed him, he is pulling away from you, sending you crashing and burning down from your reverie. With swollen pink lips, wide eyes, and dishevelled hair, Jungkook shakes his head abruptly and mumbles a quiet, “I’m sorry.” 

He flees from your grasp and from the party before you can stop him — and it is in that moment that you began to hate Jungkook, but not more than you hate yourself for actually enjoying the way it felt to kiss someone like him. You would never learn why he had left so soon until much later when he tells you that he didn’t want you to regret anything you did drunk — didn’t want you to regret kissing someone like him when you had seemed to hate him for years prior.

In the second half of sixth year, when you begin to fail Potions, your Professor does what he thinks is best and pairs you with Jungkook, the smartest student in his class. Hearing that Jungkook, of all people, is remarkable at Potions doesn’t come as a surprise. You are quick to learn just why he had been placed into Ravenclaw, carrying their impressive ambition and intelligence. If anything, you are almost jealous of how easily he seems to pick up on things and can reproduce them at top notch quality.

Your friendship with him is still strained and is perhaps even worse than it had once been ever since the night of the party. Neither of you talk about the moment and, from what either of you were concerned, both of you had long since forgotten the night had ever happened. Unbeknownst to you is that when Jungkook sees how cold and distant you become in the days after, he refuses to tell you the truth that the kiss is always on his mind. So, when you are forced to work with him for any assignments or in-class work, most of your conversations end in constant bickering. Miraculously, somehow, your grades do gradually begin to pick up. 

One day, when you both walk into class, you are greeted to the sight of a smoldering cauldron placed neatly on top of your Professor’s desk, a beautiful scent filling the room that seems to be coming specifically from whatever has been brewing. The liquid contents within contains a mother-of-pearl sheen and clear smoke spirals from it in wisps. As soon as everyone is seated at their desks, your Professor steps forward and begins his lecture.

“Good evening, class!” he chirps. “Today we have a very exciting lecture that has to do with what is currently sitting on my desk. Now, can anyone tell me what exactly it is?”

A few shouts of guesses are tossed into the air but all are wrong as your Professor simply shakes his head. Jungkook raises his hand casually and your Professor points enthusiastically at him. 

“Yes, Jungkook?”

“It’s Amortentia,” he says.

“Right you are, my boy!” Your Professor beams. “Five points to Ravenclaw! This is, in fact, Amortentia. Now, for those of you who do not know what it is, that is perhaps all the best. But as it is, it’s important to educate you on the various effects each potion can have on a being and why someone should, or should not, administer it. Amortentia, simply put, is a love potion.”

Gasps of awe and murmurs from certain students circulate the room as your Professor carries on.

“And not just any love potion — the most powerful love potion in the world,” he says. “If anyone were to receive such a potion, it would cause an intense infatuation and obsession on the drinker. However, the potion must be continuously administered to the drinker or else the effects will wear off and the drinker will regain his or her conscience and free will. Now, if you ever wanted to know how to identify Amortentia, you can rely on its very distinct smell. Differing on the person who smells it, it will always morph into the scent of whomever you desire most. For instance, I smell lemon drops, toothpaste, and parchment paper. You may all smell something different.”

A handful of students lean forward in their seat, desperately moving closer to the cauldron and the potion that carried such charming scents. Despite not wanting to show your immediate interest in something as strange as a love potion, you sit back in your seat but inhale a slow, deep breath of air and the scent that makes your heart skip a beat. It would pose as an obstacle to focusing on the lecture as your Professor carried on, though you find you’re not the only one so easily distracted by it. Halfway through the class, he stops his lecture and informs the students of their task for the evening: replicating Amortentia perfectly with the help of the partner sitting next to them.

So, you and Jungkook immediately head to work, beginning the tedious process of preparing ingredients and brewing the potion. Naturally, your own potion brewing goes faster than others as Jungkook seems to know what to do with everything. For the most part, you sit back and watch, as Jungkook refuses your help any time you offer, claiming you would only just slow him down. When it’s done, and the entire class is still halfway through theirs, you fold your arms over your chest and look up at Jungkook, noting the way his eyebrows scrunch together as he peers down at the glistening potion.

“I can’t smell anything,” You say. “Did you even do this right?”

Jungkook grimaces, though his stare falters. He doesn’t admit it aloud, but he worries for a moment that maybe he isn’t as good at Potions as he thought he was. In the next second, he scowls and shoots you a look.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks. “Of course I did it right! I followed everything properly. It even looks perfect.”

“Well, obviously it isn’t perfect if neither of us can smell anything,” You say.

“Well,” Jungkook says, irritated, “maybe if you didn’t bathe yourself in your ridiculous floral perfume, I could smell something.”

“Me?” Your mouth drops open in an appalled gap. “Now it’s my fault? You’re one to talk. Did you have practice this morning? All I can smell is grass and your stupid lemon shampoo or whatever it is. It’s disgusting.”

The bickering continues on between the two of you until you’ve seemingly grabbed the attention of the entire class. Near the very end of the period, it’s Taehyung who finally says something, leaning back in his chair to look at the two of you. 

“Jungkook didn’t have practice this morning,” he says. “He also didn’t shower because he slept in late. Or did you forget that, Jungkook?”

“And Y/N?” Nayeon chimes in from beside you. “Didn’t you run out of your perfume last week?”

Jungkook clamps his mouth shut. Your own heart stops. Suddenly, your face is burning intensely and Jungkook’s own cheeks are pinched a bright red as, slowly, the realization seems to dawn on the both of you. Chuckles emit from your friends as your Professor signals that the time is up. You don’t dare look at Jungkook as your Professor grades each potion, and then anxiously await the chance to dash out the door when your Professor claims yours and Jungkook’s potion was done just perfect. As soon as he moves on to the next pair, you have gathered your belongings and have darted out the room. You are nearly halfway down the corridor when you hear Jungkook calling after you, begging you to stop.

“Y/N! Hey, Y/N! Wait up, please!”

Your feet quicken in pace as you round the corner. Just when you think you’re free, you feel a hand clasp around your wrist and pull you back into a hardened figure. Jungkook. He’s standing so incredibly close to you now, his gaze softening as he looks you once over. You can only avoid his stare, though your eyes fall to the distraction that is his hand clamped around your wrist. 

“I really am not in the mood to talk right now, Jungkook,” You mumble. “Just leave me alone.”

“What else did you smell?” Jungkook asks.

His question makes you stop. It’s what causes you to carefully lift your stare to look at him.

“What?” You stammer. “What does it matter?”

“Just tell me, please,” he says, his grip tightening around your wrist. “I need to know.”

You could have shaken your head at him, pushed him away and walked off, but the longer you stare at him, the faster you begin to cave. Your mind is instantly brought back to just moments ago and the love potion that had filled your senses. As you think about all the lovely things you could smell, you whisper the answer in a sheepish voice:

“Strawberries.”

There is a split moment where all you can see is Jungkook’s beaming grin before he is pulling you toward him for a kiss that nearly sweeps you off your feet. You collapse against his broad chest, your hands flying up to bundle in his shirt and pull at him tightly as he kisses you and kisses you. You wonder why he had done so spontaneously but then it seems to hit you.

All you can smell on Jungkook, all you can taste, is lemon, grass, and strawberries. 

⟶ All rights reserved to © jungkxook. I do not allow reposting, translating, or any sort of modifying and reuploading of my work.

⟶ Feedback is always appreciated!

[nincompoopydoo]

Can I request a Fred Weasley oneshot with the promts "you don't love him", and "love is supposed to be good". Thanks 😊

GOOD, PURE, AND BEAUTIFUL

PAIRING: Fred Weasley x reader WORD COUNT: 1.9k (about 1000 words my ass) SUMMARY: The Leaky Cauldron serves as a sanctuary to drink your problems away for the night but a certain ginger always seems to find his way to you. Possible part 2? A/N: Sorry this took so long, I had to rewrite the hold dang thing and I know I said I would write around 1000 words but looks like i can’t help but be long-winded. WARNINGS: Angst. Mentions of getting drunk. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERLIST

You find solace in the pint of butterbeer, sitting at a table for two, tucked by the corner and under the archways of the Leaky Cauldron. The passing wizards in sleek venerable trench coats and witches with an odd taste in hats only act as an activity of sightseeing in keeping yourself awake, hypothesizing strangers’ lives and whether they might have gnomes lurking in their gardens or have gardens in the first place.

You are drawn to the drifting scent of butterscotch—the tankard of butterbeer sits glumly in your grasp as it has lost all its foam. You take a sip, more of a gulp, feeling the gas building up in your abdomen, and the sweetness to it almost feels sickening at this point.

