#i grew up with SHITTY ways of learning languages and only just now realised how unfair this was to me

[sun-pluto]

i think it’s a. very specific experience when you grew up being taught english as your first language, but because your parents speak multiple languages, they speak them when they don’t want you to understand what they’re saying. so instead you grow up eavesdropping and secretly learning that language so you can understand what they don’t want you to hear.

i’m pretty sure i speak for a lot of people HAHA but it’s still specific!!!

[januaryembrs]

RIGHTFUL OWNER | TFATWS X Rogers!reader,

slight Bucky x Rogers!reader

Description: After hearing on the news there is a new Captain America, you decide to take back what’s rightfully yours.

Length: 2.2k

Trigger Warnings: endgame spoilers, tfatws spoilers, foul language, broken cup?, tension?

main masterlist

Note: I may do a part two to this if anyone’s interested 👀

You couldn’t believe your ears when they announced it on tv. Your cat had jumped five foot in the air as your mug smashed in your hand, the hot tea spraying all over your sofa and clothes, but you could worry about that later. Right now your focus was on that shit eating blonde on the screen, looking way too smug for the role he had been assigned, as he clutched the vibranium red, white and blue in his hand.

Your father’s shield.

Your blood boiled at the preppy looking soldier they’d named ‘The New Captain America’, or John Walker as the news anchor had read out. There would never be another Captain America, not really, and it would certainly not be that priggish bastard that strutted around in a knock off of your father’s suit and riled the crowd up like he was some famous popstar preparing for his final act.

Your father’s legacy was being paraded around as nothing more than a party trick and you saw red.

Cooing to your cat in an apology for your outburst, you began picking up the pieces of your mug indignantly. Everything your father gave his life to poured down the drain like sewer water, discarded for the sake of keeping up appearances to the rest of the world. What had this country come to?

Giving your cat a scratch on the head in a final gesture of comfort for your sudden behaviour, you stood to empty the remnants of your crockery into the bin, the snow white feline ducking in between your feet. You tutted, trying not to trip over the crazy tabby as he mewled up at you loudly.

“No treats right now, Alpine!” You scolded lightly, though he seemed to ignore you as he hopped up onto the kitchen counter and nudged the jar where you kept his goodies. You huffed, giving in way too quickly than you’d like to admit, scooped a handful of the fish bites out onto the surface and stood in silence as he chowed down on them happily.

What were you to do? The pain was palpable, the image of that pompous wannabe prancing around with your father’s mantle was deeply burned into your mind, and your body hummed with anger that the Department of Defense could just hand it over with little thought. The title of Captain America was more than just a pretty face to lead the people, it was more than a blonde haired, blue-eyed soldier that carried your country's colours.

Captain America was one of a kind, and the legacy your father left behind would in no way be matched by this John Walker guy.

Steve Rogers was rare, John Walker was just another soldier playing dress up.

Your father had told you all about how he had travelled back in time to have his dance with his first love, only to realise she had already started a family of her own - he had only had enough Pym Particles to make it back to 1985 where he met your mother. He had told you all about the glory days, how he and his howling commandos had taken on Hydra first hand, how he and the Avengers had only continued that fight and so much more - even taking on hoards of alien lifeforms in the name of saving the world. You grew up learning of the real Captain America and what he had given up to start his family; to have you. This was a smack in the face of the highest degree. They had taken your father’s life from him, 100 years worth of a duty tarnished by this pretty face with a shitty attitude.

You were a Rogers. Rogers’ always stood up for what was right, and this certainly wasn’t it. You swung open your laptop, your background photo of your father in his elderly age, sitting in his favourite chair with a book on World War Two laid open on his chest. As if to spur you on with the sight of your father, you opened a browser to start digging deeper onto whoever this ‘New Captain America’ was.

John Walker would not carry your father’s shield. Not if you had anything to say about it.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Bucky needed a break. Between fighting Karli and the Flag Smashers, dealing with Zemo’s infuriating head tilts and sly comments, John Walker and his self entitlement, the Dora Milaje and their pressing demands to hand Zemo over to them, the fact he still had to come clean to his dear friend Yori, the tiredness gnawing in the back of his head from the jetlag and just the general weight of the world on his shoulders since Steve passed, he was a tired man.

He longed for sleep, but even sleep was plagued with his past and his wrongs. He couldn’t catch a break. It was times like this he wished he had a pet, something low maintenance like a cat to keep him company with his many woes, to share the load with its sweet purrs.

Maybe when he was back in America he could pick one up from a shelter, but he was far from home. Latvia to be precise, in Zemo’s luxurious apartment they now frequented. He huffed, entering the spacious lounge area as he caught the tail end of Sam and Zemo’s conversation.

“Blood isn’t always the solution,” His partner told the freed prisoner, who sat up from his lying position on his sofa. He clutched a wet towel in his hands, no doubt to caress the injured temple he’d sustained after their run in with the Flag Smashers. His thick boots making contact with the tiles was the only sound for a moment as the two men in the room took note of his awful mood written on his face.

“Something’s not right about Walker,” Bucky said, slipping his jacket over his arms at the warmth of the room, walking over to the kitchenette to fix a well deserved drink.

Sam scoffed through his lips amusedly, “You don’t say,”

“Well I know a crazy one when I see one, because I am crazy,” The brunette man replied, reaching up to open the cupboard and help himself to an expensive looking rum. It wouldn’t get him drunk, not even if he was a normal man, and the serum only made him more certain he would remain sober, whether he wanted to or not was a different question.

“Can’t argue with that,” Sam replied as the man lifted the glass to his dry lips.

“Shouldn’t have given him the shield,” There it was. The pissed off tone Sam had been waiting for laced its way into the almost accusation as he took a sip of the strong drink to lubricate his argument.

“I didn’t give him the shield,” Sam bit back, standing up to confront the man that glared at him with a broken expression. Because, while that may have been true, Bucky couldn’t see past the fact Sam had just handed the mantle entrusted to him by his closest friend, his brother in arms, and that had wound them where they were now; stuck with an asshole like John as the newly claimed Captain America .

“Well Steve definitely didn’t,” He snipped, sipping his drink as the door to Zemo’s apartment was kicked in and the problem child, Walker himself, strolled into the room, Lamar only moments behind him.

“Alright. That’s it. Let’s go.” John ordered immediately, and the three men in the room bit back a tut at the clear attempt of power he exuded, though it didn’t well suit the dynamic he had created with the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. He had no power over them, not really. “I’m now ordering you to turn him over,” He said, gesturing to Helmut who stood from his place on the sofa to level with the faux Captain America.

“Hey, slow your roll, man.” Sam said calmly, sensing the erratic look in John’s eyes that he assumed to be the oddity that Bucky had been describing. What it was, he didn’t know, but he needed to put Walker back in his place and fast. “Shield or no shield, the only thing you’re runnin’ in here is your mouth. Now, I had Karli and you overstepped.” Sam pointed over his shoulder at Zemo’s wandering figure, “He’s actually proven himself useful today, and we’re gonna need all hands on deck for whatever’s coming next-”

It was as though, with a trick of fate Bucky could have sworn was Steve laughing at the two of his best friends from beyond the grave, that Sam had conjured you up with his words alone.

You entered through the doors to the apartment, little more than a plain white top and blue jeans, a military jacket smothering your frame in a size clearly too big for you.

The men in the room stopped their conversation at the sight of you. Who you were exactly seemed to be a mystery at the fact none of them jumped to greet you. So, they simply waited for you to speak first, alert to the fact you very well may be a rogue Flag Smasher that didn’t get the message.

Your eyes scanned over the faces that met yours with rugged curiosity, until your gaze met the one you had envisioned since he had been plastered all over the morning news a few weeks ago, the one you had been tracking down since then. John Walker.

He was donned in a suit almost similar to your father’s, though the blue was off completely and he held the shield awkwardly, as though it hadn’t been made to fit into his palm like it had your father. The Shield.

Your eyes locked onto it for a moment, every single story your daddy ever told you running through your mind as the light beamed off the polished vibranium like a crystal. His life’s work, everything he had sacrificed to have you in his life was stood right there in front of you, and your eyes narrowed as they flicked back up to meet the soldier’s that frowned at you indignantly.

“Can we help you?” John’s crass voice filled the brief silence as you took a single step into the room. You nodded towards him, half gesturing with your hand in his direction.

“You John Walker?” You asked him, though you already knew the answer. You wanted to be sure the government hadn’t been handing out a replica of your father’s lifetime to just anyone.

“I am. Who’s asking?” He replied, turning to face you fully as did his second in command, that donned a matching outfit.

You shook your head slightly, “I believe you have something of mine,” You pointed to the shield, eyes furrowed into a determined scowl when you saw his hand clench just that bit tighter around the handle, “I’m going to be needing that back now.”

The men went silent for a moment, pure confusion running rampant in the air as to who this mystery woman was claiming that Captain America’s shield was hers. But Bucky was the first to fix it together.

Something about the moment he’d laid eyes on you had calmed him, a feeling that had knocked him sick with his own stupid behaviour. You were a stranger, he was sure of it, and yet something about you was so familiar, so viscerally like home to him that he found himself wanting to be closer to you the second he’d seen you. What it was, he couldn’t put his finger on, until he saw you frown and it just clicked in his head.

The purest of blue in your eyes, that exact colour he’d seen it so many times before. He would know it anywhere. He had joked it was the same colour as your country’s flag, so true to his friend’s name, about a million times. The way they narrowed at John, that was familiar too. It usually came around ten minutes before he himself would step in to defend his best friend in the entire world, when pre-serum Steve, as scraggly as he was, would square himself up to take on a bully three times his size. The determined look he knew like the back of his own hand. Then there was another piece of the puzzle in the way your mouth moved, the slope of your nose, and there! The way you square your shoulders back as you spoke to Walker with an order. He would know it anywhere.

That was when he saw the lapel of your jacket, the jacket he had been so blind to overlook the first time. The same one that he had long since lost of his own, that donned the name ‘BARNES'’ on the pocket in whitering black writing. The same one that he had helped stitch the name into.

‘ROGERS’ read as clear as day on the lapel, in the identically messy stitching he and Steve had sewed back in 1943.

“Oh my god,” Was all he had to say, as he took in the sight of Captain America’s daughter.

Tag lists:

Permenant taglist:

@pedrosgirlx @greeneyedblondie44 @liadamerondjarin @andy-rocks

A/N: OKAY THIS WAS JUST A MUSING THAT I DIDNT EVEN EDIT BUT PART TWO??

[bruhstories]

Dazed and Confused

Summary: You and Connie have been friends for ten years, crushing on each other like a bunch of idiots who can't confess their feelings for one another. Until you go on a trip with your friends. Pairing: Connie Springer x Fem!Reader Warnings & Content: 18+, language, oral sex (female & male receiving), unprotected sex, weed smoking, alcohol consumption, f l u f f Word Count: 4.2 k

A/N: I got so pissed at that last anon that I finished this oneshot quicker lol. @fiaficsxo here it is!

You loved parties. Not the loud music and thick smoke, not the booze and smell of vomit, but your friends. Every time they gathered at someone's place, your heart fluttered, filled with happiness and content and long-lasting memories.

Connie had the brilliant idea of spending a week in the mountains during your spring break, and you wasted an entire night searching for the perfect cottage to rent. Luckily everyone was down with his suggestion, the only problem was how you'd sleep. Historia obviously wanted to share a room with Ymir. Mikasa and Eren were an item now, so they'd have to sleep together. Armin wanted to try his luck with Annie, so no one objected to that. Jean declared that he wanted to bunk with Connie, like the two eligible bachelors they were, and that left you and Sasha to share a room together. You didn't mind it, in all honesty you loved Sasha with all your heart — but you secretly hoped someone would pick up on your feelings for Connie and let you sleep with him. You weren't that lucky.

You packed your bag the night before the trip, obsessively ticking everything on your list and double checking every item and pocket. It was ready, with one item missing — the white lace babydoll smoothed on your dorm bed. You chewed the pen cap, debating whether to bring it with you or not. You bought it for special occasions, but you haven't had a dick appointment in a long time, and you doubted you'd have one this week. With a shrug, you decided to bring it — you never know what might happen. Nighttime passed quickly and you soon found yourself all dolled up, albeit still sleepy from all the tossing and turning, excited to make more memories with your friends.

The train station was packed with people, especially students who went back to their hometowns for the break, and you were relieved to find Armin and Mikasa there. You three were always punctual, followed by Jean and Annie. Eren, Sasha and Connie were always late, which is why you told them the train leaves at 7 am instead of 7:30. It was a dirty strategy, but no one wanted to miss such a fun opportunity because of those lazy fuckers. And lo and behold, they decided to appear at 7:15.

"That was some good thinking." Jean shook his head, hand sympathetically placed on your shoulder.

"I'm only glad you guys rolled with it." You laughed without noticing the way Connie stared at you, and even he didn't understand exactly what he felt. Was he grumpy because he hated morning, or was it Jean's hand on you that irked him?

"It's not polite to stare." Sasha pulled Connie out of his thoughts.

"I wasn't staring, I was looking." Connie rolled his eyes, gripping the handle of his suitcase a bit too tightly.

"I just don't get it why you don't tell her you like her." The girl popped a bubblegum baloon, proceeding to chew it very loudly.

"Are you kidding me? She obviously likes Jean. Look how she's laughing!"

Sasha placed an arm on his shoulder, a sheepish smile on her face. "You, my friend, are a dumbass."

"Takes one to know one."

To say that your friends were loud during the train ride was an understatement. They didn't really care about the nasty glares other passengers shot at them, opting to talk, sing, eat and practically embarrass themselves. But two hours later you arrived, and the fresh, crisp air of the mountains was a blessing. You didn't regret coming, all of you deserved a break after all the exams, studying and all-nighters you guys pulled.

"We could visit the military museum!" Armin suggested, but Connie scrunched his nose.

"We came here to get high, drink and spend time together, why the fuck would we visit some old ass building?"

"I'd like to go to the museum." You awkwardly smiled, earning a 'see?' from the blond. Mikasa, Eren and Annie backed you up, and since it was a democracy, you ended up leaving your bags at the cottage and touring the small town to find the military museum. The building wasn't massive, and inside it was dark, with crimson carpets and dim lights. It was actually quite a romantic atmosphere, had it not been for the weapons and armours displayed in glass cases. Connie watched you intently, taking in every movement, every flinch, every hair tucking, every scrunch of your cute nose. You absorbed the information, hungry for knowledge. This was something you and Connie didn't share — yes, you were down to drinking and smoking, but you were also eager to learn and study, while he always preached how 'you can always retake an exam but you can't relive a party.' He wasn't stupid by any means, but unlike you, Jean, Armin and Mikasa — who alwaysstudied and never skipped lectures — Connie would wing it and somehow end up getting better grades. His strategy didn't always work, and sometimes, when you were in college, he'd ask you to tutor him. Now you were second year undergraduates, and while you were studying different subjects, you still made time for each other.

"That's a nice, uhh..." Connie squinted, "...shotgun."

"It's a musket." You chuckled, your fingers accidentally brushing his as you turned around to face him.

"Shotgun, musket, same thing."

"Actually, muskets are muzzle-loaded and fire a single bullet, but shotguns pack multiple pellets in one shell." You explained. "I'm sorry, you're probably not interested in my ramblings."

"No, no, it's... interesting. I just wasn't expecting you to know so much about guns." He rubbed his nape and smiled at you.

"Well, I do study history, in case you forgot."

"How could I forget that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" You awkwardly elbowed Connie. Why was it so hard for you to just tell him your feelings? Oh, right, because you've been friends for ten years and if he didn't like you back, it would only ruin a great friendship.

"It means you brag about it so much it's kind of hard to forget." He told you, quickly realising just how insulting that sounded.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know that's how you felt..." You sighed, eyes darting back to the weapons.

"No, I didn't- forget it." Connie shook his head. Well played.

Back at the cottage, with enough food and booze to last the group a month, you decided to stay in your room for the rest of the day. It wasn't the first time you had embarrassing moments with Connie, but this particular one made you anxious to be around him. Did he really dislike you that much, or was it just friendly banter? If you were to ask him, you could find out, but every scenario in your head had a bad outcome, so avoiding him for now was the smartest choice. Sasha pleaded with you to spend the evening in the living room with everyone else, but you brushed her off, telling her you weren't feeling quite well.

"Text me if you need anything." She told you before leaving. It was immature to act this way, you knew that all too well, but it wasn't like Connie cared, right? You eventually decided to go downstairs after finishing a long episode of your favourite tv show, your stomach begging for nourishment. As silently as possible, you tiptoed behind the couch. The hallway was dim, the sun had already set, and the only lights were the ones from the wide TV screen in the living room where your friends were watching some corny horror movie. You could cut the suspense and tension with a knife, and when you dropped a teaspoon, everyone jumped.

"Sorry, sorry! It's just me!"

"Jesus Christ, Y/N, you almost gave me a heart attack." Jean got up from the floor and walked behind the couch. "How are you feeling? Sasha said you're ill."

"I'm fine, don't worry." You picked the spoon up and threw it in the sink. "It's just a headache, I'll sleep it off."

"Good, we need you here." The man wrapped an arm around you. "You're missing how Connie's crapping his pants at this shitty movie."

From the outside it would seem like you and Jean were a couple, but the truth was far from it. You two grew up together, his family was friends with your family, and what you had was nothing more than a brother-sister relationship. Jean's little remark earned a disgruntled look from Connie, you quickly picked up on that, and so you playfully jabbed him in the stomach.

"Connie's crapping his pants? You're the one who almost had a heart attack." You grinned.

"Oi, that was only because you dropped your stupid spoon. I was invested in the movie."

"Mhm, sure you were."

"Hey, you sure you don't want to join us?" Mikasa waved at you from the living room. You pondered over her question. Perhaps it wouldn't be too awkward to sit with them.

"Alright, sure, why not?"

"Come, sit next to me." Sasha shuffled to the side, but what she really meant by that was 'sit next to Connie', because she shuffled to the otherside.

The following two nights were surprisingly quiet, all you did was play board games, watch movies and walk around the town taking pictures. The tension between Connie and you seemed to dissipate, and you both forgot the unpleasant interaction you had on the first day. But on the fourth night, that's when shit hit the fan. Annie and Armin left for a date, and Eren and Mikasa wanted to spend the night alone in their room, leaving you, Sasha, Jean and Connie unsupervised, bored and tipsy. There was absolutely nothing good to watch on the TV, and you almost wanted to scream when your friends wanted to play truth or dare. It was one of those games you despised, because the whole point of it was to put the players in uncomfortable situations. And you didn't like being uncomfortable, unlike your friends.

"Jean, truth or dare?" Sasha beamed.

"Dare, duh."

"Alright, I dare you to switch roommates for the rest of the week." She sipped her blackberry cider.

"Okay? So, I'll stay with Y/N, then."

Good lord, if looks could kill, Connie's would annihilate Jean and Sasha off the face of the Earth.

"No, no, you'll stay with me. Y/N will stay with Connie."

"Eh? Why does your dare involve us?" You asked, confused and curious of your friend's proposal.

"Because." She shrugged. "Don't pussy out."