Belly full yet feeling extremely empty.

The days leading up to you, being here at the Leaky Cauldron, and playing the part of the drunken witch very well weren't exactly pleasant. Flourish and Blotts seem to lose its shine in fulfilling your love for books and organization with every passing day and your relationship with the boy you met and fell madly in love with during your sixth year don’t seem to hold the same spark as before. Walter was a Ravenclaw—handsome, diligent, and incredibly smart. You and him dating had been an on-and-off situation because the one thing you two share in common is the lack of decisiveness.

Today, tonight, you and Walter are finally resolute. The true end where second, third, or fourth chances will never cease to exist from now on. With the new offer for a job in America, you and he both know drifting apart seems to be the only reasonable solution to the whole mess of what you assumed was love.

He spoke the words in this very spot, sat in the chair across from you. You had been watching the way his thumb would caress the back of his other hand and you knew, the night was bound to end in a disastrous way. An unfortunate turn of events for the witch who doesn’t truly know if she ever loved another or was ever loved.

Yet, you sit here, eyes completely dry. Far from crestfallen, far from regret. Only filled with the dread of not feeling the sadness you’re supposed to be feeling. You ignore how your shoulders feel lighter and how the tightness in your chest seems to have miraculously disappeared as soon as you watched Walter walk out of the Leaky Cauldron.

Are the butterbeers celebratory or depressing? You’re not sure.

You rest your chin on your palm, feeling like you’re in a daze. Butterbeer isn’t necessarily the type of drink to get you intoxicated but noting the rate you’re consuming each mug, it’s no surprise that you’re just a little tipsy.

Then, you see a certain ginger twin emerge from the entrance of the pub like some divine intervention. He seems to spot you from afar, waving in your direction. You lift your hand weakly in the midst of trying to figure out which of the twins you are particularly waving at. It’s Fred Weasley as it turns out, you recognize the certain strides with every step taken towards you that differs him from George. As he nears you, there’s an assurance that it’s certainly Fred with the sight of a mark on the bridge of his nose—an indicator and a technique to tell the twins apart you used when you were younger.

Fred halts by the empty seat diagonally to your left, hands shoved in the pockets.

“I have never seen you here at this hour—are you okay?” Fred cuts himself short, brows turning into a frown when he notices the unusual mess in your hair. If he knows you any better, well-kept and neat hair was all you cared about after the number of times you have furiously whined about the frizz in your hair during the summertime.

It isn’t summer now, well into the end of November. The days are colder and he remembers how your hair would especially shine in the gloom of Autumn.

“Not really.” is all you manage to say before taking the hundredth swig from your nearly empty butterbeer. You inspect the mug with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. “I swear this was full the last time I looked...”

Before you know it, he’s snatching the mug away from you, dragging it across the table as he settles into the empty chair. He stares at you with a beckoning brow, expression mixed with disappointment, disapproval, and worry.

“Hey! That’s my butterbeer, Weasley!” you whine, trying to reach for it but Fred pushes it further, hand securing around it. Without hesitation, you smack him in the arm. “Stop being a complete arse, Fred. What are you even doing here and where’s George anyway?”

Fred winces in pretense pain, dramatically rubbing the side of his arm as he tries to suppress his laughter from your sudden burst of violence. “George is back at the shop going over numbers and as far as I’m concerned, I can be anywhere I want to be. You clearly had too much to drink.”

“But it's butterbeer!”

“That is exactly my point.”

You let out a huff, leaning into your seat and running your fingers through your hair. After a moment’s silence with Fred still staring you down in the effort of getting you to talk, you finally give in. He knows you too well for you to hide anything from him.

“Walter and I broke it off.”

Fred blinks, trying to hide his wide-eyed gaze. “For good?”

You finally turn to him, nodding slowly. “For good.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is soft when in reality he’s trying to hide his relief in hearing that things between you and Walter have finally come to a resolution because falling in and out of a relationship was driving you mad. He cares for you and always has since the very beginning and a part of him wishes for those feelings of infatuation between two melancholic teenagers will emerge back from what he assumed was already dead.

He watches you lean your head back onto your palm, seemingly sinking deeper towards the table as you try to wrap your head around the situation to form proper words with your lips. “You know what’s the worst part of it all?” Fred shakes his head, eyes never breaking contact with your own. “I don’t even feel that sad about it. Like all those years were...nothing.” Your laugh comes out as a puff of air. It’s cynical rather than finding the humor in it. For the first time, he doesn’t laugh when you do.

Another beat of silence and Fred is contemplating whether his next words that beg to be freed from his mind are appropriate in a time like this. Although he knows how he tends to speak his mind without thinking of the consequences, he knows to tread lightly around you from the times when his words nearly tore your friendship apart.

Still, he knows to be honest with you.

Through the chatter of the crowd at the Leaky Cauldron whilst a few men by the other corner of the pub begin to break into singing a drinking song, Fred’s voice comes off as a whisper, barely audible. “You don’t love him, don’t you?”

Your gaze had initially drifted to the bunch of rowdy men, rendering verses about magical whisky and beer. Yet, they now return to hold a certain ginger’s gaze. You want to be offended by his question because of how it supposedly hurts the raw wound of feeling sorry for yourself. Your love life hasn’t been the best and your tendency to jump to your own defense about it is a clear note to everyone that it simply shouldn’t be questioned.

But it’s Fred. The one who has constantly looked out for you when other boys and men seem to take advantage of your hopeless romantic side. The one who would pull a prank on George just to see you smile. The one who ended up taking you to the Yule Ball as his date because Walter, at the time, rejected you like you were nothing. You should have known that it was never meant to be.

You know to be honest with Fred Weasley.

“I don’t think I ever did.”

He doesn’t say anything, wanting to listen as he waits for you to conceive the proper words to finally speak your mind. It is clear you want to let it out and let off of the burden that has trapped you under its knees, constantly looming over your shoulders and causing dread and fear of losing so much in such a short time. The band of merry men as the whole pub begins to join the group in singing about the joys of alcohol, life, and love in the tune of a traditional Scottish muggle song.

You wonder how can these people be so happy in a time of an impending war. Maybe, it's temporary, meant to drown the hurt and sorrows for tonight and when morning comes, they'll return to opening the stitches of their wounds. When morning comes, you will either wake up at this very table or in an empty bed. Either way, you’ll be alone.

Now, all you want to do is get all your worries and troubles off your chest, not wanting to feel so empty and suffocated. “Love,” you pause, inhaling deeply. ”Love is supposed to be good and pure and beautiful. Love was what I thought I had and right now, I don’t know what to make of it, Fred...I thought I was going to marry him someday.” You find yourself sighing once more, already feeling the lightness in your chest. Running your fingers along your cheek, you close your eyes to help yourself focus through your rapid thoughts and your dazed mind. “Everything is going wrong. I hate my job. I hate my bed. I’m drunk on butterbeer for Merlin’s sake. I feel so, so alone—”

“Ah, and that’s where you are wrong.”

Your eyes are open now, narrowed from adjusting to the sudden brightness of the candlelit place. They drift to Fred who seems very content. He then places his hand on yours and you realize you had been fiddling with your fingers for the last minute. His hand is warm on yours and the heat gradually travels to your chest, heartbeat now slightly picking up in speed. If you listen close enough, you would be able to hear it.

“You are never alone. Not when I’m around and you know I will always be around.”

His words tug at the side of your lips, now widening into a faint smile. It’s small but it’s the kind that reaches your eyes and raises your cheeks. “Thank you, Freddie.”

Then, you watch him abruptly come to a stand, chair screeching. He tugs on the lapels of his coat, adjusting it with the roll of his shoulders. He grabs the back of his chair, and leans forward, towards you. “George and I are visiting the Burrow for the weekend. I’m sure mum won’t mind you staying over.”

You blink, mouth slightly agape at his offer. “I don’t want to trouble anybody—”

“Don’t be silly. Mum loves you more than George and I combined. And she loves us a lot!”

You laugh and it’s genuine this time, knowing how Molly will be always whispering to you about what makes Fred a good husband in the kitchen when you’re washing up the plates and how she will never let you go to bed hungry.

The burrow is like your second home and right now, home is all you want and need.

“Alright, then.”

[cerberuscaeli]

I just need to rant, it will be unter the cut, so you can just ignore it if you don't want to read it. But also a quick thing, my next fic will be either an Xiao or Childe fic (or maybe Kaeya? Let me know which character you would prefer.) And will be a pretty self indulgant fic bc I need it. It'll be a bit angsty with some comfort, but I just need to figure out which char I want to pair up with. It will be about a reader that has difficulties sitting still and normally doesn't really get bothered by it until someone says something about it and reader gets insecure and the paired character being sweet and all comforting etc. ♡

Rant under the read more button. (You can just scroll away if you don't want to read it.)

I'll add dates to it to make it a bit clear.

Anyways, so thursday 16 June I had to let a CT scan taken for my lower jaw. I have a wisdom teeth that is growing wrongly and they needed pictures for the operation because the wisdom teeth is near a nerve and if it goes wrong I can lose feeling in my lower lip.

So, I am someone that cannot lay still or sit still. I always need something in my hands to fumble with, wether it is when I am walking, or when in class, if I don't have anything in my hands to fumble with I keep bouncing my legs or just keep changing positions I am sitting in.

Anyways, so I had to take that scan and needed to lay still for it. It normally doesn't take long. I had to do it 3 freaking times!! The first time the iron piece of my mask was on it so they had to take it away. Second time I apparantly swallowed when the picture got taken, swallowing also got count as movement (and the entire time I tried to lay still, but I kept getting twitches in my legs and head from forcing myself to lay still.)

So, the doctor taking those scans walked up to me, placed my head back right and I tried to keep the sticks in my mouth but not biting on it. (Idk why they gave me sticks to put under my teeth, probably to get a certain angle of my jaw.) And well I was already starting to panic, tears welling in my eyes but the doctor would tell me when I could swallow and when not.

So 3rd round finished and she told me I was done and did well and I once again told her I found it very difficult bc I can't lay still. Anyways, it was done and I could go home.

Friday 17th June we got a call from the hospital apparantly I had also moved on the 3rd!! round of taking the scan picture, I bursted out in crying!! I tried so hard to lay still only to hear it wasn't good and the soonest I could take a new scan would be end June.

So, I was in tears so my mom called around mainly to ask if I still could get my wisfom teeth get removed. Even when it would be just 1 or 2 out of those 4. They told me they would call back on Monday, June 20. My operation is supposed to be on Wednesday June 22.

My wisdom teeth have been hurting like a bitch since November 2021, we got me a dentist appointment somewhere on January 2022, and I got a scan in April and got the operation planned for this month. (For that scan I had to olace my chin on a holder and then the devide would turn around me. I once again had a hard time keeping my head still and to not move.)

And in the whole meantime the communication between the hospital and us sucked as fuck. They had papers for the CT scan but we didn't know anything about it!

Anyways, back to today (June 17.) I made an appointment with my doctor, luckily being able to go today and we told about everything that happened and how annoying and insecure it all made me. We talked about what it could be, if it could be of my medication I take for my epilepsy or if we should test me on ADHD, but then my doctor went all sweet!!

She asked me what I would get if I took the test and I said "Just a label," where she responded on that I said that well and she told me that I was just me. That those ticks (she called it them) were a part of me. That it is who I am and no one should say differently and that it was wrong from the hospital to act like that etc. And that it doesn't matter if I am a more of a restless or nervous person because that is what makes me 'me', and she for sure boosted my confidence back up, I'm so gratefull for that!!

Of course it still haunts me and is literally keeping me awake, even though my doctor is totally right, my ticks are a part of me. Not being able to sit still is a part of me. It's who I am. But well, knowing that it did mess up the 3 tries of the scan still weighs heavily on me.

I just hope the operantion can happen as I have been going through hell with the pain for months. I even took antibiotics twice! I'm just so done with it and just needed to get it off my chest.

So, lots of cookies to anyone that readnit ♡♡

[homosexuhauls]

15 JUNE, 2021 by Chimamanda Ngozi-Adichie

IT IS OBSCENE: A TRUE REFLECTION IN THREE PARTS

PART ONE

When you are a public figure, people will write and say false things about you. It comes with the territory. Many of those things you brush aside. Many you ignore. The people close to you advise you that silence is best. And it often is. Sometimes, though, silence makes a lie begin to take on the shimmer of truth.

In this age of social media, where a story travels the world in minutes, silence sometimes means that other people can hijack your story and soon, their false version becomes the defining story about you.

Falsehood flies, and the Truth comes limping after it, as Jonathan Swift wrote.

Take the case of a young woman who attended my Lagos writing workshop some years ago; she stood out because she was bright and interested in feminism.

After the workshop, I welcomed her into my life. I very rarely do this, because my past experiences with young Nigerians left me wary of people who are calculating and insincere and want to use me only as an opportunity. But she was a Bright Young Nigerian Feminist and I thought that was worth making an exception.

She spent time in my Lagos home. We had long conversations. I was support-giver, counsellor, comforter.

Then I gave an interview in March 2017 in which I said that a trans woman is a trans woman, (the larger point of which was to say that we should be able to acknowledge difference while being fully inclusive, that in fact the whole premise of inclusiveness is difference.)

I was told she went on social media and insulted me.

This woman knows me enough to know that I fully support the rights of trans people and all marginalized people. That I have always been fiercely supportive of difference, in general. And that I am a person who reads and thinks and forms my opinions in a carefully considered way.

Of course she could very well have had concerns with the interview. That is fair enough. But I had a personal relationship with her. She could have emailed or called or texted me. Instead she went on social media to put on a public performance.

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. But I mostly held myself responsible. My spirit had been slightly stalled, from the beginning, by her. My first sense of unease with her came when she posted a photo taken in my house, at a time when I did not want any photos of my personal life on social media. I asked that she take it down. The second case of unease was her publicizing something I had told her in confidence about another member of the workshop. The most upsetting was when she, without telling me, used my name to apply for an American visa. Above all else was my lingering suspicion that she was a person who chose as friends only those from whom she could benefit. But she was a Bright Young Nigerian Feminist and I allowed that sentiment to over-ride my unease.

After she publicly insulted me, it was clear to me that this kind of noxious person had no business in my life, ever again.

A few months later, she sent this affected, self-regarding email which I ignored.

Friday September 15 2017 at 4.35 AM

Dearest Chimamanda,

Happy birthday. I mean this with all my heart, even though I know I have fallen (removed myself?) from your grace. It would be impossible for me to stop loving you; long before you gave me the possibility of being your friend you were the embodiment of my deepest hopes, and that will never change.

I think of you often, still – stating the obvious. I grieve the loss of our friendship; it is a complicated sadness. I’m sorry that I caused you pain, or to feel like you can no longer trust me. There’s so much that I wish could be said.

I pray this birthday is the happiest one yet. I wish you rest and quiet and abiding stability, and of course more of the kind of success that means the most to you.

I hope mothering X is everything you hoped and prayed for and more.

Have a wonderful day today.

Love always.

About a year later, she sent this email, which I also ignored.

Thursday November 29 2018 at 8.42 AM

Dear Chimamanda,

I realise this is long overdue and vastly insufficient, but I’m really sorry. I’ve spent so much time going back and forth in my head and my email drafts; wondering whether to write you, how to write you, what to say, all kinds of things. But in the end, this is the thing I realise I need to say.

I’m sorry I disappointed and hurt you by saying things publicly that were sharply critical, unkind and even disrespectful, especially in light of all the backlash and criticism you experience from people who don’t know you. I could have acted with more consideration towards you. I should have, especially given the privilege of intimacy that you had offered me. There are many reasons why I chose to behave the way I did, but none of them is an excuse. And I clearly realise now, after many, many months of needless sadness and angst and hurt and actual confusion, that I did not treat you as a friend would—certainly not as someone would to whom you had offered unprecedented access to yourself and your life.

You’ve meant the world to me since I was barely a teenager. It’s been very hard navigating the emotional fallout of the past several months, knowing you were displeased with me but truly not quite understanding why, then deciding I didn’t care, then realising that would never be true. I’ve always cared. But I was too mixed up about the situation to be able to make sense of it, or properly see past my own justifications. I’m sorry it took me so long to grasp how I let you down.

I realise that I don’t have room to ask anything of you, but I would be grateful for a chance to say this in person. Still, even if I never get that, I really hope you believe me.

Congratulations on restarting the workshop, and on all the other amazing successes of the past several months. I think of you often; it would be impossible not to. You look so happy in your pictures. I really hope you are well.

All my love,

I hoped never to hear from her again. But she has recently gone on social media to write about how she “refused to kiss my ring,” as if I demanded some kind of obeisance from her. She also suggests that there is some dark, shadowy ‘more’ to tell that she won’t tell, with an undertone of “if only you knew the whole story.”

It is a manipulative way of lying. By suggesting there is ‘more’ when you know very well that there isn’t, you do sufficient reputational damage while also being able to plead deniability. Innuendo without fact is immoral.