"I'm not pussying out. A dare's a dare." Jean scoffed. "I'm gonna go take my shit in your room and shower."

"Y-yeah, I'll go bring mine, too." You got up, using this time to hyperventilate alone. What the fuck was Sasha even thinking? Was this some stupid joke? But your friends wouldn't harm you, so why would she suggest such a stupid thing?

You took a quick shower before curling up in the bed, blankets covering you from neck to toe. Connie wasn't back yet, and you didn't want to go after him, that would just be odd. You were hoping you'd fall asleep before he returned, to avoid any unnecessary fuss, but just as you closed your eyes, the door opened. Maybe you could pretend you were asleep? He struggled to find his pyjamas in the dark, stumbling over furniture and knocking things down, and you turned the bedside lamp on to ease his search.

"Did I wake you up?" Connie bit his lower lip, and through the dim light you watched the way his grey eyes glistened, the way his short brown hair was ruffled, and how the sage green t-shirt hugged his toned abdomen.

"No, no, 's alright. I wasn't sleeping. I can't exactly fall asleep." You clutched the blanket at your chest as you shook the intrusive thoughts away. Connie was your friend, damn it, there was no room for romance between you.

"I can sleep on the floor if you want."

"Oh, God, no, it's... stiff."

"Um, yeah, it kinda is. Alright then, I'll jump in the shower real quick before going to bed." He stumbled into the bathroom and you really wanted to fall asleep now.

But you couldn't. Every time you closed your eyes, Connie's face popped in your head. So much for resting. You tossed and turned on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, but nothing helped. It didn't take long for him to finish his shower, and you mentally chastised yourself for not falling asleep when you felt him shuffle under the same blanket that was covering you. For a minute, you didn't utter a word, you barely breathed, afraid to disturb the silence in the room.

"Are you asleep?"

"Nope." You heard the click of Connie's phone and turned around. You couldn't see him, but you could hear him.

"Do you wanna talk about something? Until we fall asleep, I mean." You suggested.

"Hmm, sure." He turned on his side and you felt his breath fanning over your cheeks. You were too close to him. "Actually, d'you wanna smoke?"

"Aren't the others gonna be mad if we smoke without them?"

"They don't have to know. Besides, you and I never smoked together." Connie was already up, rummaging through his backpack with the flashlight of his phone. "And then we can talk as much as you want."

"Alright, I'm down."

You laid on the floor, your head next to Connie's as you looked at the ceiling, smoke leaving your lips. He took the joint from you, fingers touching yours and you blushed, the haze of the weed melting your worries away.

"Do you want me to skip the song?" Connie asked, and for a moment you forgot there was a song playing.

"No, I like it." You confessed. "I didn't know you liked Led Zeppelin."

"There's lots of things you don't know about me, Y/N." He passed you the joint.

"Okay, tell me something else I don't know."

"I like it when you randomly say historical or scientific facts."

"Didn't you say I brag too much about it?" You took one final drag before you stubbed the joint out in a makeshift ashtray filled with a bit of water. By this point you were high as a kite, every trace of rationality gone.

"That doesn't mean I don't like it." Connie smiled and you could feel it in his voice. "Now you tell me something I don't know about you."

"I can't sleep with open doors. It freaks me out." You sat up, a breeze blowing through the window sending shivers down your spine. "It's a bit cold, do you mind if I close the window?"

"Go ahead."

You got up and picked the ashtray up but before you could close the window, you stumbled over a chest of drawers, the ashes mixed with water spilling over your t-shirt.

"You okay?" He quickly crawled to you, concern written all over his face.

"Yeah, I'm just clumsy." You laughed it off and waved your free hand. "I'll go get changed, I should have a spare shirt."

But you didn't have a spare shirt. All you had was that stupid white babydoll, and anxiety seeped through your veins. You couldn't exactly show up in that in front of your crush. And you didn't want to ask him for a shirt either. Fuck it, what else could you do?

You peeked out the bathroom door and saw Connie back in bed, lazily scrolling through his phone. God, this was embarrassing.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." He laughed, but when your facial expression didn't change, he frowned. "Y/N?"

"Um, so, I didn't have a spare shirt and- Jesus, this is awkward." You opened the door and his eyes widened. "Is it alright if I sleep in this?"

"Oh, I get it now." Connie scoffed.

"Get what?"

"You were hoping you'd share a room with Jean, right?" He sounded almost disgusted.

"Excuse you? Where did you even get that idea?" You slammed the bathroom door shut, arms folded across your chest.

"I'm not stupid, Y/N. I've seen the way you two act. Do yourselves a favour and just fuck already."

You were speechless. Completely reactionless. The weed amplified your anger, but his words brought tears to your eyes.

"You... you fucking asshole! You think I brought this for Jean? I brought it for you!"

"Eh? M-me?" Connie was confused, and you were pissed.

"Yes, you. Jean's like a brother to me, oh my God! Ew!"

"Wait, so you and Jean are not in love with each other?"

"In love?? Connie, how high are you exactly?" You walked closer to the bed, arms still crossed.

"But- Fuck, I am stupid." He shook his head, the memories of you flirting with him flashing before his eyes. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

"A bit..." Your muscles relaxed and you sat on the mattress. "Really, Connie, I... I like you. A lot. But you're always giving me mixed signals."

"That's because I always thought you liked Jean!" He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"No, you're the only one."

"Huh, guess I've really been dazed and confused."

Calloused fingertips ran across your hips leaving goosebumps in their trail. Your hands roamed his back and the way Connie kissed you was better than any high you've ever experienced. He was touch-starved, and you were just as needy. His knee found its place between your thighs and you moaned when it barely brushed your cunt.

"I've been dreaming for this moment for as long as I can remember." Connie breathed into your neck, the hot breath tickling your skin.

"Me too, you blind bat." You laughed and he turned you over, hovering over you.

"'M sorry I didn't notice quicker." He kissed you again. One hand travelled lower, pushing your underwear to the side before he pushed two fingers between your folds. "Fuck, you're so wet."

"Well, at least now I don't have to finger myself thinking about you." You whimpered with a grin.

"Oh?" Connie arched a brow. "Is that what you've been doing?" He curled up his fingers and you threw your head back with a moan. "I thought you were a prude."

"T-there's lots of things you d-don't know about m-me!" You replied back between oh’sand ah’s, imitating his words from an hour ago. That only earned a sneer from Connie, his head dipping between your thighs. "Wait, what are you do- ooh fuck!"

His tongue lapped at your cunt, fingers pumping in and out of you, and you completely sunk into the mattress, moaning his name over and over again. You gripped the sheets, flexing the muscles in your legs as you squirmed and thrashed. Connie stopped and you almost crushed his skull with your thighs at the empty feeling. He pulled your underwear down and shoved the cotton panties in your mouth.

"Don't wake everyone up, Y/N. You don't want them knowing what a little slut you are, do you?"

You shook your head and Connie went back to circling your clit with his tongue, adrenaline rushing through your entire body with each lick, each suck. Tears of pleasure pooled at your eyes, nose and cheeks red from the thrill of your incoming orgasm. The way he was sloppily eating your pussy and moaning while doing it drove you insane, and within seconds you came undone, thighs trembling with delight. In fact, you were so sore you had to push his head back, begging him to stop so you could return the favour.

"You taste so sweet." Connie licked his lips. You don't know what possessed you to pull him into a kiss after you removed the makeshift gag, but he was right, you were sweet.

"Can I...?" Your eyes drifted down to his twitching cock, your voice soft and quiet.

"You wanna suck it?"

"Yes."

"Later. Right now, I wanna fuck you."

Connie gave you no time to protest, his elbow pushed one of your things to the side, the blushing tip of his cock grazing over your overstimulated clit, up and down your slit. Inch by inch it disappeared into your cunt and he let out a satisfied sigh. You bucked your hips, manicured nails digging into his shoulders with each thrust.

"Shit, you're so fucking tight!" Connie growled, head lowering to kiss you. You could still taste yourself on his lips and that only made you clench your spongy walls around his cock. That seemed to please him, because he rocked his hips harder and faster. "You like it?"

"Oh, God, yes!" You gasped, beads of sweat forming on your forehead as you clawed his back.

"Fuck, I want you to ride me." He gripped your hips tighter and turned you over. You tried your best to get in the new position without letting his cock slip out of you, and when you finally adjusted yourself, it was a whole new challenge. Gravity pulled you down, and his tip brushed your cervix, your eyes squinting at the slight pain. "If it hurts, stop-"

"No!" You cried out, your hands resting on his chest. You bounced up and down, the uncomfortable feeling slowly replaced with pleasure. Connie's hands traced your thighs as you rode him, another wave of heat flushing through your core. His palm met your cunt, thumb circling over your clit. "I can't c-come again!"

"Yes, you can. And you will cream on my cock."

The disgust words worked like magic and you flexed your thighs, bouncing faster, head thrown back, hair cascading down your back. "You're so beautiful, Y/N."

"Connie, I-" The words stopped in your throat, the pressure too much for you to handle.

"You what?"

"I'm- oh, God!"

"Atta girl!" He praised you when he felt your silken walls relaxing and your thighs quaking. The second orgasm was so intense you let yourself fall over his chest, dizzy and tired. You thought he'd give you a break, but Connie wrapped an arm around your back, holding you in place before giving your oversensitive cunt a few more thrusts. "Now you can return the favour."

You mustered up some strength to get up and kneel in front of the bed, between his legs.

"Please don't come in my mouth." You asked him before wrapping your pretty lips around his cock.

"Gotchaah-" Connie choked on his words when he felt himself in your hot mouth. You bobbed your head up and down, cheeks hollowed and eyes on him. You didn't break eye contact when you pulled away and spat on the tip, hand pumping his cock to smear the spit. "Hot." He mumbled before you went back to sucking. You felt the throbbing, tightening your lips around him and picking up the pace. "Y/N-"

It all happened in a flash — Connie yanked your hair and pulled your head back, thick ropes of milky white cum shooting all over your face and neck.

"Eew!" You scrunched your nose, hand under your chin to stop it from dripping down the floor.

"What do you mean ew? That's, like, a billion kids!"

"Actually, a fertile man produces around-"

"Don't start. Do not." He pressed his index finger over your lips. "Let's get you cleaned up."

You woke up sore, especially between your thighs, but damn, was it worth it. Connie wrapped an arm around your waist, mumbling something about how pretty you are, but you assumed he was still sleeping — or still high. The sun shone through the blinds and you squinted, annoyed by the brightness, and so you turned around, watching the way your crush snored peacefully.

"Cute." You smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead, waking him up. "Oh, I'm sorry!"

"Why?" Connie rubbed his eyes. "Waking up to you is a blessing."

You couldn't hide the tinting of your cheeks and the grin on your lips. "I didn't think you were the romantic type."

"There's lots of things-"

"I don't know about you. But I'd like to know those things. If you let me, of course." You bit your lower lip, eyes filled with hope.

"Can I be your boyfriend?" He sat up, his eyes serious.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Okay, so maybe Sasha knew a thing or two when she dared Jean to switch roommates.

You walked into the kitchen after getting ready for the day, with Connie following behind you. Everyone was eating their breakfast, and Jean instantly dashed to you.

"Connie, bro, take me back. Sasha's leaving crumbs all over the bed! I can't sleep like that!"

"I can't, man, I wanna spend the rest of the week with my girlfriend." He sneered and you elbowed him.

"I forgot to mention Jean's overprotecti-"

"Your what? Hands off my sister from another mister, you creep!"

"Creep? You're the one who was sexting someone's sister last night." Sasha chimed in, mouth full of cereal.

"Thanks, Sash." Jean rolled his eyes. "For real, how did this happen?"

"You see, mate, when a man and a woman love each other-"

"Nope. I will not hear this."

[madd-devil]

Felix x reader imagine

Warning: language I guess?

This will be at least 3 parts, it is a slow falling in love story

@nevereverlandboys

You hated how Felix was. 

He always was so full of himself, always mean and horrible with everyone. You stopped counting the numbers of boys who were being heavily injured by him. No one dared to speak to Felix. He spoke with his fists and not his mind. 

You were known as a kind and soft spoken girl, you were considered as a mother by some boys (usually by the littlest ones), always taking care and tending to the boys. That was the price to pay to live in safety and on the island, that's why Pan tolerated you. He knew how much you were valuable for them. 

You appreciated every boy. You understood their histories, their traumas. After all, there was indeed an reason why they were living here. The only one who didn't break his shell was Felix. Each time you tried talking to him, or even tried to take care of his wounds, he would yell at you and push you away. 

One time he even tried to raise an hand on you, and Devin slammed him against the ground before he could do anything. After some times, you realised Felix was just an horrible being. He loved to kill and hurt people. That's all he was doing. 

You sighed as you finished putting the boys clothes on a line between two trees near a small hill, it was getting pretty late but you were certain of making back to the camp safely. You took the wooden basket and turned around only to face a pointy sword. You gasped as you saw the captain Hook, the infamous pirate who often sailed his ship around the island. You didn't understand why Pan let him walking around, he was after all a serious threat. 

You started to get nervous as more pirates showed up. You only encountered Hook and his crew a couple of times, usually when he was making deals with Peter Pan. 

"Hello." You breathed out with a shaking voice as you tried to back away. 

"Always so polite… I wonder why you didn't turn like every boy on this island… dirty and mouth full of bad words." 

"What do you want Hook?" You asked. 

He snickered as he put down his sword. As you backed away to the tree, he leant next to you. It made you incredibly uneasy and you cursed your short height. 

"What I want? I want you to follow me, so I can finally lay a trap for Pan and kill him." 

He was so close and you gagged at what he just said. There was no way you could escape him. Maybe if you gained more times, the boys will start looking for you. 

"What makes you think Pan will come to save me?" 

"Well, you are his precious diamond, a jewel from Neverland. I am pretty sure he would come running after you because you're like… his second in command." 

"I am not Felix." 

"I know you are easier to capture and you won't put a fit when we get you." He replied. 

"Say that again!" A voice yelled from behind the wet laundry. 

You didn't understand what was happening but someone tackled you down and suddenly, you were both rolling across the hill. The rocks and branches were slicing your clothes and skin. 

Then, you stopped at a rocky area and you released a breath. Someone was laying in top of you and you could only see a dirty head full of blond tangled hair laying on your chest. You didn't have time to think after hearing a crack beneath you and you both fell into a small cave with a scream.

Your back was hurting you but after a quick check, you didn't have anything broken. You would just have huge bruises for a few weeks. The person was still laying on you and you pushed him off you when you realised who it was. The boy fell next to you with a groan.

"Felix! What… How? Why did you do that?!" 

"A thank you would have suffice you know?" He stated, sitting against the wall. "If it was not for me, you would be captured by Hook and we will have to come rescue you, which is a waste of time." 

"Why are you so mean?" You hissed. "You are always..  being an ass with everyone except Pan! What, are you in love with him or something?"

He huffed and glared at you from the other side or the cave. It was rather small and there was a huge hole above the both of you. You wondered if there was any way to climb there and go back to camp.  You touched the rocks and realised it was too much slippery for you to climb on. 

"We're trapped here you idiot." 

"I am not an idiot!" You hissed at the blond haired boy.

"Look at that, she has fire after all. I always thought you were a weak girl." 

"Shut up." You growled, understanding there was no way you could leave. 

The boys would notice your absence. They always do. You hoped they would come quickly, you didn't want to spend the night with Felix, all alone. You didn't know what he was thinking and it made you uneasy. You didn't know him well but you knew a lot to know that he was never messing around. 

You could see the bright moon, and the stars were shining brightly. A typical night in Neverland. It was never hot, never cold. It was a mystery, and you were pretty sure it was because of Pan and his magic. Once he got pretty mad when the pirates took some lost boys hostages and it was the first time you saw a storm on the island. It was incredible. 

You felt something hitting you at your leg and you frowned. When you realised it was coming from Felix, who was throwing little rocks at you, you took a bigger one and hit him straight in the face. He howled in pain, clutching his cheek. It was a little bruised but nothing too serious. Last thing you needed was to take care of him. You always hated to care for the blond haired boy when he was injured or sick. 

"You bitch!"

"You asshole." You hissed back, clearly showing your disdain for him. "You started it!" 

"I was bored." 

"See, that's why no one likes you Felix. You always hurt people!" 

He stared at you for a second and you grew worried. It was a mortifying glance, his hard cold eyes were glued on yours. You then instantly regretted saying this to him, knowing well he could kill you just by squeezing your throat. You gulped, awaiting for an aggressive reply but it didn't came. Surprisingly, he mumbled something else.

"That's the only way I know to speak to people." 

At that moment, you didn't see any old teenager but a little boy. You didn't know how to feel or how to act. It was a first one for you, he never showed this vulnerable side of him. As much as you wanted to mock him (because he clearly deserved for all the things he did to you and the boys), you didn't. Instead, you looked at him sadly, hoping to learn more. 

"I don't want you to pity me like you do with the other boys." 

"I never do that. You're free to speak or not. You may be an ass but I am sure there is something under this thick shell of yours." You said, offering the tall boy a smile.

He huffed and jerked his head to the side, ignoring you and your weak attempts to let him open to you. You heard him mumbling to himself, you were pretty sure it was something about you. You sighed and decided to close your eyes. All those troubles made you pretty sleepy and you slowly fell into a deep slumber.

You woke up with a start, feeling something next on you. You turned your head and realised it was Felix. You wondered why he was there. He was close enough for you to hear him breathing and you knew he wasn't sleeping. Then you realised that's the heavy thing on you was just his cloak and you were… a little surprised by that. Still it was a step in your direction so you decided to not say something about it. You raises your head and realised you were still both trapped in the hole. Why those boys are taking that long to get you both out of here?

"Go back to sleep." He told you.

"The boys aren't still there?" You asked softly, knowing already the answer.

"Apparently not or else you would be sleeping in your bed." 

It was weird and you hoped they will find you two quickly. You resisted the urge to cuddle next to Felix and turned to not face him. It would have been pretty embarrassing if you had started doing that. You knew some boys enjoyed it but not cold hard Felix. 

"Can I ask you a question?" 

"Hm. Yeah. Of course. But quick, I really want to sleep." You replied with a yawn.

"What… Ugh, I am so bad at this." He groaned. "I just wondered why you hated me so much." 

"I strongly dislike you." You corrected him. "Because you're always so mean, and hard with everyone. You are always after someone, beating them up physically or morally. I don't know why Pan favourites you. To be honest, you are a pretty shitty person. You're an ass." 

You heard him shift and you resisted again to turn and cuddle the poor boy. You hated doing that but somehow you felt good to reveal to him what was your opinion on him. 

"But… I can't blame you. I mean… You must have a pretty good reason to be like that. Pan did take you on Neverland, and I don't think it was because you were strong" You stopped talking, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. "I… I hear you sometimes when you're asleep."

"What do you mean?" 

"Once you were screaming. You don't probably remember it but it woke me up. It woke all of us. Pan made the boys swore to not tell what happened. Felix, for God's sake, you were sobbing and I didn't know what to do. You looked so unstable, you tried to kill me!" 

Felix stayed silent for a moment and you wishes to not have bring up that. 

"I was dreaming about my past." He whispered. "That's why I don't like sleeping."