No, there isn’t more to the story. It is a simple story – you got close to a famous person, you publicly insulted the famous person to aggrandize yourself, the famous person cut you off, you sent emails and texts that were ignored, and you then decided to go on social media to peddle falsehoods. It is obscene to tell the world that you refused to kiss a ring when in fact there isn’t any ring at all.

I cannot make much of the hostility of strangers who do not know me – fame taints our view of the humanity of famous people. But the truth is that the famous person remains irretrievably human. Fame does not inoculate the famous person from disappointment and depression, fame does not make you any less angered or hurt by the duplicitous nature of people. To be famous is to be assumed to have power, which is true, but in the analysis of fame, people often ignore the vulnerability that comes with fame, and they are unable to see how others who have nothing to lose can lie and connive in order to take advantage of that fame, while not giving a single thought to the feelings and humanity of the famous person.

And when you personally know a famous person, when you have experienced their humanity, when you have benefited from their kindness, and yet you are unable to extend to them the basic grace and respect that even a casual acquaintanceship deserves, then it says something fundamental about you.

And in a deluded way, you will convince yourself that your hypocritical, self-regarding, compassion-free behavior is in fact principled feminism. It isn’t. You will wrap your mediocre malice in the false gauziness of ideological purity. But it’s still malice. You will tell yourself that being able to parrot the latest American Feminist orthodoxy justifies your hacking at the spirit of a person who had shown you only kindness. You can call your opportunism by any name, but it doesn’t make it any less of the ugly opportunism that it is.

PART TWO

When I first read this person’s work, which was their application to my writing workshop, I thought the sentences were well-done. I accepted this person. At the workshop, I thought they could have been more respectful of the other participants, perhaps not kept typing dismissively as others’ stories were discussed, with an air of being among people below their level. After the workshop, I decided to select the best stories, edit them, pay the writers a fee, and publish them in an e-magazine. The first story I chose was this person’s. I wrote a glowing introduction, which the story truly deserved.

They sent this email.

Fri, Aug 7, 2015, 8:20 AM

Thank you so much for that introduction. It means so much to me and I’m going to keep reading it to get through the rest of my stay at Syracuse. I sent it to my mother and she got nervous about the piece because you said ‘it disturbs’, said she’s not sure how she’s going to feel when she reads it. But she’s also one of those ‘let’s leave the past in the past’ people. My sister approved, which meant a lot because our childhoods were each other’s.

All that to say, I’m so grateful you gave me the space to write the short version of this piece, the encouragement to write the longer piece, and now, a platform for it. I definitely have plans to write more about Aba.

Thank you, with all my heart.

PS- I wanted to sign off gratefully + gracefully in Igbo but I said let me not fall my own hand 🙂

About a year later, they sent another email to let me know that their novel would be published.

Wed, Jun 8, 2016, 8:20 AM

Greetings!

I hope all’s been well with you this past year. Belated congratulations on the baby’s arrival, I hope she’s being a delight (I’m sure she is), and on the Johns Hopkins honors.

I was thinking about how this time last year, I’d just received the email from you about Farafina and I wanted to reach out with a quick update. I’ve just accepted an offer for the novel I excerpted as my application and it feels like the workshop was a catalyst for the events that’ve led me here. So, thank you, for the workshop and your words and the Olisa TV series and listening to me babble on about my story at the hotel. I deeply appreciate all of it and you.

All my best,

Before the novel was published, I spoke of it to some people, to help it get attention. I had not been able to finish reading it. I found the writing beautiful, but the story false-hearted and burdened by bathos. When I spoke of the novel, however, it was the former sentiment that I expressed, never the latter.

After I gave the March 2017 interview in which I said that a trans woman is a trans woman, I was told that this person had insulted me on social media, calling me, among other things, a murderer. I was deeply upset, because while I did not really know them personally, I felt they knew what I stood for and that I fully supported the rights of trans people, and that I do not wish anybody dead.

Still, I took no action. I ignored the public insult.

When this person’s publishers sent me an early copy of their novel, I was surprised to see that my name was included in their cover biography. I had never seen that done in a book before. I didn’t like that I had not been asked for permission to use my name, but most of all I thought – why would a person who thinks I’m a murderer want my name so prominently displayed in their biography?

Then I learned that, because my name was in the cover biography, a journalist had called them my “protegee” and they then threw a Twitter tantrum about it, calling it clickbait, viciously disavowing having received any help from me.

I knew this person had called me a murderer, I knew they were actively campaigning to “cancel” me and tweeting about how I should no longer be invited to speak at events. But this I felt I could not ignore.

I sent an email to my representative:

From: Chimamanda Adichie

Date: Wed, Feb 14, 2018 at 2:06 PM

I’m writing about X

She attended my Lagos workshop two years ago and I selected hers as one of a few pieces I published after the workshop.

Apparently I was referred to as her ‘mentor’ and/or she was referred to as my ‘protege,’ in some articles, which led to her tweeting about it. Her tweets were forwarded to me by friends. In them, she reacted quite viscerally to my being called her ‘mentor’ and her being my ‘protege.’ To be fair, she is not technically my ‘protege,’ and it is perfectly fine that she feels this way, but her ungracious tone and the ugliness of the energy spent on her tweets surprised me.

I recently received her book and noticed that my name was included in her official book bio. I was stunned. Surely if she is so strongly averse to my being considered a person who has been significant in her career, (which is my understanding of the loose use of protege/mentor) then it is unseemly to make the choice to include my name in her bio. I found it unusual, as I don’t think I’ve seen it done before in a book bio, but I also now find it unacceptably cynical.

It is only reasonable for a person who sees my name as it is used in her bio — ‘her work has been selected and edited by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’ — to assume some sort of mentor/protege relationship.

To publicly disavow this with a tone bordering on hostility and at the same time so baldly use my name to sell her book is utterly unacceptable to me.

I’d like you to please reach out to her publishers and ask that my name be removed from her official book bio. I refuse to be used in this way.

After contacting her publishers, my representative wrote:

They have asked whether your preference would be to remove the Acknowledgment to you in the back of the book also, in future reprints.

I replied:

I don’t think that is my decision to take, and so will not answer either way, although it would be ideal if she herself made the decision to do so.

On the subject of how to go about it, I was absolutely determined not to be used by this person, but I was also sensitive to the costs the publisher might incur, as this was not in any way the publisher’s fault. Instead of pulping the already printed copies, I asked that the jackets be stripped and rebound. To my representative I wrote:

I’m completely determined that I not be used in this opportunistic and hypocritical way. But I want to make sure to proceed reasonably.

I was assured that my name would be removed and I moved on.

But from time to time, I would be informed of yet another social media post in which this person had attacked me.

This person has created a space in which social media followers have – and this I find unforgiveable – trivialized my parents’ death, claiming that the sudden and devastating loss of my parents within months of each other during this pandemic, was ‘punishment’ for my ‘transphobia.’

This person has asked followers to pick up machetes and attack me.

This person began a narrative that I had sabotaged their career, a narrative that has been picked up and repeated by others.

The normal response would be to ignore it all, because this person is seeking attention and publicity to benefit themselves. Claiming that I have sabotaged their career is a lie and this person knows that it is a lie. But if something is repeated often enough, in this age in which people do not need proof or verification to run with a story, especially a story that has outrage potential, then it can easily begin to seem true.

My addressing this lie will indeed get this person some attention – may they bask in it.

Here is the truth: I was very supportive of this writer. I didn’t have to be. I wasn’t asked to be. I supported this writer because I believe we need a diverse range of African stories.

Sabotaging a young writer’s career is just not my style; I would get no benefit or satisfaction from it. Asking that my name be removed from your biography is not sabotaging your career. It is about protecting my boundaries of what I consider acceptable in civil human behavior.

You publicly call me a murderer AND still feel entitled to benefit from my name?

You use my name (without my permission) to sell your book AND then throw an ugly tantrum when someone makes a reference to it?

What kind of monstrous entitlement, what kind of perverse self-absorption, what utter lack of self-awareness, what unheeding heartlessness, what frightening immaturity makes a person act this way?

Besides, a person who genuinely believes me to be a murderer cannot possibly want my name on their book cover, unless of course that person is a rank opportunist.

PART THREE

In certain young people today like these two from my writing workshop, I notice what I find increasingly troubling: a cold-blooded grasping, a hunger to take and take and take, but never give; a massive sense of entitlement; an inability to show gratitude; an ease with dishonesty and pretension and selfishness that is couched in the language of self-care; an expectation always to be helped and rewarded no matter whether deserving or not; language that is slick and sleek but with little emotional intelligence; an astonishing level of self-absorption; an unrealistic expectation of puritanism from others; an over-inflated sense of ability, or of talent where there is any at all; an inability to apologize, truly and fully, without justifications; a passionate performance of virtue that is well executed in the public space of Twitter but not in the intimate space of friendship.