You didn't know what to say next and you thought he was going to say more. He didn't tho and you had to admit you were a little disappointed by that. You didn't pressure him to speak more and decided to sleep again. 

The next morning, the cloak was ripped out of your body and you gasped. Your hair was a mess but it was not the matter right now. Felix was looking down at you, having that mean glaze in his eyes. You frowned not understanding what was going on. You heard all kind of voices and wondered what was happening.

"The boys are here." The second in command said simply, climbing up a rope.

You quickly followed behind and when you touched the ground above, the boys welcomed you back with a giant hug. You laughed at their antics but still was focused on Felix and his next moves: he regained his actual composure and urged everyone to go back to camp.

You hoped that what happened that last night will make him think of his behaviour with the others. He couldn't just keep everything to himself, but you knew he wouldn't start to share what was on his mind with the others and you. He had too much pride. 

That night, you didn't expect him to enter your tent. You were just about to go to sleep, starting to brush your hair, freeing it from any tangles. You were facing the entrance but immediately recognized him. You stood up from your seat and asking him what did he wanted. 

"I just…" He mumbled, not looking at you. "Thank you." 

"For what?" You asked, a little confused.

"I don't know, I just felt the need to tell you this." 

You smiled genuinely at him, approached and stood on your tiptoes. You kissed his cheek, near his scar and you instantly felt his skin heating up. You giggled as his face went red and he pulled his hood, trying to hide himself.

He was speechless, not able to form a single sentence. He was stuttering so much words at one it was hard to understand him. It was honestly cute. 

"I…" He started. "I have to go on my patrol." He quickly said.

"Have a good night Felix." You replied, staring at him. "Don't get yourself killed." 

He darted out of your tent and you swirled around before falling on your bed with a giggle. You didn't know why, but… something was changing in you. You smiled to yourself like an idiot before slipping under your covers and falling fast asleep. 

[mollydollyjournals]

Finally had a long talk with hb about divorce and all that. A proper one. It's been vaguely hinted at and sort of spoken about a bit but today we talked about what we're actually going to do. The idea is to change some things about how we operate for a bit, take a lot of space, then in a couple of months he's having surgery and we'll use that as an opportunity for him to move back in with his parents for a month and we'll have more space, then decide from there. I feel like we're just running the last resuscitation attempts. We'll likely split up properly before next year.

It's kind of funny this talk happened today. It's his birthday. It's my dad's birthday too. I didnt get anything for either of them. Hb doesnt really do presents and I didnt talk to my dad for a decade after he disowned me so I never really know what to do there anyway. I'll have to drink more or disassociate harder if I'm going to send a text to my dad or come up with a present idea.

All kinds of abandonment triggers flaring today. I finished watching Beyond Evil. Weird show. But at the end I felt the same as I did at the end of My Mister (which I really loved) - something about seeing the characters go through so much shit and lose family and all sorts, but in the end they have each other in their little community, a found family, and they sit around a table having dinner and drinking and know they always have each other's backs.

It seems to be common in Korean dramas so presumably a cultural thing. I guess every culture has its food rituals. Just my family, the ones I grew up geographically closest to, are italian. And catholic. They're loud and toxic and it took me years to figure out they're where I get my eating disorder from. Part of me misses xmas dinners when my grandmother was alive because there was a food I loved that we always had. But maybe it's just because I was so young then. Maybe I just hadnt noticed all the shit yet. But those gatherings over the years just became such a toxic situation full of pressure and guilt and judgement, and in the end it's no surprise I developed every kind of eating disorder.

I miss the other side of my family too. Southern African, so another continent entirely, and more than a day's travel from where I grew up. They were loud too, but not pushy. They were just loud and you joined if you wanted. But my dad never taught me the language, and i never learned, so i could only speak to the people who spoke English unless my dad was around to translate. And of the people I was close to, only one is still alive. Other than them, the one who assaulted me as a child is still there too. It made me afraid to go back. It made me regret not seeing the others before they died.

And by the time I was old enough to start seeking out my own found family, I couldn't eat in front of anyone. Now I have issues with drinking too, the other way entirely. I'm always jealous of the scenes in these shows where everyone sits around a little table with good food and good drinks and good company. That's what life should be. We should all have that.

It hits particularly hard during this pandemic. Good company around a shitty little table is the one thing we can't have. It's why I felt so intensely about going to my friends' wedding weekend - they didnt make a big deal of it, it was just some nice people in a little location with nice food and nice drinks. Of course, I didnt join very well with the latter two. But being able to just be around people feels like such a rare thing.

Hb wants to close himself off entirely. I want to be around people I love. I'm someone who needs a lot of space but I'm still finding all of this so difficult. I dont know if I need more company than I realised or it's just the situation highlighting things. But I've felt so so isolated and I keep thinking about how a pandemic has one particular way in which it's worse than any other kind of catastrophe, and that's that we can't be together. Of course other situations will be worse in other ways, I dont mean to say this is overall worse. But in war or natural disaster etc you can come together and support each other. But a pandemic does more damage the more we do that, so we can't.

I don't know. I want some company. I wish I was stupid rich so I could buy a little community and put all my friends in it. Have a communal area where people just chill and do nothing together, or have those dinners and drinks around a little table. I wish it wasnt just me in my room being left alone again.

[ikementally-deficient]

I want to take a minute off from my endless stream of smut and snarky comments about otome screencaps to talk about something. Lemme just dig out my soapbox here.

Privilege in Writing.

I see a lot of snark, mostly from shitty anons but not always, about people’s writing quality, specifically in fanfiction. Leaving aside the sheer ungrateful arrogance of bitching about something people are mostly doing for fun, for free, and because they want to share something that inspired them with other people, let’s talk about what I mean by privilege and how it relates.

I’m gonna use myself as an object lesson, bear with me. This gets long.

I am, from a purely technical perspective (this isn’t about creativity or ideas today), a pretty good writer. I have a very large vocabulary. I have a strong grounding in things like sentence structure, clarity of syntax, and the nitty gritty architecture of prose like punctuation and spelling. I understand narrative structure, characterization, and story beats.

Here’s where the privilege comes in:

I’m a native English speaker. The bulk of fandom (and this will vary by fandom, but it’s definitely a factor), is reading in English, which, by the way, is a really confusing language to learn, especially as an adult. 

I come from a family of university educated professionals. My grandmother held a Master of Library Sciences. She taught me to read. I grew up surrounded by books, and was encouraged to make use of them.

My family is well-off enough that my grand-parents were very comfortably retired, and so had both the time to spend with me reading, and the money to provide me with more reading material as gifts for holidays and birthdays.

I have always lived in cities where I had, and continue to have, free and unfettered access to very extensive library systems.

My parents, though divorced, were both well off enough that I never had to balance school and work as a teenager. Although they insisted I get summer jobs when I turned 16, I was never forced to sacrifice study time to help support my household.

I was fortunate enough in high school to have very good teachers, who took extra time to nurture my love of reading and writing.

I have a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. I grew up in Quebec, where tuition is extremely low for permanent residents, even compared to other Canadian provinces. My semesters in Concordia’s Literature Program cost less than 2000$ a quarter (back in the early 2000s).

Now, as an adult, I have managed to always maintain a large enough living space that my collection of books, both fiction and reference, is always to hand.

This is just the really obvious stuff. To whit:

I have anxiety and ADHD. I had enough spare money to find myself a therapist privately, a healthcare system that covers the cost of my psychiatrist, and a job that provides me excellent benefits to cover the cost of my medications.

I have a (now nearly) six-month-old child. I live, again, in a country that provides me with up to 18 months of paid maternity leave. That’s right, Canada is paying me to stay home with my kid. (It’s not nearly as much as I make when I’m actually working, but it keeps the lights on) If I had been forced to go back to work right after giving birth, I assure you I would have neither the time nor the required mental health to write.

I have a partner who is a fully engaged father to our child and participates in the maintenance of our household so I don’t have to carry either load alone.

We have a roommate who adores our child and is happy to take charge of him for a couple of hours so I can shower/nap/just get some quiet time.

What does all of this mean?

It means that I’m writing, in my native language, about works I’ve consumed in my native language. I grew up in an environment that was practically tailor-made to nurture this kind of creative work. My education focused exactly on this type of expression from my first year of high school all the way to the end of university. I have enough resources, both personal and social/civic, to continue educating myself whenever I have the desire to do so. I have enough of a support network, both personal and social/civic, to help me manage any personal issues or conditions that might impact my ability to write (and do a lot of other stuff, not going to lie). 

I have a partner and housemate who both encourage me in this hobby, and work to give me the time to indulge it. I have the time and headspace both to write without hurrying, and to be able to go back and review my work before posting it.

If my family had been less educated before I was even born, if my grandparents hadn’t had enough money to retire as they did, if my parents had made less money and I’d had to work more regularly during high school and university, if I lived somewhere with no libraries and no health care, if I had had to pay US tuition rates, if I couldn’t afford my medication or to get diagnosed in the first place, if I’d had to go back to work right after giving birth instead of having time to recover physically and mentally . . . 

The list of ways in which I have been privileged that support my writing and quality thereof is very long. Trust me, this doesn’t even come close to addressing all the socioeconomic, racial, and linguistic factors that are at play here, but I’m rubbing up against a thousand words here and I think I’ve made my point. 

So, to all of you people who are writing in your second or third language, who are writing at the end of a long work day, who are scribbling in two minute increments in the bathroom because you’re the only parent, who didn’t grow up with a copy of the Concise OED on the dinner table, who haven’t had time over the years to absorb through osmosis literary and syntactical tropes because you actually had to work after school or couldn’t afford books, to all the people who didn’t even realise writing was a thing you wanted to do until you saw this one show or played that game last week:

Keep writing. Fuck the haters. I love you, and as long as you keep at it, you’ll get better, and as long as you love what you’re doing it doesn’t matter if you get better anyways, but I promise you will. 

To everyone else: 

Keep your goddamned nitpicking to yourself. Stop making people cry and ruining their love of creating because they didn’t match up to whatever arbitrary quality standards you’ve established in your head. Check your fucking privilege. 

[thisstableground]

fic prompts? i can do that! how about a piece abt the different endearments the trio call each other (if you need a character to focus on, maybe usnavi?)

[I’ll put in a read more because it got a bit lengthy. This was a fun one! Comments appreciated

Usnavi is of the opinion that names are very important. His name’s the first thing he got from his parents and even if he eventually loses everything else they left him he’ll always have that. Their Usnavi, their little one, pequeño. Abuela’s mijito, endearment stronger than blood. All ways to recognise that a name given is more than just a string of letters.

Nicknames come to him as easy as breathing so it’s no surprise that a very short way into his not-quite-a-relationship with Vanessa, he goes to meet her at the park and instead of “good morning, Vanessa” it’s “good morning, querida.” He doesn’t even think about it until Vanessa raises both her eyebrows and says “querida? Oof, didn’t know we were at that level.”

Usnavi’s heart sinks. “¿No lo somos? Which level is nicknames? Did—was it weird? I’m sorry! I didn’t know there was a level! I call everyone nicknames! I call-called Abuela and Mamá querida too sometimes, it ain’t like it’s just a romantic thing, it’s just…you know, hi, you’re someone I…enjoy spendin’ time with, this is a nightmare, I’m just gonna leave and come back and we’ll pretend that never happened, ¿bueno? Bueno.” He makes to skedaddle from his own runaway tongue getting him in trouble and she grabs him by the shoulder.

“Alright, chill out, I just wasn’t expectin’ it,” she says. “S’just a name. You could fuckin’ call me Keith for all I care.”

He doesn’t do that, but Vanessa, Usnavi learns, really means it when she says she doesn’t give a shit about her name, first middle or last. She doesn’t like Nessa, says it makes her sound like the Loch Ness monster, but other than that she’s indifferent. He calls her Vanessa and V and querida. She doesn’t call him anything but Usnavi or, if she’s teasing, De la Vega, and he’s pretty sure he knows why. Not that they’ve talked all that much about her mom but they grew up together, ain’t like Usnavi needs it spelled out that endearments probably ain’t something she’s been used to from birth like he is.

Well. She does use one. And to be honest, it’s one Usnavi hates, not for the word itself but because of how she says it, why she says it.

“Aw, sweetie”. Usnavi trips over his own feet, fumbles his words, tries to make a romantic gesture, aw, sweetie. The word’s an endearment, the tone is anything but. He knows it’s just a joke, and just that she doesn’t know how to react when she’s uncomfortable, but she might as well pat him on the head and shove a lollipop in his mouth to shut him up.

He puts up with it, silently. Like, hello, he’s dating the girl of his dreams, no way in hell is he gonna call her out and ruin everything when it’s a miracle she’s with him to begin with. They ain’t even official, it’s no time to be rocking the boat from just this one tiny thing. Just that one tiny thing that’s kind of like one tiny little kick in the balls every time she does it. Tiny bit painful and tiny bit nauseating because he’s just a motormouth idiot hitting way above his station and every aw sweetie says to him you moron, why are you even trying. It works its way right into all Usnavi’s insecurities and pulls strings until one too many aw-sweeties later he finally snaps “I don’t like it when you treat me like I’m stupid, Vanessa!” and instantly thinks well now I’ve really fucked it, ain’t I?

“What?” she says, looking absolutely baffled. “I wasn’t!”

She was, though, and he can’t back down on it. Usnavi might not be the brightest bulb on the block but he’s got some self-respect, at least, to know he don’t wanna be condescended to. He tells her as much. She turns right back on him and informs him that actually it’s just as sucky to be treated like a glass statue up on a pedestal, and he cringes because shit, he kind of does do that, doesn’t he?

Through the subsequent argument - their first ever argument - he’s absolutely convinced she’s gonna leave him. He can see the same panic in Vanessa’s eyes: they both want this to work, so badly. Badly enough that fighting turns into talking for a long time, and somehow talking turns into a turning point. From tiptoeing across thin ice to something solid, they iron things out and make some compromises and he thought he was falling before but now he’s slipping head over fucking heels like Bambi. She doesn’t call him sweetie in that voice any more and he doesn’t treat her like she’s more trophy than human, or at least they both try their best. He starts calling her out when he needs to and she starts calling him her boyfriend and he calls her nicknames in a torrent and in response starts getting a faint hint of a confused, happy smile like she’s finally realising he means all of them. He means all of them so much: she isn’t perfect, she’s Vanessa, better than perfect could ever be.

“Hola, mi preciosa,” he says when she comes in the bodega, because she truly is preciosa, linda, hermosa. She says, “hey, honey,” with a fond little crinkle of her eyes and Usnavi instantly turns into honey himself, sweet and melted so like fuckin spread him on some toast and leave him on a plate because he could listen to her say that from now till sun-up and still want to hear it again.

He wraps her in a bear hug and says, “you called me honey!”

“So?!” she says, fierce, then apologetically adds “I didn’t mean it in a condescendin’ way.”

“No, I know you didn’t,” he says, still holding her tight. “I just like the way it sounds like…like you really like me.”

“I do like you, dumbass,“ she says, squeezing him tightly.

Somehow, dumbass doesn’t bother him the way sweetie did. There’s only a very subtle difference, but it’s a very important subtle difference. They’re learning each others languages and Usnavi builds a whole dictionary of Vanessa. Dumbass: you can be a real mess sometimes but that’s why I like you. Honey: it’s gonna be okay, I got your back. Baby: take your pants off and get on the bed.

Babe, ubiquitous and almost unnoticeable: babe, I’m not one of those girls who calls anyone and everyone babe, but you’re an exception. Babe, its not the time to get too deep into feelings so this just a quick reminder. Babe, casually making sure everyone in this room knows you’re mine.

Babe, that giveaway when Ruben works his way into their lives that Usnavi ain’t the only one with a crush. it feels as good hearing her say it to Ruben as it does when she says it to Usnavi.

**

Ruben hold his own name as possessively as Usnavi keeps his, or even more so. Usnavi’s name is like the bodega, his first but everyone else’s too. Ruben’s name is Ruben’s and it ain’t to be played with, it’s been used against him too much before so he doesn’t put it into anyone else’s hands. He doesn’t play with other people’s names either and that’s okay: Ruben gives them a soft sunshine look and says “Usnavi,” just that, just “Vanessa”. Ruben knows how important a name is and he treats theirs with the same care he treats his own and a whole lot more affection.

Usnavi defaults to Spanish for Ruben, things that they wouldn’t have ever used against him to attach a bad memory to. Hermoso, lindo, guapo. They’re usually received with a sarcastic snort and a you should probably get your eyes checked, but it ain’t the reaction that Rubes gets and Ruben doesn’t say he wants it to stop so Usnavi persists. If Vanessa can learn to believe all the nice things he says about her then Ruben damn sure can too. Whether that lesson ever holds Ruben at least stops disagreeing, so the nicknames just become part of the fabric of the relationship.

“Hey there, hermoso,” Usnavi says, like he says every morning, and sits down opposite Ruben for breakfast.

Ruben puts down his toast and tugs gently on his beard with a deep frown on his face until Usnavi throws a Froot Loop at his head to make him stop. “Hey!”

Usnavi throws a second one. “Froot Loop for your thoughts?”

“Should I be calling you nicknames?”

“Guess that depends what kinda nickname you’re thinkin’ of,” Usnavi says. “Sonny used to call me Ewwww-snavi, hated that.”

“No, like endearments,” Ruben explains. “Boyfriendy ones.”

“Do you want to call us boyfriendy endearments?”

“I don’t know if I can pull it off.”

Vanessa shuffles in and Usnavi nudges Ruben encouragingly under the table with his toes. “Only one way to find out.”

“What?” Usnavi motions to Vanessa and Ruben goes, “oh! Right, of course,” then winces even before he says “hey…baaabe? Nope.”

Vanessa wrinkles her nose.

Ruben looks dejected. “It sounded weird, right?”

“Yup,” Vanessa agrees, ruffling Rubens hair as she passes. “Appreciate the attempt, though.”

“I don’t hate it,” Usnavi says diplomatically. “It’s just not very…you.”

“Hmmmm,” Ruben says.

***

Babe makes it’s way out once or twice in the bedroom, and even if it’s not very Ruben it definitely works for him there, although in fairness when things get to that point Usnavi’s usually gone enough he’d probably be into it if one of them called him Donkey Kong, bone-logic’s no reasonable metric for anything. Other than that, Ruben doesn’t follow up on his nickname quest for quite a while.

After their Christmas from hell, though, slowly, tentatively he starts slipping in a few. Cariño, querido, querida. Low-stakes ones, always a hint of a question like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to be saying it. Always like it’s not quite right on his tongue. Sometimes he laments his inability to make it sound sincere to them, and Vanessa advises him not to force it. Usnavi thinks he’s just gotta find the right one.

Meantime ain’t like nobody’s doubting Ruben loves them. It shows in other ways, like for instance him putting up with Usnavi in a car for fifty hours when they head Californiawards to visit Vanessa, or sleeping with them on this shitty airbed that definitely wasn’t made to withstand three people even though it makes his back hurt, and not cussing Usnavi out when he tries to escape from said airbed for a midnight bathroom trip and ends up elbowing Ruben ungracefully awake in the process.

“Sorry, querido!” Usnavi whispers, giving up on elegance and army-crawling over Ruben instead until he’s on solid enough ground to stand. The sudden shift in weight distribution brings Vanessa rolling sharply into Ruben and she raises her head with her eyes still closed to make an unhappy sound into the air. Ruben smiles up at Usnavi, barely awake, one eye just squinting slightly open, then curls an arm round Vanessa who looks both pissed off and bemused and only about three percent conscious.

“It’s just Usnavi,” Ruben murmurs to her. “Go back to sleep, love.”

Vanessa doesn’t seem to notice it, slinging a leg over Ruben’s and burrowing against him back into hibernation, but even second-hand Usnavi’s hit with such a wave of affection that he knows that one is right. Love. A half-asleep sincerity, a simplicity that’s perfectly Ruben, and Usnavi knows that one’s going to stick.

[diego-hargreeve2]

light in the dark

Part Four 

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (Netflix)

Ship: Diego Hargreeves x Original Character

Warnings: Language, abuse (emotional and physical), mental illness, violence and, in later chapters, smut.

“How long have you lived here?”

It was Eve’s third visit to the basement boiler room Diego called a home, and she was helping – or attempting to help – him sharpen and clean the knives he wore. The conversation starter was primarily a way to distract herself from the fact that she was cleaning the steel of crusted blood that had once belonged to people and somehow, even knowing that they were criminals who had been out to cause pain, that felt weird. The only blood she had experience with was her own, which didn’t bother her in the slightest, and so she had assumed she was sufficiently strong stomached to cope – but whilst she certainly hadn’t fainted, Eve wasn’t exactly loving the blood aspect of the job.

“Three years now” he answered, inspecting the knives she had finished, his movements almost reverent as he studied the steel and put them away. Contrary to what some people might have thought he was not so attached to the harness or his blades that he slept with them. At least, not with all of them – keeping a weapon close to your bed just in case is just good sense.

“Before that?”

“Before that I rented a place. You gonna ask before that too?”

“Sure” Eve said with a shrug. She knew Diego left home at seventeen, ten years ago. And she knew what he was doing now. The decade in between was a mystery. With a roll of his eyes he picked up the whetstone, the edge in his voice when he spoke again as sharp as the one on the knife.

“I left home to join the police academy – I’d apply for their programme before I moved out. Enrolled with them, had to do a few years of study first. Realised it was bullshit so dropped out when I was twenty. Found a job in security and rented a place for a few years but it still wasn’t doing enough to help.  I was already training here sometimes. Got talking to Al. I wanted to quit the job but needed the pay. We figured out a deal, I stay here and do maintenance and cleaning around the place. Gave me my nights back so I could help deal with shitheads. That’s the whole story – happy?”.

Leaning forward she held out the knife in her hand, handle first toward him, waiting till he lifted his gaze first to it and then to her face. She sat in the chair cross legged, whilst he was on the floor, and it was an odd feeling to be looking down at him for once.

“I figured it might give me some tips” Eve told him gently, watching the tension around his shoulders ease at the explanation. Handing over the knife so he could critique her work she sat back up straight and reached for another, but her gaze stayed on him for a moment longer, using the time that he was focused elsewhere to study him before he looked up to speak and she acted busy.

“You want to rent somewhere” he said, his tone calm again.

“You think I live in homeless shelters as a fun lifestyle choice?” she asked. The more comfortable she grew with Diego, the more she was learning the banter, the way he used humour and the way she could match it – and he chuckled, appreciating this developing wit. When he first met Eve, she seemed so shy, and he had figured out that she was ignorant in some ways of the world and prone to slipping back into feeling socially awkward but seeing there was more to her then that was a development he enjoyed. He no longer checked in on her as a begrudging act as pity, as it had been when he returned initially.

“Hey, say it like its crazy, but you’re the first volunteering to leave that place and be back outside” he pointed out, balancing the dagger she had given him on the palm of his hand before nodding, satisfied with the edge Eve had given it. “So c’mon – I shared. Your turn”. Reaching up he took the dagger she was working on to steal her distraction tool. With a sign, she looked down at her now empty hands before beginning – the bitter tone of her voice betraying the influence he was having on her already in their friendship.

“I just couldn’t take it anymore. Because of being born out of nowhere – my whole life they treated me…like they expected I would turn into Satan if anyone turned their back for a moment. I thought…I thought I could try and show them it wasn’t true. For years. I tried – so hard”. Her voice cracked on those words. She had truly tried. Eve had spent as much time as anyone praying, had done all she could to be a model child within the guidelines laid down within – and the Sanctified Brethren of the Special Emissary, as they were named by their ‘leader,’ kept strict rules – and it had never ever been enough.

“They call everyone other than themselves unclean. That’s why they avoid the outside world so much. But sometimes family members came to try and get members to leave. Sarah’s grandparents – she agreed to go with them.  I begged them to take me out of that place too and they agreed. Found me a place in a shelter for victims of domestic violence”. Eve was quiet, staring down at the bitten mess that was her fingernails, remembering that first place. The strangeness of being treated with kindness and patience.

“That was…seven years ago. I’ve been moving along the States. Boise. Salt Lake City. Boulder. So on and so on. I found out about the Umbrella Academy when I was in Omaha and then I deliberately started heading East. You’ve already made it clear that was a terrible plan – no need to rehash it”.

“Why didn’t you just stay out there? If they found you help and stuff”.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that would make more sense.  But I just - I didn’t want people getting close. I thought…I worry about this stuff. I’ve got better control now, but I used to start fires accidentally. Living on the streets felt safer – if I stayed there, I might hurt them when they were just trying to help”.

There was silence for a moment, Eve staring at her bitten fingernails, Diego looking at the knife he turned around and around in his fingers idly.

“I don’t buy it” he said abruptly, gripping the knife and stopping its circling as he looked up. “That’s not why you kept moving” he told her. Eve blinked, stunned to silence. “You don’t do it to protect everyone else. You do it to protect yourself, Evie. So nobody ever gets close. Putting down roots would make you vulnerable, so you avoid it”.

There was a beat of silence, then Eve tipped her head.

“If that’s true…you only know it because you do the same thing, Diego”.

“Yeah, well. Shitty childhoods will do that to you. You think you’d have come out the Academy normal if the old man found you?”

“You think you’d have turned out normal raised as an omen of the Apocalypse in a religious cult?” she pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Two could play at that game and Diego seemed to sense that was what it was about to come, shifting and putting away the last knife.

“Our Dad just numbered us. He didn’t give us names, he had our Mom do it after he built her when we were four – and he never used our names”.

“I was named by the Elder of the Church for the woman who caused original sin and the downfall of humanity”.

“I was sold at birth; me and my siblings were purchased like novelty items. In a house the size of a city block, he gave us bedrooms the size of prison cells”.

“They made me sleep on a metal bedstead, locked in a concrete shed, from the age of five”.

“We were forced to live to a regimented timetable that gave us only a weekly half hour for what was deemed ‘fun and games’” Diego said, a note of confidence in his voice that he could match anything she offered. Smiling slightly, despite the morbid subject matter, Eve pulled her knees up to her chest.

“So that the Brethren could remain self-sufficient, we were put to work on the farm and in the fields as soon as we could be. Child labour – three-year-old slaves” she emphasised.

“To hone our powers, we were treated as experiments, forced to train daily and subject to constant observation”.

“The only education we had was Bible verses and basic maths so we could count enough to help with planting”.

“He risked our lives, sent us into dangerous missions whenever other people wanted. I got this scar at sixteen, and he told me to try harder and be more careful next time”.

“We were made to fast regularly, prayed on our knees till we were bruised and fainted, with no medical attention for injuries or illnesses”.

“He threw Klaus into a mausoleum and left him there with corpses for hours when he was thirteen. My brother has never been sober since”.

“Oh, so we’re not just talking us two? Our Elder stated God told him to multiply his family, that was the excuse he gave for marrying all the teenage girls once they turned thirteen” Eve said, the words spitting out of her with rage. Even before she left, she had known that was wrong, had been uncomfortable with his revelation – and since living she only grew more convinced. For a moment Diego halted, looking more horrified by that disclosure then anything else she had offered so far.  

“Shit – bastard! You were married?”

“No…I wasn’t worthy of his attention. Fucked up as that sounds, it makes me the only girl in the place who wasn’t a teenage rape victim. Still think you can win this game?” Eve pointed out, bitter – not from the lack of attention, but from the world she had been raised to think was normal and suffered in for two decades. “Or do we admit that with these childhoods we’re both losers?”

“Shit” Diego said, slumped a little, his lips falling open and mouth ajar as he turned to look at the wall. “Gotta hand it to you there – this game doesn’t have a winner”.

She had known since she read Vanya’s book that her childhood wouldn’t have been less fucked up if she had been one of the Academy, whereas how bad her background had been was news to Diego. For a moment both just sat there, digesting the sorrow that was their own lives, before he leaned forward and caught her hand.

“We escaped though. They might be dicks, but they didn’t break us”. Eve smiled, the expression clearing all the shadows from her face and she squeezed his fingers.

“Yeah. We did”.  

“So fuck ‘em. Right?”

“Right”.

He winked at her, the expression so full of charm she couldn’t help but blush.

“Atta girl”.

@lovinglydiego @klausbutgayer @reblogserpent @me125 @fatbottomedcurls

[codesecretsanta]

The Warriors’ Holiday Traditions

To @furlfangs​ from @nemesisadraste​

Setting: The first holiday after they defeat X.A.N.A in season 4. Time setting: My story happens in December 2006 in order to follow the CL time line. P.s: English isn’t my first language so please be indulgent with mistakes.

1st December 2006: Jeremy called all the warriors (including William) for a meeting in his room.

William finally arrives at the meeting. It was the first time a member of the gang, other than Yumi, had contacted him since Lyoko was shut down. So it must be important. He entered the room to see Jeremy seated on his computer chair, facing the rest of the room where the others had already found their seats: Aelita was on another chair next to Einstein, and the others were on his bed. Ulrich near Jeremy, next to him was Yumi and finally, Odd was the one nearest the door, laying back with his feet on the wall and head upside down at the other side of the bed, looking at William’s funny confused expression.

Odd: Hey! Little Will! Don’t be shy, welcome to the party! Said the cat-boy while turning around to sit normally on the bed. Here, you can take my spot! He continues while getting up and sits on another chair next to Aelita.

William: Ok. He simply answers as he goes to sit next to Yumi where Odd was before. What’s this weird meeting about? Does it have something to do with X.A.N.A or Lyoko?

Jeremy: Absolutely not! I called you because, as you know, it is our first holiday together without having to worry about X.A.N.A ruining it and I realise we never actually talked about our traditions for this time of year. So I wanted to fix that.

William sat still for a moment. He was extremely happy to be invited. That means they consider him a member of the gang, but he didn’t dare say it out loud in case that reminded them that he wasn’t. He simply smiles and waits for Jeremy to continue.

Jeremy: Ok so here’s how it goes! I’ve got all our names in this Santa hat. I’ll pick one at random and this person has to tell the others about their holiday traditions. Once it is over, we’ll reuse the names to make a secret Santa. Is that good for everybody?

Ok why not? Agreed the warriors all at once.

Jeremy: Perfect let’s do this! First one to speak is…….(Drumrolls)…… Odd! So Odd? What are your holiday traditions?

Odd: Oh you know nothing big. I just go back to Italia with my family. We have some rotation process so every year a different house organizes the party and this house alone has a Christmas tree to put the gifts under. But usually it goes the same: all the people arrive around 5 o’clock then everyone talks about how the stores were a mess to go to this year and how well the house is decorated and shitty things like that until we eat dinner at 7. Then the conversations gets a little better, but I’m too busy eating to even care so… then we stay in the living room until we open the gifts around 10. The host puts on a Santa suit and delivers the gifts and once they’ve all been opened we go to the midnight mass and then everyone goes back to their homes. That’s it. For New Year we just shout out the countdown for midnight and kiss each other a happy New Year that’s all. Usually I just wait for the season to be over and I can’t wait to come back here with you!

Aelita: Why? Your family sounds fun to party with!

Odd: Oh it would be fun if I didn’t have to anticipate my sisters’ “joke” and spend the whole night recovering from it.

Ulrich: Funny I thought you’d be the joker.

Yumi: Maybe karma does exist at some point (Laughs)

Odd: (suddenly very serious) If that is karma I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

Everyone stays quiet for a while… What kind of jokes would scare Odd and take him that long to recover? He who never seems to be affected by anything… William was about to ask the question out loud when Jeremy, in order to change the mood, broke the silence.

Jeremy: Ok next one is (He puts his hand in the hat, mixes the papers and gets one out of it.) Ulrich!

Ulrich: Well that would be short I don’t have any.

William: What? How come? I though Dutch people celebrated Christmas!

Ulrich: Dutch people do! But my father doesn’t. I mean I used to get the Santa thing and all but my father learned somewhere that 7 years old was the rational age and he thinks that means to be little adults so a week or so after my 7th birthday, he spoiled it all about Santa and his magic elves not being real and even forbid me from watching “stupid children’s cartoons” anymore. Since then Christmas at my place is a business one where he invites everyone from his office and smooth talks the no-lifes who come. Same for New Year.

Yumi: Wow… I knew you didn’t have the father of the year but killing all the magic at once like that is just… super cruel.

Ulrich: It was just imaginary bullshit anyway so I don’t care. Who’s next Einstein?

Einstein: Yeah sure… ok (he mixes the paper in the hat again starting to feel uncomfortable with the whole thing… He did it for them to have fun not to relive holiday traumas… he didn’t even know such things could exist! Not so close to him at least.) Next one to share their holiday traditions is Yumi!

Yumi: Ok well don’t worry it won’t be awkward. (Everyone laughs nervously.) In Japan Christmas is a friends/couples holiday not a family one. On the 24th my parents go to a romantic dinner and I stay with Hiroki. We eat take-out fried chicken and watch some Christmas movies until we fall asleep on the couch and on the 25th we exchange secret Santa gifts in the morning. New Year is for family! We all go to my aunt Akemi in Japan from December 27th to January 5th and it is a time to clean, repair/replace everything broken and make resolutions to start the New Year on fresh good bases. It is very fun and I look forward it every year!

Jeremy: That sounds very cool!

Ulrich: Yeah can I go with you?

Yumi: Not for Christmas. Hiroki and I picked mom and dad on the secret Santa for the first time so we decided to only watch one movie while eating the fried chicken and then clean the whole house and then go to Millie’s house (guess who asked for that) for the night and the next day so our parents will have some time alone.

Ulrich: Oh that’s nice! And for New Year? Can I go to Japan with you? My dad probably won’t notice I’m gone for a week.

Yumi: If you pay your ticket I’m sure my dad won’t mind.

Ulrich: (totally broke) Forget it. But I’ll save up for next year.

Yumi: Fine by me said Yumi smiling.

Jeremy: Great! Now next one is……………………………………. William!

It took a few seconds for the ex Xana-warrior to realise his name was called. He didn’t realise he was actually in the hat, part of the gang.

Odd: Will? Do you plan on talking today? Cause if not I’m gonna get some snacks.

William: What?! Oh yeah it’s my turn… Ok well my dad and I are kind of Christmas freaks so all December we decorate the entire house. We would start sooner, but my mom doesn’t allow anything Christmassy until December 1st so… Anyway on the 24th we get my dad’s family here in France and it is a big super fun party until the Christmas mass. They go but I don’t because I’m atheist and I find it disrespectful to go to places of worship when you don’t believe their meaning.

Ulrich: So they leave you alone at home?

William: I’m not a kid I can take care of myself for a couple of hours! I just watch "Christmas Vacation" while finishing the party snacks. And on the 25th we go to my mom’s family in Quebec. Thanks to the time difference (Quebec is 6 hours late from France) we can get some sleep before going and still spend the entire Christmas day with them. Or the entire week since we stay for New Year which is really fun at their place and we all watch "Le Bye-Bye", a show where some popular local actors make comic sketches about what happens during the year. It is fun and my grand-mother explains every joke cause since we live in France, she thinks we don’t know anything about what happens in the rest of the world. It is useful sometime though… especially when they refer to Quebec TV shows so we let her do it. And that’s pretty much it so…

Jeremy: Cool… I didn’t know your mom was from Quebec.

William: Yeah they met during one of my dad’s business trips. I was even born and grew up there! I was 6 when we moved to France for my dad’s job. I never told you that?

All: Nope.

William: Ok, well now I just did.

Jeremy: Very interesting! Ok now there is only two left!

Yumi: The cute chubby couple! Screamed the manga fan, making everyone look at her in shock because of how unusual this sort of enthusiasm was from her. What?! They are a cute chubby couple. She adds pointing at Jeremy and Aelita.

Jeremy: Thanks! Ok so the first Chubby to talk about holiday traditions is……. Princess!

Aelita: Did you really write princess? She check out the paper to see that yes, he did.

Jeremy: And I wrote Einstein for mine he says while taking the last piece of paper to prove it. Though it was funny… It is funny right?

Odd: I give you my approval! But you lose points for not writing "Little Will”.

William looks at Odd angrily. What would it take for him to stop calling him that?

Odd: More than you could ever do in a life-time. Answered the trouble-maker as if he had read his mind.

William gets a little scared by it and manages to avoid eye contact with him for the rest of the meeting.

Aelita: I don’t remember. I was 6 when the men in black kidnapped my mom and after that Hopper didn’t celebrate any special days. He focused on Lyoko and his work as a teacher.

The room’s energy suddenly drops real deep down into sadness and compassion. Jeremy takes his princess into his arms and Aelita hugs him back for several long seconds before she gently pushes him back and wipes her little silent tears with her hands.

Jeremy: You know what? I’m sure you’ll find a way to make your own traditions and maybe this year I could share mine with you if you want.

Aelita: I’d love that! What are they?

Jeremy: I’m Jewish so I celebrate Hanukkah!

Ulrich: The thing with the candles?

Jeremy: It is more complicated than just "the thing with the candles" but yes. And since I’m the only one who hasn’t spoken yet I’ll be glad to explain it. A long time ago, a Seleucid king of Syria took control over the kingdom of Judea. He let the Jews do their own things but when his son took his place, wanting to unify his kingdom, he made it illegal to practice Judaism and to study the Torah. He wanted everyone to worship the Greek gods. Now many went along with it. But when the king invaded Jerusalem, a group of rebels called the Maccabees fought them for 3 years and once they pushed the invaders out, they had to rededicate the temple. To do so they needed to light the Menorah. Now they only had oil to light it for a day but it miraculously lasted eight days and eight nights. We call it "the miracle of the cruse of oil". And to commemorate this miracle and the victory associated with it, each year for Hanukkah we light the eight candles of the Menorah. One more each night during the eight nights of Hanukkah.

Aelita: What a nice story! I can’t wait to see the candle-lighting myself!

Jeremy: If you like how I tell the story you should hear when Jim does it! He is a good story teller despite what his "I’d rather not talk about it" anecdote suggests.

Ulrich: You mean Jim is Jewish too?