I find it obscene.

There are many social-media-savvy people who are choking on sanctimony and lacking in compassion, who can fluidly pontificate on Twitter about kindness but are unable to actually show kindness. People whose social media lives are case studies in emotional aridity. People for whom friendship, and its expectations of loyalty and compassion and support, no longer matter. People who claim to love literature – the messy stories of our humanity – but are also monomaniacally obsessed with whatever is the prevailing ideological orthodoxy. People who demand that you denounce your friends for flimsy reasons in order to remain a member of the chosen puritan class.

People who ask you to ‘educate’ yourself while not having actually read any books themselves, while not being able to intelligently defend their own ideological positions, because by ‘educate,’ they actually mean ‘parrot what I say, flatten all nuance, wish away complexity.’

People who do not recognize that what they call a sophisticated take is really a simplistic mix of abstraction and orthodoxy – sophistication in this case being a showing-off of how au fait they are on the current version of ideological orthodoxy.

People who wield the words ‘violence’ and ‘weaponize’ like tarnished pitchforks. People who depend on obfuscation, who have no compassion for anybody genuinely curious or confused. Ask them a question and you are told that the answer is to repeat a mantra. Ask again for clarity and be accused of violence. (How ironic, speaking of violence, that it is one of these two who encouraged Twitter followers to pick up machetes and attack me.)

And so we have a generation of young people on social media so terrified of having the wrong opinions that they have robbed themselves of the opportunity to think and to learn and to grow.

I have spoken to young people who tell me they are terrified to tweet anything, that they read and re-read their tweets because they fear they will be attacked by their own. The assumption of good faith is dead. What matters is not goodness but the appearance of goodness. We are no longer human beings. We are now angels jostling to out-angel one another. God help us. It is obscene.

[gucciwins]

Three Time

The one where Harry, Atticus, and Y/N celebrate. 

Word Count: 2,988

A/N: Hello friends, this is a little continuation to my story Adore You.  Harry is now a three time grammy nominated artist and i think that is beautiful. This is something short and i really do hope you enjoy it. 

There is a lot that happened this year that she never saw coming. 

First, a worldwide pandemic that would keep everyone locked indoors and having to wear masks. Secondly, Harry's Love on Tour getting rescheduled to 2021, but even that isn't looking good now. And lastly, being in Los Angeles in November as Harry is filming a movie as the lead male actor. 

Ever since Fine Line was released in December, time seemed to fly by for them.

Harry was overjoyed at how loved Fine Line was by his fans. He was getting support left and right. He was a humble man, never letting it go to his head, always saying he couldn't do it without the help of the people on his team. 

There have been rumors flying around speculating Harry having a girlfriend, a famous songwriter, but they have learned to ignore it. Harry doesn't feel the need to address his relationships because it's theirs. He would love to shout his love for Y/N to the world, but as long as she knows, he's content. 

They celebrated their one year anniversary in Italy for a week before flying back home, they would have stayed longer, but they missed Atticus too much to do that. As soon as they got home, it felt like everything changed. Not between them, but with the world. It was madness to see a lockdown, fear had spiked, but safety was a priority that they took seriously. Meaning they had to take it day by day.

Ever since the worldwide lockdown in March, Harry discussed staying in Los Angeles with Mitch and Sarah for a few months. Atticus was quick to agree, but Y/N really wanted to go home. Harry reminded her it was better to be surrounded by a good group of friends than to be distanced from everyone in London's separate homes. She was quick to agree after. 

Y/N didn't mind it much after; they all always helped each other out. There was also a lot of music playing, as well as creating. Harry said they might just have to get Mitch to release a quarantine album, which got Harry hit in the head with a pillow. 

The one who was taking this the hardest was Atticus, missing Anne and Gemma, who was back in London. He missed going to the park to play, he missed running around free, and honestly, she did as well. They would go hiking and on walks, but it was not as open as before. 

This is why, by June, they returned back home to London, and after a week of quarantine and negative test results, they went on the journey to visit both families. Y/N separated from them to visit her mother and step-dad even though Harry tried to convince her they could go together, but honestly, as much as she loved Anne and had started to see her as a second mother, she really needed a hug from her own. She promised Harry and Atticus she would see them the day after as she was coming to see Anne and they would stay the week with her. 

During this time, Y/n started knitting, something she learned at a young age but would only do when she was stressed. She began teaching Atticus, but he could only keep still for a little bit before he had to run off and do a new activity. She knitted socks, hats, and blankets for their family and friends and shipped them off to them. Y/N even made Atticus and herself the JW Anderson Cardigan. It was a lot of work, but it came out lovely. Harry made them do a little backyard photoshoot because he loved it so much.  

Harry had even surprised her when he told her it would be on the cover of Vogue. She was in shock, but she never stopped hugging him, telling Harry how proud of him she was. The day of the shoot was gorgeous, she had to remind herself to breathe a few times, or she would have passed out. Atticus was in the shoot with Gemma and Harry as they did a family shoot to surprise Anne. Harry kept asking her if she was enjoying it, and honestly, her smile said everything. That she was proud of him, that he was doing fantastic but most importantly, that she loved him. The skirt had a lot of filthy thoughts floating through her head, and she really hoped they'd lend it to Harry if she told him everything she wanted to do with him, specifically her under that skirt touching him. 

Harry had her join for a few photos, Lambert pulling out a surprising look just for her. Harry promised these photos were just for them, even if he wanted to have them put one in just so the world could know how much he loved his family. 

It's November now, and they are in Y/N's Malibu home, which they have been staying at since October. Harry has started filming "Don't Worry Darling," in Olivia Wilde's film. It was surreal when they found out; she couldn't be any prouder. Staying in her home was an easy choice; not many knowing where she lives, only a few friends, and Atticus loves having the beach so close even if it is a little too cold to go in now. 

Y/N and Atticus can't go to set due to safety and regulations, but Harry calls and facetime them every time he gets a break in his trailer. He lets them know he misses them, but he really loves everyone he's working with. That the cast is incredible and kind. Harry would not stop teasing Y/N for her reaction when she saw the wedding ring on his left hand. It made her stop mid-sentence. Husband Harry is something she wishes to one day get because Dad Harry is an angel to his sweet son. 

Harry has recently gone back to filming as it was postponed for two weeks because someone on set came out positive to make up for the lost time they started filming on weekends, which bummed out Atticus. Still, Harry quickly told him it wasn't his choice and that they would watch movies of his options as soon as he was back. Atticus loves Y/N a lot, but he's never going to love anyone more than his dad, even though Atticus does push Harry second sometimes. 

More times than not, Harry will get home and find Y/N and Atticus napping in a new place of the house; the last time was outback in a little tent Y/N set up with fairy lights and had many pillows and blankets to stay warm. Harry was quick to climb in and wrap his arms around Y/N, who quickly woke up due to his cold hands, but he apologized quickly with kisses. She's a sucker for his kisses.

Every moment together is special for them. 

Atticus called her 'Mum' a week ago and ran off, feeling embarrassed would not talk to her all day. Which was hard to do, seeing that they were the only three people in the house. Harry saw how sulky she was and talked with Atticus because neither would tell him what happened. Harry was surprised when Atticus told him what he said, but he was mostly filled with joy and a bit of fear. A fear that she could leave any day and not only would he be left heartbroken but so would his son, but he knows Y/N and the love she has for them. She's here forever, she might not say it, but her actions say enough for her. How she tucks in Atticus to bed with a kiss and an 'I love you.' Asking Anne and her mother on first time parenting tips when she thinks Harry isn't around. How much she cried when he got a scrape on his knee for the time in her care. There isn't anything stopping her from leaving, but she stays because she loves all she has. In the end, Atticus apologized for not speaking with her, and she hugged him and cuddled him all night long. Harry told Atticus that Y/N wasn't his mother, but she loved him like one and that it was okay with him if she called her that. Y/N was fearful of being a mom, but she loved Atticus like her own; even if she hadn't watched and cared for him since he was born, she was here known and would do so for as long as Harry and Atticus let her. 

November 24th, a long-awaited day for artists in the music industry. Harry has to be on set at 11AM today, meaning they will be watching the live stream together. Jeff is with Glenne and is on facetime with Harry. He has his phone perched up against a candle. Harry is sitting in the middle, Atticus to his left and Y/N to his right. He's in sweats and a plain white tee, not needing to be dressed up, seeing as it only is nine in the morning. 

The live stream is an hour-long. Y/N truly forgets how many categories they have until she watches. They woke up at eight am, had pancakes for breakfast, and spoke of their daily plans letting time go by them, allowing them to enjoy breakfast together as they do each morning. 

Atticus can barely sit still, just wanting to hear his daddy's name being called. Harry is surprisingly quiet, just sitting back with his arms crossed as the live stream goes on. Honestly, Y/N is the only one showing emotion. She cheers as she hears HAIM and Phoebe Bridgers get nominated. She itches to grab her phone to shoot them a congratulations message but fears she'll miss something, so she just gives herself a silent reminder to do it after. 

Sharon Osbourne had just begun to say the nominees for Best Comedy Album, and Y/N knows what is coming up soon. She isn't even listening to the nominees, just waiting for her to name the Best Music Video nominees. 

As soon as she says, "Brown Skin Girl, Beyoncé," Y/N feels Harry's hand on her thigh tighten, and she feels for him. His nerves must be out of the roof, but he tries his best not to show it. Y/N shuts her eyes tight, putting her hand over his to let him know she's there for him. 

When she hears the words "Adore You, Harry Styles," she feels her heart speed up. She opens her eyes wide and looks at Harry; his face is blank. Atticus is running circles around the couch, just cheering and yelling nonsense. Jeff and Glenne are cheering from the phone. 

Harry lets out a big smile when he finally meets her eyes. "Adore you did it, angel." She whispers.

He nods. "That's unreal. To hear my name." 

She leans in to give him a quick kiss as they settle back down, ready to listen for the upcoming categories. Megan the Stallion is starting the new section of categories, and Y/N isn't sure how to feel because she won't be able to take it if they don't name Harry again. 

"Best Pop Solo Performance, Watermelon Sugar." This time they all break out into cheers as soon as they hear them call Harry's name after Dua Lipa's. "Watermelon Sugar" had been a hit from the day of its release. Now it has been nominated for a Grammy feels unreal to Harry. Two nominations, he would have never believed it. 

Y/N's buzzing waiting for Megan to announce Best Pop Vocal Album. Harry is now leaning forward, knowing this is another category he could potentially be nominated for. 

"Fine Line Harry Styles" As soon as she hears those words, the tears start running down her face; he did this. His album was nominated. Harry can't stop smiling as Atticus hugs him tight around his neck. He lets out a small chuckle as he sees her tears. He pulls her in, kissing her head repeatedly, smiling at Jeff's congratulations but mostly basking in the joy of three nominations and that he has the opportunity to share it with those he loves. 

Harvey Mason JR. is here once again to announce the general field categories. Harry and Y/N nod along as the names of the nominees are called out. Jeff let out a cheer hearing HAIM nominated for album of the year. Y/N sighs, not hearing Harry being nominated but continues ready to hear Adore You for record of the year. Only it doesn't happen. Harvey Mason JR. bids everyone goodbye, and just like that, it's over. 

Jeff breaks the silence, congratulating Harry before hanging up. Harry sits back with Atticus in his lap, a big smile on his face. 

Harry is happy. Extremely happy, this has always been a dream of his, one he never knew would come true. 

His second album got him three Grammy nominations. Atticus has no clue what these awards mean, but he's happy just seeing Harry and Y/N happy.  Atticus climbs off Harry's lap, kissing Harry and Y/N's cheek, saying he's going to his room now. 

Harry turns to look at Y/N, and the smile she had has now left her face, and now she sits there, lost in thought. This worries Harry; she was fine moments ago. He's got to go soon, so he needs to figure this out now. 

"Honey, you alright?" Harry places his hand on her thigh, and she looks at him, nodding. 

"Fine." She kisses his cheek. "Really happy for you." 

Harry knows she is, but there's something else. "Spill." 

She sighs, knowing nothing gets past him. "You weren't named for any general category. I'm proud of the three you got, but I was sure you would be at least nominated for record of the year." Awards don't mean much to Y/N anymore, but she knows how important this is for Harry. "I'm sorry, ruining your mood." 

"You didn't. Thank you for caring so much." His smile is sincere, and she knows he wouldn't lie to her. 

"It's okay," Harry tells her, wanting her to repeat it with him.

"But Harry," He puts his hands on her cheeks to get her to stop and look at him. 

"Honey, it's okay. Three nominations are amazing, and I couldn't be happier." 

"I know," She deflates. "3-time Grammy Nominated Artist Harry Styles has a nice ring to it." She smirks, noting the blush on his cheek. 

"Dork." He leans in to kiss her nose. 

"Fine Line is still my favorite album, you know, from everything released, named number one." 

"You're just saying that." 

Y/N shakes her head no, "Of course not. Yours is the one album I had on repeat the most. My Spotify wrapped will prove just that." 

Harry snorts, "You're too much." 

He pulls her in to lay on his chest, her arms snake around his waist. They hold each other tight. 

"I'm proud of you," Harry whispers in her ear. 

Y.N leans back, but Harry's hold is tight. "I did nothing; you just got nominated. For your second album, you deserve all the praise today." 

"Honey, will you let me continue." Harry laughs. 

"Sorry, H." 

"I'm proud of you because, without you, this album would have never been finished. I would have never had the inspiration to finish Adore You. Would have never had the idea to make a fake island and promote it without ever adding my name to it. I would have never thought to film using a CGI fish, as my friend in the story. I would have never had the released "Lights Up," the song that started this new era for me but most importantly, I would have never found love. A love that is bigger than me that fills me with so much joy. A love that leaves me scared. A love that will forever keep on growing." Harry smiles as he wipes away her tears. 

Harry loves Y/N with all he has. This album was his, but it was also hers. It's what truly brought them together. 

"You made me cry, you jerk." She says, laying her head in the crook of his neck.

Harry laughs. "I just poured my heart out to you, and I'm the jerk." 

"I love you." Harry grins. That's all he wants to hear. "I'll love you, today, tomorrow, forever for as long as you let me. 

Harry can't contain his happiness and needs to show her. He connects their lips. It's a hard, fast kiss full of passion. They pull away because their smiles don't let them continue much. 

"You've got to go." Y/N reminds him as he continues to press kisses all over her face and neck. 

Harry settles down, smiling down at her. "I know." She leans forward, kissing him quickly. "We'll celebrate more when I get home tonight." 

"Three nominations, wow!" Y/N says, standing up. "We're in for a long celebration once we get Atticus down to sleep." She wags her eyebrows at him.

Harry very quickly gets the hint. "I can't wait, honey." 

Atticus comes bouncing down the steps giving his dad a kiss goodbye, walking him to the door, barefoot. Y/N follows Harry, giving her one last kiss goodbye as he walks to his car. 

As he gets in and pulls out of the driveway, he sees Y/N and Atticus waving goodbye to him. Harry has a big smile on his face that no one can see. He's thankful to now be a 3-time Grammy-nominated artist, but what he is most grateful for is getting to be the person who gets to love Y/N and Atticus forever.

Thank you for reading! This was just a small little piece for a beloved piece I wrote. If inspiration strikes, I shall be revisiting this story. 

Please let me know what you thought!

[marauders-venting]

It Can’t Be

pairing: wolfstar (remus x sirius)

genre: angst

warnings: lots of mentions of death and a funeral, grief and mourning

words: 1906

a/n: this fic is an au in which Sirius has a trial. He is found innocent and Peter is arrested. the fic is set after the trial has ended

Sirius stood, his hands clenched so tight on the handle of Harry’s stroller that his knuckles were white. It had been a good idea to bring the stroller because there was no way he could’ve carried Harry in his arms right now. His whole body was shaking. It had only been a few days since Lily and James had died but so much had happened since then. Sirius had been to Azkaban and had a trial, Peter had been arrested, Remus had disappeared and suddenly Sirius was Harry’s legal guardian. With everything that had happened, Sirius hadn’t even had time to process it, let alone accept it. In his mind, Lily and James Potter could not be dead. They just couldn’t. But evidently, they were because Sirius was attending their funeral at the moment. They were because any minute he would have to give his eulogy. Sirius wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do it but he had to. He owed it to Lily and James.

So when the minister called Sirius up to speak, he rolled Harry’s stroller over to the front of the room and faced everybody. Sirius looked around at the people in the room; their expressions were passive. These people don’t care about Lily and James, Sirius thought. No, all they care about is that Voldemort is gone. The only person other than himself who looked even remotely sad was Professor McGonagall, who was sitting in the back of the room, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. And… Remus! He’s here. Remus is here. Well of course he’s here you idiot, he arranged the funeral, said a voice in his head, he set this up for Lily and James while you were moping in a prison cell. Sirius needed the voice to shut up. He didn’t have time for this now. He wanted to honour Lily and James properly. So he took a deep breath and spoke.