Jeremy: Yes! And so are some of the other boarding students. You see, Hanukkah isn’t exactly on the same date every year. Most of the time it happens before the holiday break. That means some boarders like me can’t be there for the menorah lighting with their family. And as real Menorahs (meaning not electric ones) are not allowed in the rooms for safety reasons, Jim does the lighting and the blessings each night in one of the classrooms so the students who want to attend can be there. And we can stay for the time that it burns which means half an hour or an hour and half. Non-Jews are allowed too if they stay respectful.

Odd: Cool! What time is it this year? I wanna see that! Promise I’ll behave I know this is serious.

Jeremy: You better! This year in 2006 Hanukkah starts the night of December 15th and finishes on December 23rd. But now it’s secret Santa time! I’ll put the names back in the hat and everyone pick the name of the person they’re gonna buy a gift for. Once you’re done, give it to Millie and Tamiya. They will give them to me once they’ve received them all and I’ll give you your gifts before we leave for the break. We all open them on December 25th at midnight on our own and not before then all right? We’ll talk about it when the break is over.

Jeremy puts the names back in the hat and shakes it to mix them randomly. After that, he passes the hat around the gang so everyone can pick a name. Odd was the last one and after reading the name he lets out a big sigh.

Odd: Oh damn I picked mine!

Everyone sighs heavily and puts their paper back except for William who instead says:

William: No you didn’t!

Odd: (With the greatest smile he’s ever had) Oh right I picked princess… guess that means you picked me!

Odd’s smile changes into a laugh when he sees William’s face as he realises he fell into Odd’s trap to find out who picked his name. Ulrich joins him while the others just look annoyed by his joke.

Jeremy: Seriously Odd! Now we’ve got to do it over because of your stupid joke! Ok all the papers are in? Good now Odd you pick first this time!

And everyone picks their recipient and goes back to their normal lives waiting for the big day.

Bonus: Who picks who and what was their gift?

Jeremy picks Aelita and gives her a necklace so he can finally say he is the giver without lying.

Aelita picks Jeremy and gives him Lyoko stats that she made herself since the supercomputer didn’t.

Yumi picks Odd and gives him a picture of the Lyoko gang so he remembers he still has a good family despite his blood-sucking one.

Odd picks Ulrich and gives him the “Pacific Rim” DVD cause it makes him think of Ulrich and Yumi.

William picks Yumi and gives her an antique looking glass so she never forgets how awesome she is.

Ulrich picks William and gives him an elf suit and he went to his house with a Santa suit and they had a merry XXX-mas.

Hope you enjoy it! Give me your comments! On my Tumblr (@nemesisadraste​ or @aidosshadow​).

[jayankles]

Sunny Spain

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Summary: Jensen decides that his work is getting to much for him to handle so books a spontaneous trip to Spain, where he meets the reader.

Word Count: 2518

Warnings: Reader’s got a shitty past, mostly fluff, porcupine hair!jensen(defo a warning)

A/N-This is my entry for @dancingalone21 Lau’s Summer Escape Challenge - I chose the prompt Barcelona, Spain if you couldn’t already tell by the title. And thank you @salvachester who I can’t freaking tag, for checking my Spanish for me.

It was quite funny actually the green eyed man had been at the bar for at least ten minutes and still no such luck. From afar, you bit your lip, trying to stifle a laugh. He was getting frustrated, that much you could tell.

Getting up from your place on the sandy beach, you dust the sand off your butt and walk over to the bar, where the man was still shouting.

‘Please, I just want a beer! Does no one speak English here?’ Jensen wasn’t pleased.

His holiday abroad was supposed to be calm and relaxing but instead had been a lot more stressful that he anticipated.

Before booking a spontaneous trip, he should make sure that they could speak English or that he could try and learn the basics of the language.

He should really buy and carry around a Spanish to English dictionary.

‘¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?’

Great, another Spanish speaker that is going to get served before him. Jensen without a beer when he wants one turns his inner voice into one hell of a sassy dude.

The bartender smiles at the woman, at you, and answers, ‘bien gracias, ¿y tú?’

You tilt your head head from side to side, a small smile on your face as you answered that you were fine too.

‘¿Qué estás teniendo?’ The bartender grips hold of the pump closest to him and waits for you to order.

‘Voy a tomar una cerveza para mi amigo inglés y, para mí, un vodka y coca cola.’

‘¿Un simple o doble?

‘Solo por favor’

The conversation between you and the bartender moves swiftly, he places your order in front of you and tells you the total. Handing over the euros, you wait for the change before pocketing it in your shorts.

Smiling, you turn to the English speaking man and hand him the beer that he had been struggling to order himself.

‘Quite a few of us speak English, you know,’ You smirk as you turn to the befuddled man. ‘Stressing yourself isn’t going to help it, dude.’

The tall, dark and handsome man gratefully takes the proffered beer and asks how much he owes you for the beer.

You wave your hand and shake your head, ‘I just want your name, otherwise I am going to keep calling you tall, dark and handsome.’

If it wasn’t already hot, it definitely did turn hotter. He felt it at the tips of his ears and the length of his neck.

Muy caliente, as they would say.

He swallowed a sip of his beer, the redness of his cheeks accelerating as he realised what you had said.

‘Jensen,’ he stuck out his hand, you accepted it gracefully, your dainty fingers wrapping around his larger ones. ‘But I guess you can call me whatever you want. Since I don’t know yours, you wanna do a little name exchange? You know mine but I don’t know yours. I’ll keep calling you beautiful in my head and you can call me tall, dark and handsome. If you didn’t wanna tell me who you are.

Jensen was so cute when he was babbling, he was even cuter when he screwed his mouth shut and scrunched his face together when he realised.

‘Aww, how sweet,’ you gushed, ‘a few minutes into our friendship and we already have nicknames for each other. My name is Y/N, if you must know.’

Jensen’s face turned almost a crimson colour as he blushed but he admired your subtle boldness.

He could instantly tell that you were a kind, warm hearted person and loved have fun; he loved your sassy personality – definitely a cool trait to have when meeting someone on a first meeting.

‘So Jensen, what brings you to sunny Spain? Is it the sun?’ You smirked at him, giving him a flirty wink.

Jensen wrapped his lips around the neck of his bottle and took a pull of the beer that you had so kindly ordered and brought for him.

‘I guess you’re right. The sun was pretty enticing, compared to Vancouver, but I had to get away from work and take a bit of a break. It being overwhelming and all. My work and personal life were merging a little too much and I’m not in the right mindset for that.’ He shook his head, clearing his mind a little before he asked, ‘what about you Y/N? You speak Spanish, are you from here?’

With a lick of his lips, the green eyed god in front of you awaited your response.

You took a seat on the barstool next to him, sipping at your vodka and coke. ‘I only know basic Spanish, enough to get me around. In high school, I decided to study it in my free time. I wanted to go to college and further study it but couldn’t because of my grandpa; he got sick, so we had to pay for the proper medication.’

You took a deep breath, realising that you may have divulged a little too much information but your mouth had a mind of his own.

‘I’m a journalist. I hop around a lot covering what the media thinks is important or not in some cases, writing reviews of places they send me.

‘Sometimes it pays well, depending on where I go but others I’ve had to skrimp and save before I can move on to the next thing.

‘I’ve been here for a while, deciding to take a break like you, and try to get past an incident that happened on my previous job. Nearly got me killed because they didn’t like what I had written and published; the couldn’t handle the truth. A nice older couple took me in, aided me back to health, kept me safe and I owe them my life.’

Jensen hadn’t expected you to reveal such information, he was expecting a short simple sentence or two joined together, along the lines of ‘I’m here on break from being a teacher, the kids are driving me nuts.’

He didn’t look at you with sorrow and despair in his eyes. Although he did hold sympathy for you, he knew that he shouldn’t have been the one to cause you to dive into your past, especially if it was that traumatising, revealing that kind of information to a stranger was bold and daring. He liked being that person that you could trust even if you had known each other for a short amount of time.

‘So now that we’re friends…’ he changed the subject, it was very welcome. ‘You wanna exchange phone numbers? That way you can teach me how to order my own beer.’

You held up your glass and Jensen did the same, clinking your glasses together, ‘to new friendships and ordering a beer in Spanish.’

He repeated the chant and smiled at you, taking another pull of his beer as you sipped at your drink through your straw.

You pulled out your phone and unlocked it, opening up the contact app so Jensen could input his details, while he did the same for you.

Jensen was benevolent and attentive as you continued to chat and banter, throwing out empty threats of pushing the other into the ocean but as you got to know him a little more, there was a playful side to each other that could have meant that those empty threats may not have been so empty.

A few bottles and glasses of alcohol later, the both of you had relaxed immensely, a weight lifted off both of your shoulders, laughing and giggling about everything and nothing. Your inhibitions were definitely no more as you scooted closer to each other, the two of you close enough that could see the golden flecks in his emerald irises.

‘Wow…’ you breathed, a little too close to Jensen. If he had a problem with it, he didn’t say anything and you were damn grateful because it gave you the opportunity to study his face. Freckles, both light and dark, dusting his nose and smattering his cheeks. His eyes flicked over both of yours, going back and forth in a matter of seconds.

‘What’s wow?’  He said, equally as quiet.

You squinted your eyes at him, wondering how he did it, ‘you, Jensen, you’re so goddamn pretty. Your eyes,’ you slurred, ‘they just pop and- and your freckles are so cute and then there’s this little thing you do with- with your tongue when you smile and it’s adorable. Why are you like this? Teach me your ways!’

You grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook them for emphasis.

Jensen let out a full belly laugh, so much so that his body swung back in the seat, almost falling off his bar stool.

At some point in the night, the bartender had cut you off, refusing to serve you any longer when he thought the both of you had reached your limit.

Soon after that, and and Jensen strolled arm in arm along the beach, content to stay in silence and enjoy the sounds of the crashing waves. You grew tired quickly, legs wobbling as your feet dug into the sand, you made sure your companion knew about your tiredness.

‘Jay!’ You whined loudly against his shoulder. ‘Can we stop for a second? My feet are killing me.’

‘Alright beautiful, you can take a rest or I could carry you, your choice sweetheart.’

You didn’t speak with your voice, you let your arms do the talking. You held them out and wrapped them around his neck. Jensen lifted you, his arms wrapped around your back and hooked underneath your knees.

Since his hotel wasn’t that far away, Jensen decided that it was a good idea to carry you the entire way there.

Your fuzzy mind could barely comprehend what was happening until Jensen had stepped out of the elevator and found his room. Putting you down on the ground, keeping an arm around your waist so he could fish out his keycard from his pocket.

Jensen got you into his room without another protest from your fuzzy brain self.

Waking up the next morning, with your eyes still closed, you could barely remember a thing about the previous night. Man, you really had drunk too much last night.

Your head was pounding, big mistake, you were never drinking again – until next time that is. You really didn’t want to open your eyes, well, that was until you felt a weight against the bare skin of your waist.

Your eyes shot open and you scrambled away from the weight, which happened to be attached to a gorgeous man – urgh, what was his name again. Jordan. Jason. Jensen!

‘What?’ The man shot up and you realised you had shouted his name out loud. He was still so adorable, even with ruffled porcupine hair and a dazed and I just woke up look on his face. It was disgusting.

You looked down at your body, squealing a little as you went to grab the sheet to cover your body – only clad in underwear.

‘Why am I in my underwear? We didn’t- did we?’

Jensen chuckled as you almost fell off the bed and questioned whether you got the goods last night.

‘First of all, I wouldn’t take advantage of you or anyone if they’re intoxicated. Secondly, I offered you my clothes and you took them. But as soon as you put them on and got under the covers, you kicked them off – said it was too hot, urgh, I can’t cope. I gotta take these off. They’re so restricting.

‘You took off my clothes and threw them over there.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘But I  was already in bed and couldn’t be bothered to get up and put them away. I also brought you here because you refused to tell me where you were staying and you wouldn’t let go of my neck, not even when I set you down outside of my room. It was pretty cute actually. You’re very clingy when your drunk and you tended to touch my face a lot too. When I asked you why, you just said I had a cute face and an ‘A+ jawline.’ Thank you, by the way. Coffee?’

Sitting on the bed, you groaned as he explained your drunk self to your sober self. Way to make a fool out of yourself, now he thinks you are loco. Good job you, extra brownie points on the embarrassment card.

‘Yes please.’

You clasped your head in both of your hands, why did you let your guard down?

Jensen came out, his palm resting on your back as he handed you the coffee he made, ‘you shouldn’t beat yourself up you know. I can take you back to the bar and you can make your way home and I won’t have to know where you live.’

‘Thank you but you’re not like the others, Jensen. I’m not rushing out of here to find the morning after pill because some ass thought it was a good idea to fuck whilst drunk.’

‘That’s okay, I’ll be your night in shining armour anyday.’ He winked. ‘Since you don’t have any spare clothes I got you one of my shirts, a pair of shorts and boxers, you’re welcome to use the shower too and because you don’t know where you are I’m going to treat you to breakfast.’

‘Jensen, you are a dream, like are you even real?’ You whispered daydreaming, if you had a man like Jensen most of your problem’s. Mostly your single life problems but they’re problems, nonetheless.

‘I can assure you that I am real and just as human as you are. I must really like you if I’m sharing my hot water.’

Your face almost split into two as you beamed. ‘I must really like you too because I really wanna kiss you right now.’

Jensen cocked an eyebrow, a cheeky grin growing on his face from where he sat next to you, his hand coming up so his knuckles brushed against your cheek before he cupped it in his large hand. ‘So why don’t you?’

And good god, you were not going to miss out on this opportunity.

You closed the gap between you and Jensen, attaching your lips together. Jensen’s brow furrowed as he deepened the kiss, his lips plump and soft as they slanted against yours.

Smiling against his lips, he pulled away, a little out of breath and pressing his forehead against yours.

‘You have really bad morning breath.’

You shoved at his shoulder, pushing him away as he cackled at you.

‘You’re a jerk.I knew you were too good to be true’ You reprimanded him through pursed lips before you grabbed your clothes that were scattered and the pile of clothes Jensen had stacked on the table next to the bed, heading straight for the shower so you could be treated to a free breakfast. You had a good feeling about Jensen, you were sure you were going to have a great vacation, especially if he was involved.

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[sorikkung]

i asked @softbams to ramble about bambam just bc i love seeing other ppl love bambam as much as i do and now its my turn so here we go,,, warning i get soft easily,, , dont hurt me,,,,

hnggnhkgsnj so like BAMBAM right,,, he’s,,, a DORK there is literally no other word i could use to better describe him and ill have you know i may seem to throw around the word dork online, specifically here on my blog but in actuality i use it extremely sparingly for those people that are so dfjklshjkf dUmb but i love them so much??? like ill only call my closest few friends dorks, i just use it a lot here bc i post about what i love and i love!!! bambam!!!! idk ppl express their love in different ways and “i love you” just seems so overused and meaningless and calling people a dork is just more me and honestly its the most endearing thing i could say about someone ANYWAYS so like why is he a dork??? he’s so wild in like every way my first impression of this kid was literally him spazzing on the floor and dabbing while got6 hyped him on and i was like??? THAT ONE. I WANT TO STAN THAT ONE I- I WANT THE TRASH CHILD thats literally how it went down and as you can clearly see i haven’t changed lanes since,, honestly to me the most attractive trait in any person ever is stupidity, and i dont mean shitty grades i mean like their sense of humour!! someone who isn’t afraid to make fun of themselves and be loud and wild and random and is just a little (or a lot) drunk on life every now and then, its just so,,, refreshing??? maybe its bc im like that and i find it hard to find people who can keep up with me in a sense but honestly with bambam its like im the one trying to keep up with him. it’s just so endearing to watch him screaming and roll on the floor and??? to watch him bambam around the place. he’s just so funny and it always makes me smile like an idiot??? and it seems like its not just me bc!! the rest of got7 seems the same!! his happiness and silliness is honestly so contagious like they call jackson the moodmaker and yeah he is (i LOVE HIM TO PIECeS hes a dork too) but like have you ever realised that like 90% of the time yugyeom is being a crackhead, bambam is like within a leg’s distance away?? and i say leg bc DAMN have you seen bambam’s legs, he prides himself in his legs WITH GOOD REASON TOO and he always has to show them off with those tight ass leather pants like calm down you’re killing me here. but ofc he’ll never calm down the boy has no control and i LIVE FOR IT bc its always unpredictable??? like you get bored of the same thing after a while but bambam is always so new and wild and!! keeps you on your toes!!! hes just so exciting??? and like omg i mentioned yugyeom before hE REALLY LOVES YUGYEOM (me too man, me too,,,) AND!!! ALL OF HIS MEMBERS!! like whenever the situation is tense he’d do something stupid to make them all laugh and the way he talks about his members??? its SO heartwarming to see him love them all so much?? i mean they practically raised the kid, like jackson and mark especially bc foreign line stuck together as trainees as TRAINEES do you hear this shit they have stuck together for YEARS before got7 debuted and they still love each other to death AMERITHAIKONG IS FRIENDSHIP GOALS IM SOBBING I LOVE THEM ALL SO MUCH like you know they’re soulmates when one gets a laptop thrown at him but he still looks up to him as a hyung alkjhlkgahsdfgs ill never live that down sorry its too funny,,, also like he may be a fucking idiot at times but i dont think enough people take him seriously?? like he has this mature side to him and its so nice to see that even though we all joke that he has no chill, he does actually have it when necessary?? like!! in that recent thai interview and he talked about his mum oh my god he loves his family sO MUCH I AM SOFT literally like he bought his mum who biases jaebum lmfAO a house bc they grew up under a tin roof WHAT AN UPGRADE and he bought his sister a car and like hes so modest about his achievements too like in that one hard carry episode where he and jackson in the back of a taxi at 4am had to take turns boasting and trying not to be modest, he had to brag about his achievements, this episode was so memorable to me bc only one of them was actually about him??? he mentioned that something along the lines of 8,000 fans went to the airport in thailand to greet him but then he mentioned about the concert tickets that sold out but it was GOT7′S concert like he had to mention his group bc they achieved that TOGETHER and like he then said he bought a house for his mum and a car for his sister like he was meant to brag about how much money he had but instead he said the good things he did so generously for his family im??? so soft??? his love for his family is SO SO SO precious (like him) and when he talked in that thai interview i was talking about earlier (i apologise that i keep changing subjects so quickly this entire thing is so messy) he talked about how his mum is the reason for his dreams to be a performer and how he wanted to provide for his family and dAMN HE DID!!! but like omfg hes so passionate about what he does??? its so so so inspiring to see, he went to korea at age FOURTEEN without knowing the language, the culture or really anything bc he went to rain’s concert and was so inspired and learned all his dances and songs and like it kinda reaches out to me bc like??? he started off as nothing but a random international fanboy and LOOK HOW FAR HES COME IT GETS ME SO EMOTIONAL!! and his mum kept on telling him that its ok if he didnt make it, that he could come home if it didnt work out, she’d welcome him with open arms but he kept going!!! bc he loves music!!! and hes so talented!!! and hes just so passionate,,, and so determined too!! such a hard worker!! like i dont think most of you realise just how intensive trainee programs are??? like he was fourteen and training 12 hours a day, he said it was from 10am to 10pm every day, and now he gets even LESS sleep like hes constantly talking about how tired it is like let the poor baby sleep oh my god he deserves rest but apparently thats too much to ask for in the kpop industry,, but no matter how tired he is he always has tons of energy on stage and off stage to make everyone laugh and keep everyone in high spirits and like he’s actually a ray of sunshine, a precious angel, a blessing to this world oml im rambling but thats fine that was the point of this lmfao i just!! MY HEART IS SWELLING FOR HOW MUCH I LOVE HIM!! and everything he does gets me so soft like i literally have an instagram saved collection of his smile that makes me smile and not like his smirk (which is,,, whew,,, REALLY attractice im weak for smirks) but like his full teeth, face wrinkled and eyes scrunched up smiles where he looks so happy and cute and i wanna pinch his cheeks hes just SO CUTE and whenever i see him smile like that i swear 7 years are added to my lifespan and it just MAKES ME SMILE SO MUCH bambam always makes me so happy like i think my parents i convinced i have a boyfriend at the amount of random smiling i do at my phone but like 90% of the time its just bambam,, hes just so aesthetically pleasing like we all know he is the fashion KING, like his style is so stunning but like i think his visuals are highly underrated tbh he had THE most iconic glo-up of all time, i remember during early realgot7 episodes he’d talk about how he wanted to no longer be the cute/aegyo type member and he wanted to be sexy and charismatic and oH bOy iS hE sExY aNd ChArIsMaTiC,,, if only the members that kept telling him he couldnt and that he was adorable would see him now, still just as cute and squishy as before but also a fucKIGNF BEAST????? like i think every time he does that prrah in never ever a part of my soul leaves my body. idk if thats even related. but like WOW HES SO PRETTY EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM IS JUST SO ATTRACTIVE PHYSICALLY like he has rlly pretty eyes, esp w/ contacts they really just make you notice them so much more and his lips?? everyone talks about his lips but NOT ENOUGH like theyre so plump and kissable and honestly i could kiss them all day if hed let me omg is that a bruno mars lyric ANYWAYS if you do era killed us all, dont deny it, even jinyoung noticed his lips i just LOVE BAMBAMS LIPS and like his JAWLINE is so sharp it could cut a bitch it just defines his face so well and his makeup too like bambam’s makeup is always so on point, kudos to the stylist noona like its not that he needs makeup, makeup needs HIM like it compliments him so well  and adds to his,, aura?? idk about you but he owns the stage, like he has this aura to him he has made the stage his bitch, he’s not on the stage he owns it do you HEAR ME???? HE!!! IOWNS!! THE STAGE!! his dancing is so mesmerising?? and his voice??? he has every ahgase wrapped around his long ass legs finger whether you like it or not. and what i was saying about makeup like without makeup he transforms into the cutest, squishiest bean that i just want to PROTECC like his dUaLiTy you can hear that about any kpop idol but still, bambams duality is so crazy, he’s just....so sOFT AND FLUFFY offstage (when he isnt screaming like a maniac, but even then,) his laugh. is so cute, and so contagious i feel like ive said that already but its not any less true and like barefaced bambam just being barefaced and wholesome and cute and????? im??? adjhgjkahkldghalkj,,,, he just,, just him smiling makes my day fUCK ive said that already but as you can see i am whipped asf for his smile i,, and also how hes so bad at aegyo when he needs to do it but he has natural aegyo when hes not?? ??? ? HES SO CONFUSING i love it honestly i love him i just ugghhhhhhh. and hes so talented too!! SUCH AN UNDERRATED DANCER GOSH he has been dancing since he was a really smol bean and HES SO SHARP AND FLUID AT THE SAME TIME like nobody appreciates his dancing as much as they should and that makes me really sad bc its so enthralling to watch him dance, he really puts his all into it you can see it, but nOBODY TALKS ABOUT IT ENOUGH???? WHERE are your fuckign eYES YALL ARE BLIND AND MISSING OUT and his voice oh my lord his voice makes me fEeL thInGs especially when he does that thing when he talks all low and raspy and his accent is attractive too and like i would pay good money just for bambam to just talk to me like that all day like sure he isnt the best rapper in the industry, jyp never really had impressive rappers until stray kids but like he does his job as a performer well and UGH HIS VOICE IM WEAK IN THE KNEES like i die on the inside every time he says baby or honey or smth like that and usually i hate those specific pet names, but have yall seen that video of him saying “goodbye honey! awh, im your honey?” or just him saying honey in whos that or jsut AJAKLKAJKJKGFJ HIS!! VOICE!! and when he says double b i just FEEL his confidence and that aura i was talking about before now i have the habit of yelling out or at least mouthing double b along with him its actually everything??? omg and his meme game like i know i already rambled about how dumb he was but like specifically his meme game and his TWITTER OML like the whole dabbing thing, idk who started it but he made dabbing his bitch like he gave zero shits what other people thought, dAB ON THEM HATERS AMIRITE, and even on that one vlive where he claimed that dab was history he ended up saying he IS the history of dab and then dabbed in the next japan promotions with yugyeom anyways. the dab is not dead. the dab will never die. and his twitter holy fuck did you guys see the whole steven deng fiasco where he agreed to his petition to rename bambam to dabdab bc he couldnt be stopped then he INTRODUCED HIMSELF AS AKA DABDAB ON LIVE TV WHAT AN IDIOT IM SO IN LOVE and like in the video where everyone was saying you dont pick your bias, your bias picks you (bambam didnt “pick” me, he grabbed my hair and yanked me down into hell) he fucking said “i pick you” like hES THE KING OF FANSERVICE FOR A REASON OMG hes always flirting with his fans on twitter and calling them baby or babygirl and like at fansigns and concerts whenever a fan goes on stage with him he just flirts with them so much and calls them his queen, his everything etc, just i cant even begin to list all the times where he flirts with ahgases idk if hes naturally flirty or he just likes to give the fans what they want but BOTH IS GOOD TBH bc flirty ppl are attractive and like if its just for fanservice then that just proves how much he appreciates and cares for his fans like wow he really loves ahgase?? REMEMBER THAT CONCERT WHERE HE TEARED UP AND CALLED AHGASE “THE BEST GIRLFRIENDS EVER” I GOT SO SOFT HES SO GENUINE aKDFJLSJFLgdfklgjalfk and back to how stupid he is like he is also a petty ass bitch like he casually exposes his members a lot i LIVE FOR IT like the whole mark throwing a laptop thing or like other shit i cant remember off the top of my head and hes just so sassy and petty all the time like i love it so much oh my gosh sassy bam is an underrated concept bc savage jinyoung steals all the spotlight rip :(( nothing against jinyoung i love him to bits too but!! sassy!bam is just, my will to live tbh oh also can we talk about how hes literally a model like he made the camera his bitch too not just is his face gorgeous and his makeup stunning and his hair on fleek and his style amazing but like you can feel his aura through the camera too, he just stares with this LOOK its like hes actually looking at you his visuals are SO POWERFUL again not talked about enough bambam in general isnt talked about enoguh outside of being a meme and :((( it makes me sad esp when people still baby him like no hes a grown ass man hes had his glo up like have you seen him??? sure he can be effortlessly cute but also effortlessly sexy like he really is the entire package and oh my fuckign god he LOVES CATS HE REALLY IS THE ULTIMATE PACKAGE like everyone knows about pudding and latte but even before then he loved jb’s cat nora and apparently nora liked bambam more than jb and would wake him up at 9am every day and bambam would play with her for a while then go back to sleep and nora would sneak into his bed and omfg bambam and cats, two of my favourite things wow what a concept?? i just DIED when i saw his insta story updates calling his cats his babies or his sons and its just so precious i want to cry. speaking of social media again can we just appreciate that he runs most of his social media in ENGLISH, not hhe language he usually speaks (korean) or his first language (thai), but ENGLISH, just to accommodate for the international fans, hes going outside of his comfort zone and its so considerate of him and that once again proves how hes the sweetest person ever and loves ahgase so much and i feel so honoured to be an ahgase and i love BAMBAM, kunpimook bhuwakul, dabdab, double b, lil’ shit whatever you wanna call him, so much, and this got way too fucking long and random and the subjects changed too much lmao its rlly messy but like its a ramble so there you go i like bambam im out

[founditinsilence]

All the numbers if you're down >:)

i can’t believe you asked this and i also can’t believe i actually did it

i got rid of some of the sex/relationship/drugs ones i have nothing to say for and some of the boring ones (eg i can’t imagine anyone caring about my shoe size??)

(i hope someone reads to make it worth all that typing haha)

1: namealice

2: age19

3: fearsmy family dying and fire

4: 3 things I lovethe colour yellow, the sea, when people say ‘sweet dreams’5: 4 turn onsnice smile, making me laugh, good taste in clothes, intelligence

6: 4 turn offsarrogance, stubbornness, being racist/homophobic/ generally bigoted, smoking tbh.

7: my best friendi love her so much. we’ve known each other since we were 4 or 5 but we grew together as two separate friendship groups showed their true colours. she’s naive and doesn’t understand sarcasm and has the nicest smile and is the most selfless person to ever exist outside of a disney cartoon. we’ve been through some really shitty times together and not once have i spoken to her without her making me laugh or smile.

8: sexual orientationso bi

9: my best first datethe only date i’ve ever been on i realised was a date half way through so i’m not really the best person to ask

11: what/ who do i miss?home

12: what time was i bornhalf 11 at night

13: favourite colouryellow

14: do i have a crushkind of

15: favourite quote“every human life is worth the same, and worth saving”

16: favourite placewhen you’re walking towards the sea and the blue appears over the horizon

17: favourite foodpizza

18: do i use sarcasmnot much

19: what am i listening to right nowmy ‘world’ playlist on spotify, it’s supposed to mean i can’t get distracted by the lyrics while i’m doing revision but it’s actually just meant that i spent the last 10 minutes dancing round my room to despacito

21: shoe size6

22: eye colourbrown

23: hair colourbrown. i’m about to dye it lighter

24: favourite style of clothingi want to dress like the cast of skam; long coats, jumpers, beanies, bright lipstick. my actual style is more like ‘yes this is the identical striped top i was wearing yesterday but i swear i wash them i just ordered 5 in the sale at forever 21′

25: ever done a prank callme and my friend prank called 999 when we were about 6. it ended up as our voicemail message.

27: meaning behind my urlif i was a witch i’d be interning at flourish and blotts as we speak

28: favourite moviepride! is the one i rewatch the most. i do love to wack hairspray on though when i fancy a bit of a dance

29: favourite songat the minute probably no other way by jack johnson. it’s always calmed me down from being a little girl, my mum would put the cassette in and i’d lay my head on her lap in the back of the car when we went on long drives

31: how i feel right now?like i should be sleeping

32: someone i lovemy friends

33: current relationship statussingle

34: my relationship with my parentsgood. it used to be Awful with my dad but we’re so much closer after he went through cancer and a whole load of other shit happened to the fam

35: favourite holidaychristmas

36: tattoos and piercings i havejust my earlobes pierced!

37: tattoos and piercings i wantthere’s a pinterest board for that

38: the reason i joined tumblra girl from school i thought was super Cool shared stuff from hers on facebook and i found it funny

43: how long does it take me to get ready in the morningabout an hour if i’m making a proper breakfast, packed lunch and doing make up and my hair

44: have you shaved your legs in the past three daysno

45: if i’m drunk and can’t stand, who’s taking care of menever happened, but one of my flatmates. they’d find it hilarious

47: do i like my music loud or at a reasonable levelloud if i’m home alone, otherwise quiet

48: do i live with my mum and dadwhen i’m not at uni, yes

49: am i excited for anythingfinishing my exams and going home for my birthday, seeing my best friend, and coming back up to uni to celebrate with everyone!

51: how often do i wear a fake smilea lot

52: when was the last time i hugged someonethis morning when i met up with my friend

54: is there anyone i trust even though i shouldn’tidk, i think 

55: what is something i disliked about todayi was the third wheel with two of my flatmates who are better friends

56: if i could meet anyone on this earth, who would it bemy “soulmate” or whatever you’d call it idk just someone i can read in bed with and maybe buy a cat

57: what do i think about mostif something really bad or really good has happened recently i tend to obsess about it for days

58: what’s my strangest talenti’ve always been the person people in class have asked to do their bubble writing for them

59: do i have any strange phobiasi’m a little afraid of birds tbh. like not a full on phobia but i like them as much as spiders

61: what was the last lie i toldconstantly pretending i’ve done more revision than i actually have so people don’t judge me

62: do i prefer talking on the phone or video chattingboth are traumatic experiences but phone calls

63: do i believe in ghosts or aliensyes aliens (as in life on other planets not green ppl) and i believe noah czerny can do anything he sets his mind to if that counts

64: do i believe in magici rly like that post where it’s like, maybe we all have little super powers we just don’t realise are magical, like someone who always catches their toast when they drop it and someone who’s never broken a bone. i believe in little magic like that

65: do i believe in luckyes

66: what’s the weather like right nowit’s stopped raining for the first time all day

67: what was the last book i readfar from you by tess sharpe

69: do i have any nicknamesmy dad calls me dodger. i think it’s because of how many jammy dodgers i had as a kid but i’m not sure

71: do i spend money or save itsave, then have the occasional shopping spree

73: is there anything pink within 10ft of meyes so many things i love pink, my mirror and candles and towels are pink and i have a few pink clothes

74: favourite animalbeluga whales. i also love hedgehogs and bears

75: what was i doing last night at 12ami think i was watching crazy ex girlfriend?? but i’ll be honest the past few nights have kind of blurred together

76: who do i think satan’s last name isthis is so random and after studying paradise lost i should be able to come up with an intellectual answer but i really can’t

77: what’s a song that always makes me happyshut up and dance by walk the moon

78: how can you win my heartjust be genuinely nice and smiley

79: what would i want written on my tombstonei don’t think i want a tombstone!! they’re really sad and i definitely don’t want to be buried

81: my top 5 blogs on tumblr@chronicintrovert​ , @siriuslyweasley​ , @lilieevans​ , @alrightpotter​ and @lilyvans​ are getting the most of my love apparently!! which makes sense bc they’re all fab

82: if the whole world were listening to me rn, what would i sayshhhhhhhhhhhh. sshhhhhhh.

83: do i have any relatives in jailummmm no close/ blood relatives no

84: what superpower would i choosemaybe healing

85: what would be a question i’d be afraid to tell the truth oni guess if you asked me to name/describe a crush or anything like that, i’m a bit iffy about sharing really personal stuff now

86: what’s my current desktop picturea generic one of a tent under the stars

95: have i ever left the house without my walletyes i did it too many times at school it was a nightmare

96: bulled someone on the internet?no never!

98: played on a sports team?nope i tried to avoid playing sports at school as much as i could

103: am i vegetarian/veganvegetarian, although i can go a good few days without having any dairy

104: been overweight/ underweightno i don’t think so. my view of my own weight’s always been a bit skew whiff though so who knows

106: been to a weddingyes but only two, my cousin’s and my aunty’s

107: been on the computer for 5 hours straightthat was basically my life every day after school

108: watched tv for 5 hours straighti always have friends reruns on in the background for hours

109: been outside my countryyes! i’ve only left europe once though

114: been to promyes, twice

115: been in an aeroplane/ helicopter/ ambulanceyes, no and no

117: what concerts have i been tobruno mars, luke friend, and a few festivals. my mum used to take me to the x factor tours when i was younger

118: had a crush on someone of the same sexhooooo boy. oh boy. yes

119: learned another languagei did french and spanish up until a level. i learnt a bit of sign language but i’ve forgotten it all now!

123: dyed my hairi literally did it for the first time ever today! it’s not a proper dye, just a lightening gel to get a bit of an ombre 

124: voted in an electioni voted remain in brexit and i’ll be voting again this time

126: had surgeryyes, i had to get an extra tooth removed before i could have braces

127: met someone famousi was once in manchester and bumped into the cast of coronation street, eastenders, hollyoaks and emmerdale on their way to an awards show it was wild

128: stalked someone on a social networkobviously

129: peed outsideyes sometimes that’s been the better option when we’ve pulled in at grim service stations lol

131: helped with charityyes! my best friend is super into charity work and i’ve helped out at a few of her fundraisers and stuff. i don’t have any regular donations set up but i give when i can

132: been rejected by a crushno i never give them the chance, everyone always knows who i’m crushing on because i’m So Obvious about it but i never actually say anything to the person

134: what do i want for my birthdayit’s coming up soon actually! i’ve asked for some earrings and some money towards getting prescription sunglasses so i can see on holiday

135: how many kids do i want and what will their names bei like the names ellie and jacob and i think i want two! but i might want none or one who knows. i don’t really like to think about the future with a massive Plan™ because anything can happen and i don’t wanna be disappointed

136: was i named after anyonenope! my mum just liked the name

137: do i like my handwritingwhen i put effort into it, yes. it’s really scruffy at the minute though, i’m just trying to get through notes as quickly as i can!

138: what was my favourite toy as a childi always loved stuff like dolls houses and books that opened up into a house that you could put paper furniture and people in

139: favourite tv showright now i’m loving this is us, jane the virgin, crazy ex-girlfriend and brooklyn nine nine. they’re just (bar this is us Every Single episode of that show has left me a crying mess) happy and cheerful and feminist and lovely and have saved me from exam season god bless

141: play a musical instrumenti learnt keyboard all through primary school but i tried to pick it back up recently and i could barely manage hot cross buns

142: one of my scars, how did i get iti went on my french exchange friend’s scooter and didn’t realise i didn’t know how to stop til i was half way down her (very steep) drive. (i was 16). i fell over the handle bars and still have the scars on my elbows and shins.

143: favourite pizza toppingveg and hella cheese

144: am i afraid of the darkVery atm because one of my flatmates likes to scare people when they leave their rooms at night

145: am i afraid of heightsno, i’m actually really good with heights! 

146: have i ever got caught sneaking outno, when i was about 6 i very proudly announced that i was leaving home. i think i got to the end of the drive

147: have i ever tried my hardest then been disappointed in the endi put the most effort into my art gcse project then ended up getting the worst grade in it of all my subjects. still bitter

148: what i’m really bad attalking about myself!!! (believe it or not 150 questions later)

149: my greatest achievementeveryone who knew me before uni is really amazed when they meet me again because i’m So much more confident and happy speaking to people

if you’re still reading omg well done thanks for sticking with me hope at least some of it was vaguely interesting x

[beingheldby-you]

one million invisible lines

He’s eleven.

His uniform is pristine, his nails are clean, and his head full of hair curls upon itself, sticking to him like an unwelcome shadow.

He’s been enrolled in four schools in three different countries by the time he’s in Year 7 but this time, this time, Harry Styles is promised will be the last.

He doesn’t believe it.

Because both his parents are in love with a thrill. The thrill of discovering an idea and starting over. The thrill of building a company from scratch and then selling it and moving on to the next idea, the next country, the next market, the next big thing.

He can’t complain, really. He’s a byproduct of two wanderers who made their fortune by constantly starting over. The incessant stop and start’s have given him a sense of independence. It drilled into him a long form of adaptability. A passion for adventure. A burning desire to paint the sky whatever colour he feels like, whenever he feels like.

But the insurmountable need to regularly start over does eventually exhaust the psyche. He develops what his therapist calls “abandonment issues,” mourning his own exit every time his parents pack them up to the next big venture. It’s not classically the leave-ee who bemoans the separation, but there he is, at the age of eleven, sure that he will never find a place to call home.