“James Potter was my best friend,” he said, ignoring the ache in his chest and the tears pricking his eyes. “He was my brother. Never have I known a person so full of kindness and love for other people and so willing to share it.” It was only ever with him that I felt truly safe. And now he’s gone. Sirius couldn’t say it. He swallowed hard and went on. “And Lily…” even just saying her name hurt, “Lily lit up every room she walked into.” There was more but Sirius couldn’t speak. Tears were streaming down his face. He skipped to the last few lines, the part he was determined to say before he collapsed. “She got f-far less time than she should have. They both did. If I could trade my life for theirs I would. James and Lily… they deserved the world—” Sirius choked. And I was going to give it to them. It was my job. And I failed. That was it. Sirius had written more but he couldn’t go on. “Thank you.” He walked back to his seat and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t care that these people were seeing him cry. He had failed. The least he could have done was properly eulogise Lily and James but he’d fucked that up too.

“Pa’foot?” came Harry’s voice. Sirius wiped his tears away and looked up.

“Yes, Harry?” he said quietly.

“Pa’foot sad,” Harry said.

“Nah, I’m not sad, Prongslet,” Sirius said, feeling a sharp stab of pain at the nickname. Prongslet. Little Prongs. Prongs’ kid. James’ kid. But James was gone. And Harry… Harry didn’t even seem to know that. “Come on,” Sirius said, picking Harry up out of the stroller and sitting him down on his lap. “Uncle Moony’s going to speak now so we need to be quiet.” Remus stood at the front of the room, about to give his eulogy.

“Moo’ee!” Harry called, waving at Remus. Remus gave Harry a small smile and wave, pointedly avoiding Sirius’ eyes.

“Shh,” Sirius whispered to Harry. “We need to be quiet, Harry.”

“Shh,” Harry repeated, putting a finger on his lips and looking from Sirius to Remus and then laying his head down on Sirius’ chest. Remus’ eyes flickered towards Harry and Sirius saw him bite his lip before starting.

“Lily and James were the kindest, most accepting people I have ever met,” Remus said, his voice shaking slightly. “They both had a knack for knowing when someone was upset and what exactly that person needed to feel better. And they would both do just about anything to help their friends. Knowing Lily and James and being their friend was an honour and a privilege. And I will never forget the kindness they showed me and the help they gave me.” Remus fell silent and for a moment Sirius thought he had finished but Remus closed his eyes for a moment and then continued.

“Often when people die young, we tend to say that they had just enough time or that they were so happy in their short time that their lives were fulfilled. And while Lily and James were certainly the two happiest people I have known, I refuse to stand here and say that it was just enough time or that it’s ok because they were so happy. It’s not ok and it wasn’t enough. Lily and James deserved more time than every person in this room combined; I’m just sorry that after everything they did for me, I couldn’t give that to them. Thank you.” Sirius thought that Remus’ eyes had met his for just a second. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d just imagined it.

There were tears on Remus’ cheeks and his hands were shaking but he returned to his seat, keeping his eyes on the floor. The minister said a number of prayers but Sirius’ mind kept fading in and out of focus. Lily and James are dead. But how can they be dead? They can’t. But they are. They’re dead.

When the funeral ended Sirius stood and started following the crowd of people heading for the exit but having a stroller meant that he had to wait for most people to leave before there was enough room for him and Harry to move. They were almost out of Godric’s Hollow when Sirius heard a voice coming from behind him.

“It’s your birthday today.” Sirius spun towards the voice. It was Remus.

“W-what?” he stuttered.

“It’s your birthday today,” Remus repeated.

“No, it’s n—” Sirius started. He thought for a moment. The 2nd of November. That’s today. “Oh, it… it is. I didn’t realise.” Silence. Sirius didn’t know what to say.

“I think we need to talk,” Remus said, quietly.

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “I think we do.” He couldn’t discern Remus’ tone but his heart was racing a million miles an hour as they walked back to their apartment in silence, allowing Harry to fall asleep in the stroller. No one said a word until they were back in their apartment.

“I’ll just put Harry down for a nap and then…” Sirius trailed off.

“And then we’ll talk,” Remus nodded, sitting down on the couch. Sirius pushed the stroller into Harry’s room, deciding it was better to let him sleep in the stroller than to risk waking him by moving him into his crib. Sirius closed the door quietly and returned to the living room, sitting down on the couch beside Remus. They were silent for a moment.

“So are you going to tell me why you hid that fact that you were changing Secret Keepers from me?” Here we go, Sirius thought. He knew he would have to have this discussion with Remus the moment his trial ended but he couldn’t look Remus in the eye. Sirius didn’t know if he was more consumed by grief or guilt. He forced himself to look up at Remus. He tried to put so many unsaid things into that look. Remus’ eyes widened with realisation and Sirius nodded.

“Remus,” he said, he wanted to reach out and hold his hand but did not think that the gesture would be kindly received. “I am so, so sor—”

“Don’t,” Remus said. He sounded angry and hurt. “You can’t just apologise for something… for something like this.”

“I know,” Sirius said, softly. He was so ashamed.

“No, you don’t know,” Remus said. “I trust you with every fibre of my being, Sirius. I’d trust you with my life! When you sent me that message telling me what Peter had done I believed you. There was loads of evidence against you but I didn’t suspect you even for a second! And you think that I would sell Lily and James to Voldemort based on nothing?”

“Remus, I was wrong,” said Sirius. “There’s no justification; I made a mistake and now everybody I love is suffering the consequences. But you were gone on missions for days at a time, you’d come back and you would barely talk to me. You wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“I didn’t tell you anything because Dumbledore had sworn me to secrecy! You knew that!”

“I know but Remus I was worried. I knew that you were spending a lot of time with werewolves who were rallying behind Voldemort and I was worried that they’d gotten to your head. And I tried to talk to you but you were shutting me out and I—”

“Don’t try to turn this on me!” said Remus. He was shaking. Tears were spilling from his eyes. “This is not my fault!”

“Of course it’s not,” said Sirius. He was crying too. “Of course it’s not but Remus, just try to understand where I’m coming from. I was terrified. I was terrified for James and Lily and Harry and I just—”

“I was terrified too! You know what? This was a bad idea. I think I should just go.” He stood up and walked to the door.

“No, Remus don’t! Don’t leave, please. You can’t go!”

“You… you have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do, Sirius!” Remus said. “You don’t get a say in what I do!”

“Remus please don’t go, please Rem I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice was weak and clingy and pathetic; he didn’t care. He took Remus’ hand and Remus froze. Sirius stepped closer.

“I can’t be without you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing Remus’ cheek. Remus wasn’t looking him in the eyes but he wasn’t moving either. “I love you, Remus.” Sirius leaned in towards Remus and kissed him. And for a moment, he feels Remus kiss him back and in that moment Sirius really believes that everything will be ok, that everything will work itself out. But then Remus pulls away and steps back.

“Don’t! Don’t Sirius, just fucking stop! You can’t just kiss me and expect it to fix everything. You don’t get to do this!” Remus yells. “You don’t get to cry! You don’t get to guilt trip me! You don’t... you don’t get to say that you love me! You can’t fucking do that! It’s not fucking fair! Just... I need... I have to go,” he finishes quietly. “I need to get out of here. Goodbye Sirius.” Sirius watches him go. He watches him walk out the door and Disapparate. First Lily and James, then Peter and now Remus. They’re all gone. And they’re not coming back. And just like that, Sirius’ entire world collapses.

[izzielizzie]

Rough on the Surface but You Cut Through Like a Knife

summary: When Bronwyn Rojas ends up next to the ever obnoxious Nate Macauley in Spanish class, she doesn’t really mean to hit him with a book. Well, she does, but she doesn’t expect to end up in the principal’s office with him. And she definitely doesn’t expect to find him amusing.

alternatively: Bronwyn hits Nate with a book and a long overdue conversation ensues (AU)

title from Willow by Taylor Swift

I’m about to drop into my regular seat in AP Spanish, my last class of the day, when Señora Trias calls “Don’t sit yet niños, we have some seat switching to do!”

I groan along with the rest of the class and catch Kate’s eye. We’ve sat together the entire year. I don’t even think I know anyone else in my class. She shrugs in a resigned sort of way. Señora Trias is a force to reckoned with, and we both know she’ll never let us stay in the same seats. We follow the teacher’s instructions, and I’m too busy trying to figure out the complicated dance we’re doing - row one to the left, row two to the right, front to back and back to front - that I don’t even notice that I’ve ended up next to a boy in a ratty leather jacket. 

Ugh. Nathaniel Macauley. The school’s notorious drug dealer/womanizer/delinquent/major headache. 