But this time is different, they promise.

“This time we’re building something that’s just ours.”

He smiles and nods and doesn’t protest as he waves goodbye to his parents at a six digit per term tuition fee preparatory boarding school.

Alone in his room, he listens to the silence he’s left in.

He never wishes for friends when he starts a new term in a new school. Not since he’s learned that it only serves to make things more difficult when the inevitable happens. But he gets one anyway, in a form of a roommate; a boy with warm brown eyes and untamed hair not unlike his.

Like the sullen quiet of fog in winter, Liam stares at him as if waiting for permission.

He shrugs after a long minute, as though saying to himself that this new specimen will just have to do.

During their first day of classes, Liam points of the kids who are school royalty, because all schools have hierarchies, and the ones who rumour has it are actual royalty.

“The inbreeding makes it particularly easy to spot them,” he says. Harry laughs at his new companion’s subtle sarcasm, soft like the skin above the collarbone. Jagged but beautiful, like stained glass.

They go to their classes and read in their room. Occasionally Harry climbs to the roof and just lays in the meek England sun, counting the new ground secrets he’s discovered.

They will eventually prove useful; he knows it deep in his bones.

Life in conservative schooling establishments goes by in a blur, as they always do. But Harry notices him his first week, during breakfast, surrounded by a mish mash trio who all carry themselves with a same quiet grace.

His bright eyes and sheepish smile doesn’t reveal anything about him at all, and neither does the silent tempest in the eyes of those he surrounds himself with.

There’s something inexplicable about the boy.

They’re the old money people, Liam tells him. Coming from a long line of aristocrats and nobles who practically shit gold. And it’s perhaps the most accurate way to describe him since he’s the son of an oil tycoon; the new gold.

They get partnered during English by some odd coincidence and he learns that the boy with skin golden like the sun is all bravado and bullshit while Harry is all adrift and aerial, head in the clouds and barely present.

It's a cosmically fated connection; both different but just the same enough. Armed with a desperate frustrated attempt to prove themselves smart, whole periods of English became dedicated in debating Twain and Homer.

Zayn likes being the most obscure guy at the party, Harry realises, dropping random bits of dubious facts from books and passages that aren’t even part of the syllabus.

Their conversation soon shift to an array of subjects; from the latest Batman movies to whether or not they are in actual fact facing the possibility of an apocalypse. Zayn Malik, as Harry he learns with each passing English period, is as inexplicable as he is bizarre. Full of snark when you’re not looking and smoothed over by just enough charm when you are.

He never seems to take anything seriously either, each assignment and coursework an opportunity to prove just how smart he is.

As the year moves along, they rack up a number of detentions each, one upping each other with juvenile pranks. For their finals, he dares Harry to insert as many sex puns as possible into his verbal presentation on Shakespeare.

Harry takes him up on that in a gusto.

He’s not even sure if any of his puns and innuendo really mean anything to anyone at that point, but the entire class sits in their silent astonishment when he’s done.

And then, the one known as Louis laughs so hard he falls right out of his chair.

The substitute teacher, twitchy and crimson-faced, dismisses the class in a hurry before the period is even over and Harry moves towards the door with a triumphant glow on his face, while Zayn is waiting on his friends who are waiting on Louis, still laughing.

Harry could spot that recognisable smirk on his lips and amusement in his eyes from a mile away.

He walks out of that final English class sure that he would have to move to another school the coming year. Purely because it’s what he does; he leaves.

And he shuts off the world a little more everytime he does.

But at eleven, Harry Styles is realising that when you leave someone, they can leave you even more.

He’s twelve.

His parents keep their promise and he settles hesitantly into life in a preparatory boarding school.

The entire thing starts feeling weirdly normal. He sits with Liam for breakfast while he absent-mindedly seeks out the boy with hurricane eyes and the madman mind.

He watches as his part-time friend walk to his classes with those with whom he grew up with.

But Harry gets allocated a course alone with someone else in their little closed foursome.

They all have most of the same classes together really, but it’s foreign language and an elective and they’ve both apparently decided on French.

He raises a brow when Addison sits herself down next to him.

With a shrug she tells him that Zayn took the option to drop foreign language as he’s already multilingual, Louis chose German to impress his new neighbour Ada back at home, and Poppy followed suit because she’s spent pretty much all her summers in Berlin anyway and just wants an easy mark.

Harry chuckles.

“Liam’s taking German too,” he offers, “Because he loves everything automobile and he wants to possibly work with engines in the future and there really isn’t much that beats some fine German engineering.”

Addison arches a perfect brow at his spiel, “That’s forward planning right there.”

She takes out her textbooks as he watches, twelve kinds of awed at the ease and confidence of which she embodies.

She’s charm and chaos rolled into a minute frame.

And to be quite frank, Harry never quite had a clear read on Addison.

She’s old money too, according to Liam, as though it’s supposed to mean something.

But all he knows about is that she’s far too loud for someone so tiny, and that there’s a glimmer in her eyes that told tales of her crazy despite every attempt to appear like someone who is condescendingly rich and bored and blue blooded.

He can see in the way that she walks and talks; she has absolutely no desire to be prim and proper, and fit into the crusty upper class mould of London high society.

But a lifetime of hard conditioning of tradition and rules of propriety is hard to undo.

Harry’s sure it had taken her years to fully embody the face of pure disinterest, always unimpressed and not quite an open book. And she’s mastered perfectly the art of laughing in silence too.

“Just a matter of biting your lip and constricting your chest,” she says.

“You'll find it useful someday, trust me."

And he can’t understand it; why wouldn’t you laugh out loud if you wanted to?

“It’s the difference between us and them,” Liam tells him as they have their midnight talks when they both can’t sleep.

He doesn’t often think about that divide though; new money and old money. It makes him want to put his head through the nearest wall. But he wouldn’t do that, not when he’s deciding to grow his hair out.

So he just doesn’t dwell on it.

Harry debates Chaucer with Zayn in the library on Wednesdays, staying too late and talking too loud, and hangs out with Addison twice a week, partnering up for their scheduled class, absorbing orthology and memorising phonology.

And when they’re meant to be correcting each other’s grammar, she spells out profanities in every language known to man, face deadpan and devoid of emotion when he catches her doing it.

She’s smarter than she lets on, that he knows for a fact.

So he just crosses out the profanities and laughs.

It’s something, Harry thinks to himself, the settling in curb is not as steep as people make it out to be.

He’s thirteen.

He’s outgrown preparatory school and enters Wellesley College.

Except this time he’s not the one leaving, almost the entire school comes with him.

And by some stroke of coincidence or perhaps a divine joke, he gets roomed with a scholarship student.

He’s glad for it because it’s not him this time.

There are new faces and he’s now an old face; no longer invisible and no longer imposing. He sits with Liam, Louis, and Zayn for breakfast, Dee doodles more curse words into his homework during independent study periods, and Poppy giggles herself silly at his shitty jokes during dinner.

Harry, for all his bold self-made promises of not making permanent connections, begins to just sort of... fit into all of their lives.

Like they’ve been waiting for him this entire time.

His fists, writhed white from clenching so hard pushing the world away, start to relax.

And it shows.

He assures Niall that they don’t bite, that they’ve just all known each other longer.

Assures the Irish lad that that outside feeling goes away; because you eventually build your own inside jokes, your own personal relationships over time.

Like the way Addison’s become a permanent resident in their room, calling Niall all kinds of pop cultural blonde nicknames, listening to his Kings of Leon albums, and very occasionally condescendingly hover over them while they attempt to make a dent at their respective courseworks.

Like the way Zayn starts calling him Haz and it catches on.

And the way Zayn starts calling Addison Dee and it catches on too.

But he speaks her name differently.

He can’t really explain it, but it’s softer. Gentler. As though his tongue whispers her name like a prayer and his hands long cradle drops of her like water in the shower.

He asks him about it after they successfully steal the Provost’s confiscated whiskey stash.

(It involved, in no particular order:

A fork, two stolen pairs of shoes, three really good hair ties, and a willing Liam and Louis who are bribed into their silent roles by the promise of a share in the spoils.)

“I dunno, really,” Zayn says.

The two of them sit on the ground and drink until they can’t see straight, lying flat on the ground and looking at the stars, whiskey draining into their blood and across their veins.

He starts mumbling off about how everything wouldn’t matter one day anyway, because they’d be long gone; their footprints won’t perpetually stain the tiles of Wellesley hallways no matter how hard they try, and the names they’ve given each other won’t be written down into history books.

“It all just doesn’t matter,” he says.

And it’s like Harry’s been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool all his life.

The world, as he knows it, full of clouded water.

And he’s just now breaking the surface into a new dimension of living. He almost hopes that Zayn’s words will swallow him whole. He wants to be swallowed whole and spat out something new.

Harry doesn’t know what it all means though, but in that moment, he swears that he could live off that feeling forever; alcohol running through his veins and best mate by his side, drunkedly contemplating mortality.

It’s as though someone had just tapped him on the shoulder and sucker punched him in the face.

And he’s not quite sure what his life is anymore.

He’s fourteen.

He’s grown three inches over summer and his hair is long enough to cover his ears now. He feels like his heart has grown three sizes bigger too and he’s sitting at the edge of the window that he’s managed to wedge open on the highest floor of the library.

Everything looks so small, even though he’s the one who’s young and uncomprehending.

He looks at their little study group; Niall with his attempts to make sense of Louis’ work, Liam explaining something or another to Poppy, and Dee and Zayn just sort of bickering and laughing into their hands about nothing at all.

Zayn somehow always comes out of their study group a little worse for wear, coursework not quite done and eyes a little too glazed over, as though he’s been staring at the sun too long.

And it’s all just... normal.

They’ve all kind of just jumped right into it, finding a surrogate family with one another with their real families on the sidelines kind of a little bit like, as Zayn calls it, “a pile of flaming horse shit.”

Money, as nice as it is to have, doesn’t really do much to protect or shield them from anything.

Harry closes his eyes, soaking in the sun’s feeble rays and feeling the soft hush of the greeneries.

“You’re going to get us expelled,” Niall complains, rolling his eyes.

“Life isn’t all about the rules, Horan.”

“Except physics is and gravity is real even if you don’t believe in it,” Dee comments lazily, eyes not leaving the book she’s reading.

“Addison Fitzgerald, is that concern in your voice?”

Harry climbs off the window opening and pulls out the chair next to her a little too hard on purpose, scraping it’s legs against the floor.

She doesn’t so much as flinch.

“I’m just not interested in looking after Zayn at your funeral,” she tears her eyes away from the passage she’s engrossed in, “But I’m sure you'll leave a sizeable enough inheritance for your poor widow to not be all that distraught.”

She shoots her patented wry smile his way.

“A bloke can only wish,” Zayn quips dreamily, expression frozen in an exaggerated seriousness.

Harry laughs, but a feeling he doesn’t quite recognise blooms through his chest.

He’s fifteen.

He has a lower voice now and his limbs have grown some more. Which help, considering that they’re running as fast as their legs can carry them.

They stop to catch their breath, both boys laughing raucously.

He sees Zayn’s outline, shaking in a combination of nerves, fatigue, and laughter. It’s a sight that could start wars and burn whole cities to the ground, he thinks.

“D’you think it’ll work?”

Zayn’s voice anchors him to the present.

“Don’t see how it won’t,” Harry says.

It’s the annual school ball, frumpy soirees with little to look forward to apart from silly dresses and frivolous tuxedos. And it’s about to get a lot more interesting. Not pig’s blood and false nominations interesting obviously. But what they've done is beyond petty meanness.

They’ve set up a mini explosive to ensure plausible deniability thanks to Liam’s expertise, which would burn down a line of gunpowder courtesy of Niall’s chemistry wits, leading to copious amounts of firecrackers obtained by Louis’ wily charms.

Basking in their genius, Harry sits himself on an upturned bucket, waiting on the rest of their group to return from their tasks.

He and Zayn had just broken into the Provost’s office and shifted some paper around, to throw him off, diverting the suspicion of what they were actually planning.

The watch that sits on his wrist says it’s three seventeen when Niall and Poppy emerge at the rendezvous point, triumphant and positively buzzing with adrenaline.

Liam and Louis return shortly after, Dee conspicuously missing.

“McKinney was... out late,” Louis chokes out as he takes a puff of a cigarette he barely manages to light referring to the newly hired discipline master.

Realisation dawns on them as Niall asks what they were all thinking.

“Where’s Dee?”

“We got separated,” Liam says.

“She’s not back yet?”

Concern etches across all their faces simultaneously.

Harry doesn’t worry though; he’s seen her feign contrition to appease many a time. If there’s anyone who could talk herself out of being found with firecrackers and gunpowder on school grounds, it’d be her surely.

But Zayn is not as convinced, pacing up and down, face so pale that white doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Even in the dark, they could see it.

They could all see it.

“If something’s happened with the firecrackers or the gunpowder—”

“We’d have heard it,” Niall cuts him off simply.

There’s logic to his words after all, gunpowder and fireworks are barely inconspicuous things.

“She’s fine,” he says, repeating it over and over again, as though a magical talisman.

After another fifteen minutes of their hairs all standing on end, fidgety and jumpy, Louis suggests that they all go to bed, “If she’s been caught, she’d be sent back to her room, yeah?”

But Zayn is beyond sleep.

“We agreed to meet back here, I’m not leaving ‘til she gets back.”

His voice is raspier than that time he drank an entire bottle of absinthe because Liam says it would kill him.

Everyone stays. Poppy falls asleep on Louis' shoulder, Liam smokes enough cigarettes to tranquilise a horse, and Niall paces around aimlessly and uncomfortably, his first official foray with mayhem. Scholarship students are, after all, not afforded the same rule bending luxury the same way the other students are.

Zayn’s paranoia covers them like a blanket, thick and suffocating. Every sigh and glance at his watch stretches the tension in the room even more, as though waiting for an inevitable implosion.

She appears an hour later and he glows like a lightbulb.

He all but runs into her and envelopes her, burying his head into her neck.

Harry looks away, feeling the tiniest hint of annoyance at the sight, the oxygen that’s finally rushing back into his lungs from a breath he didn’t know he’s holding burns of something he doesn’t quite comprehend. It feels like something private, like he's intruding into something he’s not meant to see.

Niall apparently shares the same sentiment, finding his shoes interacting with the dirt on the ground of the cramped gardening shed suddenly very amusing.

The raw relief that visibly settles into Zayn’s bones spread to every corner of their little hideout.

But Harry’s heart thunders in his chest and he can’t see anything but the dark outline of their embrace.

He is too undone and too put-together to do anything but retreat, standing up in a flummox and tripping on the edge of something or another.

A watering can? A shovel?

The loud clanging startles everyone and the pair jump apart.

“Haz?”

Zayn’s voice comes out softly, a small push, restrained, tinged with worry and concern.

He shakes his head, running his hands through his hair because he’s about to fucking explode.

“Let’s get out of here before we all get into even more trouble for four o'clock in the morning,” he says nervously, hiding the inexplicable anxiety with a nervous laugh.

It’s abrupt, and it’s sudden. His hands clench avariciously at the bits of madness that has seeped into his consciousness.

But he walks out of the gardener’s shed and he doesn’t turn back.

He’s sixteen.

And it occurs to Harry that he is very much in trouble.

His eyes are heavy from the champers, flickering tiredly to the boy across from him on the balcony.

Zayn’s voice hoarse and gravelly from the tobacco.

“I’m so fuckin’ in love with her.”

Trouble, indeed.

“Then ask her out again.”

Harry’s voice has gotten lower too, but it has nothing to do with the cigarettes. Or even the copious amounts of champagne he’s had through the course of the night.

“What, just like that?”

Harry shrugs, unsure of how Zayn can be sort of seeing one of their best friends one moment, and then just as suddenly as it began, not really sure what happened to it the next.

“It’s really not that difficult.”

And besides, if you don’t then Niall might, he thinks.

But he doesn’t say it out loud.

They continue smoking their cigarettes; Harry not elaborating and Zayn unquestioning.

He mind cooks up half a dozen ways for his best mates to sort out their relationship status, or more accurately, their current lack thereof of one. But he reins himself in before his limbs moves them towards inevitable storm.

It’s not going to be one of those nights, he thinks to himself.

Especially not after Dee’s very colourful threats still ring clearly in his mind from the last time he meddled, “Lock me in a closet again and I will slice your knees off and feed you the stew I’ll make of your bone and cartilage.”

Harry doesn’t even laugh. Because he knows if anyone can get away with slicing his knees off, it’d be her. And Zayn wouldn’t even do anything about it.

Heck, he’d probably even slice his own knees off and place them in a pot for her if it’d save her the trouble of doing it herself.

A stab of something punches him in the gut.

He remembers Liam telling him that it’s complicated.

“Just don’t stick your head in it again,” he says.

But it’s not complicated, not really. Harry knows complicated, as a matter of fact, he’s good with complicated.

Complicated is when your parents barely see each other because they’re so busy chasing a dream. Complicated is when their guilt is so strong that they throw mounds of money at you and let you run off with your friends for summer vacation. Complicated is when your sister, freshly graduated, aspires to build an app that’ll become the next big thing to prove herself worthy of said absentee parents’ time and affection.

Wanting or not wanting to snog the living daylights out of someone while leaving all your friends completely in suspense is decidedly not complicated.

Dee’s head pokes out onto the balcony, as if on cue, Zayn's eyes are slightly droopy and mouth loosely grasping at an uncontainable smile.

“Lou is completely smashed, he’s about to cut right through the ice sculpture on the front yard.”

Zayn’s eyes light up, whether at the words or the bearer of those words is as good as anyone’s guess.

“How?”

“How do you think?” She giggles, her entire body swaying, brows arched as though that’s the most ridiculous inquiry ever.

“Dee, you are bloody brilliant,” Zayn drops his cigarette and stubs it out before dashing off with her.

Harry catches his own reflection on the sliding glass doors and decides he might just need another cigarette before he rejoins his friends and the rest of the civilisation inside. Those who just stood around, glasses in their hands, alcohol in their system, basking in their wealth, and physical belongings.

They comment on the tapestries, and expensive china, and pristine furniture. As though an un-lived in house is something to be boasted of.

He is so lost in his own thoughts that he isn’t even aware of someone opening the doors and stepping outside. It isn’t until he hears her heels clicking against the marbled floors that he realises he isn’t alone anymore.

“You came out here to escape too?”

Her wavy black hair blows a bit in the wind, making her tuck a few strands of it behind her ear.

Her movements are graceful and poised and he thinks she must be another one of the bored pin up princesses dragged to these do’s.

The silence sits between them, thick and deafening.

And so he whips out the cigarette box and pops another stick into his mouth before igniting his lighter, gazing at the flickering flame for a moment before touching it to the white tip, crumbling it to ash and burning it bright orange.

“You smoke.”

It’s not a question as much as it is a statement. And her voice, though laced with boredom, isn’t quite the tone he expects. Different from when he firsts makes her presence known, the one that’s refined and rich with a pleasantness that’s dipped in something golden.

She sounds a little more edged the second time around, more daring, as though she had seen something that had her comfortable enough to let loose.