And this headache is smirking at me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Nope, I’m all good… partner.”

I hate the way he says that word, it’s suggestive and disgusting and I suppress a shudder, turning instead to the front of the room, where we’re reviewing pluscuamperfecto. As a native Spanish speaker, I can confidently say I have no idea what the heck that is. 

“This is pointless,” Nate grumbles.

“Shhh,” I whisper back, taking a glance at his sharp jaw and deep blue eyes. I’ve known Nate from a distance my whole life, we’ve gone to the same schools since kindergarten, but this is the first time we’ve been so close - or exchanged words - in years.

I look back to the teacher, who’s now going over conjugations. I scribble them down in my notebook as Nate tips his chair back on two legs, rocking back and forth. 

“You’re going to kill yourself,” I inform him.

“Wow Rojas, I didn’t know you cared.”

I scoff and Señora Trias sends us a sharp look. “Señorita Rojas. Señor Macauley, no talking.”

I give Nate a sharp look. “Now look what you’ve done,” I hiss, feeling the reprimand as if it had been thrown at me. Nate just smirks. 

“You’ve never been in trouble have you?” he asks. I ignore him and he barks out a laugh, my silence serving as an answer. “Wow Rojas, I knew you were straight laced but I didn’t know you were that straight laced.”

And we all know you’re not I think, remembering the drug bust rumor Kate was whispering about last week. 

Nate clearly can tell I’m not interested in listening to him, so in the time it takes me to pull out the short novel we’re reading in class from my bag and read about a chapter, Nate doesn’t say a word. When I’m copying down the questions our teacher wrote on the board onto my notebook, he starts talking.

“What’s the answer to one?”

“Solo español por favor!” Señora Trias calls from the front of the class. I give Nate a triumphant look, expecting him to be unable to follow the teacher’s instruction of only talking in Spanish. Unfortunately this is Spanish class. And Nate’s not an idiot. He repeats the question in the correct language, and I decide that I’d be better off ignoring him. 

After a few moments, I can feel Nate leaning over my shoulder. I look over to see his eyes on my paper.  

“Stop that,” I whisper. 

“Spanish only,” he whispers back.

“That wasn’t even in Spanish!”

“Neither was that,” Nate points out. 

I huff and go back to my paper, flipping through my book to find the answer to my next question. 

“Help meeeee,” Nate whispers. 

“Shut up,” I say.

“Bronwynnnnnn.”

“Shhh.”

“Rrrrrrojas.”

My sister once told me about out of body experiences when we were children, and at the time I had scoffed because the supernatural does not exist. But when I close my book - marking my page with my finger because I’m not a philistine - and swing it straight into Nate’s face, I swear I’m not controlling myself at all.

“Would you shut up?” I snap as an unnatural silence overtakes the room. I look around for the first time, meeting stricken faces. Kate’s looking at me like she’s never met me before. 

“Bronwyn Rojas,” Señora Trias says dangerously. I risk a glance at Nate and feel a flash of sympathy when I see a red mark on his cheek. But he’s smirking at me so maybe he deserved it. 

I’m frozen, not quite sure what to say. Señora Trias points to the door. “Principal. Both of you.”

“Both!” Nate and I say at the same time.

“Yes, look at that you’re in sync, no use that rhythm to get to the office.” 

Not the best witty comment around, all things considered, but since Señora Trias looks like she’s ready to commit murder so I let it slide.

“So let me get this straight,” Principal Gupta says, staring at Nate and I, sitting side by side in the uncomfortable chairs in Gupta’s office. “You two were partnered in Spanish class, Bronwyn you were annoyed with Nathaniel, so you hit him with a book?”

Nate tips his chair back and I kick at his ankle. He kicks back. 

“Bronwyn.”

“Yes, sorry. This is correct,” I say. Principal Gupta stares at me. I’ve been getting a lot of stares lately. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the secretary appears at the door.

“There’s a problem in the cafeteria,” she informs Gupta, who sighs. She looks sharply at us. 

“I am going to be gone for ten minutes tops. Please refrain from murdering each other.”

I nod vehemently while Nate tips his chair back farther, his smirk growing. I count backwards from fifty in my head just to make sure Gupta is really gone before wheeling back towards him. I push down on the arm of his chair with all my might. Nate crashes to the ground, a look of shock on his face.

“Jesus Bronwyn.”

“Stop tilting your gosh darn chair” I hiss, my face only a few inches away from his. I can see myself reflected back in his dark blue eyes. I look mildly deranged. He smirks again and I raise my hand. He flinches away. Ha. Take that. 

He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning away from me. “Would it make you feel better if I sat on the floor Rojas?”

“Yes, yes it would.” 

Nate slides to the ground, and before I can realize what’s happening, he’s pulling me down by the waist. “What the heck?” I ask.

Nate shrugs. “If I have to sit on the floor, then you do too.” He pauses for a beat. “And your legs look good in that skirt.

I slap his shoulder. “Jackass!”

Nate laughs. “She swears!” he announces to an audience of… no one. 

“Why is that notable?” I ask, self-consciously tucking my legs underneath myself, ignoring my tingling waist where Nate’s fingers ended up under my shirt. 

“Because a minute ago you said ‘gosh darn’ and not even grandmothers would say that Rojas.”

I can feel my face flush, but I cross my arms anyway. My little sister always teases me about how I don’t swear. Not that she swears either. “Is it really a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

I flush more, irritated at myself that Nate’s opinion matters this much to me. He senses that I’m done talking because he looks straight ahead at Gupta’s desk, where we can just make out a picture of her and her daughter.

“How’s your sister doing? Maeve, right?” Nate asks, and I turn to stare at him in shock. My sister Maeve left elementary school with cancer a long time ago. Nate was just starting to know her - they were on the same soccer team - and I don’t expect him to remember her, let alone her name.

“Yeah, it’s Maeve,” I say, my tone considerably softer. Nothing makes me happier than my sister. “She’s okay.”

“She’s in remission right?” 

I turn my body so I’m looking straight ahead at him, a concession maybe. My anger is ebbing, and I’m sort of guilty about that bruise on his face. “She is. Thank you for asking.” Not many people do. 

“You’re welcome.” What he says next surprises me so much I almost miss what he says: “Want to talk about it?”

I look at him for a moment, at his dark eyes and smattering of freckles and his closed off expression, and I can’t help the feeling that he’s being serious. And I don’t know why that’s so off putting.

I shrug, trying to figure out what to say. “It just sucks, you know?” I finally land on.

Nate nods. “I know.” I think back to his mother’s funeral, the dark, rainy morning where he stood in an old suit, his father too drunk to even show up. I kept thinking about Maeve, about how some day I might have to stand in the same place, shouldering the burden of a million worlds. 

I imagine that’s how it feels to lose someone.

I feel the need suddenly, to make those eyes light up so I shift slightly closer to him and pluck at the sleeve of his leather jacket. 

“Hey, remember when we were locked in that music room at St. Pi?” I ask.

Nate glances over at me through hooded eyes, his eyelashes unnaturally long. He nods, a half smile on his lips. “I remember. Sixth grade right?”

“Yeah.” I remember that day like it was yesterday. We had been arguing - much like today - in the middle of a music class, and our teacher sent us to the storeroom to sort flutes until we calmed down or something. But we - and the teacher - had forgotten that the door to the store room door locked from the outside. Nate and I were locked in for nearly an hour, which to twelve year olds, felt like forever.

“It was a pretty good day you know?”

“Really? I thought I threw a clarinet case at you.”

“Well you did,” Nate says. “But you know… it was nice. You’re nice.”

“Aww.”

“But you are violent.”

“Touché,” I admit.

He smiles at me, his eyes soft, and I smile back. I’m about to reach up to touch the bruise on his face when Gupta comes back, breezing through the door like she’s floating. She groans when she sees us. 

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Heat rises,” Nate says with a shrug.

“It’s November."

Nate and I just look at each other and smile. We climb back into our seats, and when he tips his chair back, I don’t say anything. And when I say “gosh” instead of “god” when I’m assuring Gupta that “I swear to gosh I didn’t mean to hit him I’m so sorry” Nate doesn’t even bat an eye.

Truce, I guess. 

Gupta spends ten minutes talking about pressure and how sometimes we cave but if Nate forgives me it’s okay before she lets us leave. Nate and I mockingly shake hands before we get up and it’s… nice. 

The bell has already rung, so we turn in opposite directions, me to physics and him to gosh knows where when he turns to me.

“Hey, want to go to the mall on Saturday? You can buy me a pretzel for my troubles.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll throw something at you?”

Nate grins his Macauley grin. “I think I’ll risk it, Rojas.”

My smile is his answer.