“It would seem so, yeah,” he raises his head to blow out a cloud of smoke.

Not the best small talk, but he’s really not in the mood.

In one fluid movement, she takes the cigarette from his fingers with ease, raising it to her lips for a lengthy drag.

It shouldn’t surprise him really, in all his time in Wellesley, he’s seen Dee outdrink and outsmoke the boys in their form, himself included.

It’s always the most unexpected ones that holds the most surprises.

But her boldness does startle him, and he’s too stunned to do or say anything about this stranger adeptly stealing cigarettes from his fingers.

She blows a thin line of smoke before her gaze returns squarely onto his.

A challenge of sorts; I won’t tell if you don’t.

Her eyes are bright and suddenly they’re both laughing.

“Victoria,” she offers.

“Harry,” he responds.

She’s twenty. She’s a fashion student who’s dropped out of college, the youngest after four boys in her family. A rebel from birth, she says, always starting things before she knows how she’ll finish them, all gut feeling and instinct and a natural compulsion to just do things without a thought of consequence.

Victoria reminds him of someone. Someone he can’t quite place. Someone who he dreams of. Whose name and voice and manner is just at the tip of his tongue.

The cigarette burns out and they smoke another.

And another, and another, and another.

His resolve and self-preservation that tonight won’t be “one of those nights” breaks in half.

He catches himself staring at her.

And when she does too, she asks, unabashed, “And what do you think you’re staring at?”

“You,” he says simply.

She iridescent and lustrous, like a glowstick.

In one swiftly elegant move, she moves towards him again, fisting her hands in the front of his shirt

She tastes sweet, like honey and champagne. His hands grip her waistline, hauling her hips against his as he bites her lower lip.

A moan rips from the back of her throat and he whispers her name against her skin.

Harry knows that this is finally it, the infamous summer fling that Poppy talks about when she returned from her previous summer vacation, tanned from travel. He’s knows what it’s meant to mean and what happens. There are hookups and there are break ups and you just ebb and flow into it.

But he can’t help it.

He finds himself falling for girl with the dark hair and the luminous eyes.

“Come to Tuscany with me?” Harry asks, out of breath and still seeing stars.

“What, now?”

“Yeah.”

She nods her acceptance with a giggle and they take off then and there.

He texts Zayn to prove a point;

It’s really not that difficult.

He’s seventeen.

He stands upright and proud in a vintage suit that doesn't fit him quite perfect and he’s scared. Harry is more afraid he’s ever been, mostly because he can’t for the life of him understand how he’s ended up in a church with happy wedding bells ringing and rose petals on the ground to steal a bride.

Of all the absurdly ridiculous and vapid plans he’s executed in his life, this would probably rank highest.

But he can’t think of that. Not when he has a clear blueprint to follow;

Find the bride, steal the bride, ride off into the sunset.

He somehow manages to escape notice, blending in with the crowd before snaking into the back room.

Find the bride -- check.

She is a vision of perfection.

The sight of her triggers how her lips taste like honey and champagne that first night they met. How she giggles against his lips as his hands wander.

But now she’s dressed in white, in a little chapel off of London, ready to be wed.

They tell him to fuck it; screw the invitation, don’t put yourself through the pain of seeing your dream girl from that perfect summer. And definitely, definitely, do not help her become a runaway bride.

But Harry is a romantic, he always has been.

So when Zayn shows up at his room with a tux in hand, he succumbs.

They break about thirteen school rules getting out of Wellesley in the middle of a school day, and about twenty one traffic laws to get to the church just in the nick of time.

And seeing her, he realises that he needs this. She needs this.

Whether or not she chooses him, there has to be some kind of a conclusion. A resolution. One doesn’t spend a romantic month in Tuscany with someone just to marry someone else without so much as an explanation.

And so there he is.

The silence that sits between them is palpable; lingering and loud.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she finally says.

“You’re not supposed to run off with some bloke for the summer and then spend the year writing him emails to suddenly tell him you were engaged the entire time.”

The sight of her, doe eyed and clad in white, is the proverbial last straw cracking under the pressure. It shatters, something beautiful, collapsing the massive, heaping pile of bullshit he's kept in for the last couple of months.

“I sent you an invite because I can’t do this,” she blurts out.

Harry briefly wonders if it’ll still be considered stealing a bride if she walks out willingly with you, “You’ve been writing me in hopes of breaking your engagement?”

She laughs, devoid of any real humour.

“The term break an engagement implies that I’ve changed my mind at some point between saying yes and going out to the bachelorette party,” she declares, voice cold and jarred, moving around the room restless and anxious.

“I can’t do this,” she says impulsively, “I just can’t.”

Her eyes are brimming with tears about to spill over and it’s wrong, and sick, and so, so... wrong.

“Then don’t.”

He pleads so gently, he’s not sure if the words had really been breathed to life.

It is an odd feeling, Harry thinks, to be so sure of what he’s doing, “Come with me.”

She stares at him, wordless.

It’s the longest pause he’s ever lived through.

But then she kicks off her Jimmy Choo’s and they make a run for it.

Zayn is waiting just outside with the engine running, ready to go at a drop of a hat.

He drives off before the car doors are even shut proper and they ride into the sunset together, Zayn piloting their getaway vehicle.

Harry looks to the girl in next to him, and he cannot believe himself. He is about to sit for his A levels in a year and he has no clue what he’ll major in after or if he’ll even be accepted to college.

But he knows he wants her, that he wants this.

If it’s a choice between Victoria and her voice and hair and her smile and her laugh and her everything, or knowing the future, he’d pick her. Every time.

He wants to hear her talk and laugh and smile, more than he wants certainty.

And he can’t remember ever being happier.

He’s eighteen.

He has bigger problems than a bar brawl, yet there he is.

They’re faced with their A levels soon and the whole form is at the local watering hole that they often sneak out to, planning their graduating prank dubbed Project Vanity.

It happens too fast. But then again, doesn’t it always. One minute Harry’s in a conversation with Liam about colleges when out of the corner of his eye, he sees Niall throw his arm over Dee and he’s about to mention in passing that there might be something going on between Niall and Dee, when the next, he’s tapped on the shoulder and literally sucker punched.

He doesn’t even know how it happens, but Zayn is by his side quicker than anything he’s ever seen move.

As though it’s nothing more than a split second decision.

Harry turns to confront this assault head on, ready to defend himself or talk himself out of whatever mess he’s probably created to deserve it. But one look at the heaving chest and snarled lip and Harry just knows that he doesn’t have a good defense.

Or even any defense to speak of, really.

He stole a bride a year ago and now it’s time for penance. It’s fight or flight. And Harry has never been one to shy away from a challenge before, even if he’s not much of a fighter.

His jaw is still throbbing from that first punch hurled his way but his fingers unclench themselves and he’s ready to be beaten a bloody mess when a fist on his right swings.

It hits its mark with a terrifying angry crack.

The sound of flesh on flesh is the most satisfying thing he hears all day.

“Fuck,” Zayn sputters, shaking his hand out as every head in the dingy bar turns toward the scuffle.

And then all hell breaks loose; bottles are thrown, punches land, and bruises form.

Sweat and bone and bloody messes.

A particularly strong swing hits him square at the back of the head and he remembers nothing else. Only the steady throbbing ache reverberating through his skull and deep into every recess of his brain as he comes to with Zayn’s face looming into view, cut lip and all.

He’s nineteen.

And he’s lying on the couch, unmoving, in his pajamas.

Fresh out of school, he moves into the an apartment within walking distance if college. By some stroke of luck, he’s been accepted into London School of Economics.

No one is more surprised than him.

Harry suspects his dad may have a thing or two to do about it.

“We just don’t want you to make the same mistakes we did,” the older Mr Styles says.

“You need a degree to be taken seriously.”

He doesn’t complain.

Instead he lets his parents pay for tuition and rent and amenities. Victoria moves in and blogs from home. The housekeeper comes twice a week. They plan their weekends around what scenic backdrops they can head to for her to take her out pictures.

Life is good.

Until it’s not.

And he’s just there on his couch, wasting away.

There’s a sizeable amount that fills in the apartment; furniture, knick knacks from their travels, decor, food. But it just feels stripped somehow. Bare. Hollow. Like he’s lying in the middle of a home he doesn't recognise.

I’m sorry, she said, shaking her head. Her bags already packed and sitting just around the corner.

“I just... I can’t do this.”

The same words she had said when she ran out of that church with him.

The same words that left what’s unsaid lingering between them, eating away at his skull like the hum of pain that burrowed into his brain when the man she left at the altar socked him in the face.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

His phone rings.

And rings, and rings, and rings.

He looks at the caller ID and doesn’t pick up, content wallowing in self pity.

His front door swings open, and Harry doesn’t even bother to look.

“She left,” he chokes out.

In her absence, even his voice no longer feels his. And it feels wrong, unnatural, to even dare acknowledge her absence. It’s as though someone had ripped a hole right out of his heart.

“Jesus,” Zayn says, waltzing in without knocking.

“Fuck mate, have you even showered in the last two days?”

His best friend has about all the subtlety of a bus.

He doesn’t go to school for two weeks and his mates take turns checking up on him.

Niall, who is waist deep in a med degree on top of working two jobs to afford said med degree brings beer, Louis gives the housekeeper instructions to work around his designated wallow space for the day, Liam calls every other day from Germany to nag him about personal hygiene, Zayn practically moves in, and Poppy comes by with new lamps and drapes and sheets to rid him of everything she’s ever touched.

Even Dee flies back between classes to tell him to cut it the fuck out as she makes him omelets.

“At least they’re not made of your knees,” she says.

His head and heart and body feels too tired filling up the Victoria sized hole within to even smile.

Dimly, he thinks to himself that it’s a divorce of sorts. That Victoria should be getting at least half custody of their friends. Like the way Poppy had to alternate between Berlin and London from ages ten to eighteen, and the way Louis has double Christmases, and birthdays, and everything in between.

His friends are as much her friends by now, aren’t they?

After all, didn’t Niall, who’s living on campus in Imperial College, have a standing brunch date with Victoria where he helps her take those hashtag outfit of the day things?

And didn’t Louis use to pop by with those infernal films she used to like so much and spend entire mornings talking about old pictures?

He's sure that Poppy flew out with Victoria on at least three different fashion weeks, jabbering away about autumn colours and vintage resurgence.

Zayn’s even road tripped with her and Dee around France before he started reading law in Oxford, didn’t he?

Surely, they should be making up excuses as to why they won’t be round the apartment much and sneak out to see her at the coffee shop every now and then.

He confronts Zayn about it while he’s on the couch, Graham Norton reruns playing on the telly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says cracking open two beers and handing one over to Harry, “We’d pick you over anyone anytime.”

And it’s the first in fourteen days that he feels any closer to being whole again.

He’s twenty.

He’s taking a sabbatical from college.

Because, “Drop out of college and you can expect all your shares at Styles Enterprises rescinded.”

The threats sound petty and trivial, but Harry is sure that the older Styles is dead serious. A man doesn’t run a multi-billion pound tech corporation without the ability to make good on his threats.

And he’s sure he won’t survive based on his mother’s mercy alone.

So he’s just “taking a term off.”

He moves his life to Spain and spends whole days devoted to a neverending summer siesta. He has the local pizzeria’s number memorised and he has a standing reservation at the quaint little tapas and vino place around the corner of his hotel.

“Alright, it’s been long enough.”

The curtains are drawn open eight days into his little self-seeking vacation.

“If you’re going to grab life by the balls, Haz, at least do it right.”

Zayn’s voice floats into his head through the drunken afternoon nap fuzz, varying in volume and tone like a badly tuned radio.

He’s apparently taken the semester off too.

They’re not broken, Zayn insists, maybe a little beaten, but it’s nothing that a good few weeks of life on the Spanish roads can’t fix.

So they rent a car and drive from city to city. Reading badly translated city guides they get from tourist attractions and plotting out their journey on the fly with Harry navigating from the front seat, eating chips and asking if he’s even reading the damned map right, bitching about Zayn’s terrible taste in music with all that grimy dubstep bass and dirty R&B.

He looks at Zayn and he’s alight during those days and nights, a mixture of crumpled cotton shirts, honey hued skin, and hair humbly adrift.

Zayn doesn’t say it, but Harry knows that he knows that the sudden trip directly coincides with the anniversary of Victoria leaving. He misses her, he misses her like the desert misses the rain and on the exact one year mark to the day that she walked out of their apartment, he gets so drunk that he’s just lying on the floor of their hotel room, staring at the ceiling and slurring his words.

“I was so fucking stupid,” he says, over and over.

“How could I possibly think that someone who gives her word that she’ll marry you, and then bails, could ever keep a promise?”

He is completely and utterly sloshed and his chest feels like a black hole.

“It was all a mistake, wasn’t it?” Harry slurs, beer spilling all over the carpet.

The room is spinning and his head is throbbing and he wasn’t to just power down and hibernate into the next century.

Zayn’s voice cuts through the clutter though, unforgiving and devoid of pity.

“No, it wasn’t.”

His best friend’s face is contorted into an expression he doesn’t recognise, “You loved her, that was real. And you still do, that’s still real.”

He goes on as-a-matter-of-factly, “People just leave sometimes, it’s just.. a thing that happens.”

Harry looks at his best mate, blurry and drunk. So, so drunk. Between the scent of tobacco and the misty haze of its smoke, he sees his best mate’s face and he thinks to himself that it’s the most glorious sight in the world.

He wants to reach out and examine his best friend in deep detail, touch him like a child greedily poring over a treasure map.

But his head pounds, his vision is sliding, and then he’s asleep; the world around him forgotten.

He wakes up with his head pounding and Poppy’s voice on speaker, “Dee’s dying.”

The dying person in question protests from the background, her voice cracking through the phone line like a whip, “FOR FUCK’S SAKE POPPY.”

“She’s in denial.”

Zayn doesn't even say a word and Harry, in his hungover daze, books two flights out to Paris from his phone as the two of them bicker on the line.

He wonders momentarily what it’s like to be loved so surely and confidently by him.

He wants to rip into Zayn’s chest and take his heart between his teeth to devour piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, that way he can have him to himself.

It’s a peptic ulcer, the doctor says, brought on by internalised stress.

“She’s got the stomach lining of a 60-year-old air traffic controller,” the man with the white coat chuckles.

Zayn is pale as a sheet as he refrains from throwing the doctor against the wall, “She’s an art history student in Sorbonne, what could she possibly got to be— You know what, I don’t even care. Just, for fuck’s sake—”

It takes both Harry and Poppy to drag him out for a smoke, the smartest course of action really, before Zayn punches out the men of the French private healthcare industry.

He calms down after exactly three cigarettes and the nurses let them into her room.

She’s resting, they say. But the doctors and the nurses know better than to use the words “visiting hours” with Zayn in the room.

They see it in his eyes that those words just don’t apply here.

He imagines them shaking their heads with a small smile curved on their lips.

“Ahh. Young love,” he pictures them saying.

Zayn falls asleep on the uncomfortable bedside chair, head lulling over awkwardly.

With a less than graceful yawn and eyes rimmed red, Poppy leaves and promises she’ll bring breakfast for them the next morning. A couple of croissants, some macaroons for them maybe, and coffee, she promises.

“Don’t bother with the cafeteria rubbish,” she says, “It’s absolute shite.”

Harry assumes that with Louis' obvious absence that the on-again-off-again pair are on an off stage in their relationship again. So he doesn't say anything.

He does wonder though if it's worst to feel like you've lost something you had or to never have had it at all while he kicks his heels up to make himself comfortable for the night. Or as comfortable as he can anyway, with his long limbs and overgrown hair smelling of travel sticking to his face in the single seater.

Moonlight is filtering in through the open window and the whole world is quiet, holding its breath.

Harry looks at his best mate snoozing in his combined fatigue of travel and worry, and his heart suddenly feels eleven times too big for his ribs. Perhaps the worst part about losing someone is if you never even had them to begin with, he thinks.

It’s almost sunrise when a voice distracts him from huffing and puffing, tossing and turning restlessly in the chair that just isn’t meant to be slept in.

“Your shit’s a mess, Styles.”

He lets go of a breath he didn’t know he’s holding in, shaking his leg that’s fallen asleep, “Says the one who’s hospitalised dealing with an art history degree.”

She rolls her eyes, “At least I’ve never missed a haircut appointment, seriously, can you even call that thing on your head, hair?”

“Nice to see you feeling better enough to nitpick at my appearance,” Harry chuckles softly, moving his chair closer to the bed, “Poppy says she came to see you because you’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

“It’s just,” she starts before her eyes shift, taking in his entire appearance, “Alright, seriously what is going on with that hair, and when did you stop buttoning your shirts, you look bloody ridiculous.”

“I cut my summer siesta short to see you,” Harry counters, indignantly.

“I’m sure it’s Zayn cut your trip short to see me, he worries too damned much.”

Desperate to avoid further teasing from the brunette about his life and his hair and his choice of clothing, he steers the conversation elsewhere, “So you do know your effect on him.”

She refuses to meet his gaze.

“Think you’ll ever give him another chance?” Harry presses on.

No one really knew what happened between the pair, just that they sort of were.

Until they weren’t.

“I dunno,” Dee shrugs meekly, “Think you’ll ever quit pining over Victoria and finish your degree?”

Harry grins, even from a hospital bed with a belly full of blood, she’s still sassing him. He mimics her simplistic reply mere moments ago, “I dunno.”

Zayn shifts in his sleep and Harry wonders if he should cough loudly enough to startle him awake and make an excuse to leave.

“What’s it like?”

Dee’s voice breaks through his reverie.

He looks at her, all weak and washed out against the light blue of the hospital gown, her hair splayed across the pillow a stark contrast against the pale of her neck.

“What’s what like?”

“Loving someone for so long.”

She looks exactly like an art history major for once, quietly contemplative, almost as white as a blank canvas and spilling life all over.

Harry reflects on what she’s asking for a moment, eyes landing on the snoozing Zayn before them even though he knows she’s talking about Victoria.

The words come instinctively.

“Like you know them better than you know yourself.”

He’s twenty-one.

He drops out of college and sells everything he owns right down to the designer suits and shoes and ties.

He snaps a picture of the emptied out penthouse that his parents have been paying for, and sends it to them with a note;

Off to make my own way.

Love, Harry.

It’s hard to leave, but even more difficult to stay.

London held too many memories. And it held him back from all the things he wants to do, and see, and experience. His parents lit a fire in him in his youth and the fire, rekindled by the weeks on the road with Zayn, burned too strong to ignore.

So he leaves London on a tide of careful planning and pure brute force of will.

The new place he moves into, in sunny Los Angeles, is completely and utterly a dump.

Harry takes one look at the unpolished floorboards and the old walls, the mould on the tiles in the bathroom and the threadbare couch in the centre of the living room, and he signs the lease.

The wallpaper is peeling itself off the walls, he has absolutely zero furniture apart from the couch that also doubles as a pull out bed, and not all the taps work.

But there’s two bedrooms, a lockable front door, and a piece of paper that says that it’s all legally his.

He loves it.

He builds his first million from that dingy apartment.

And even though Niall's the one who's in the same country code as he is, Zayn and Dee are hte ones who are over with two bottles of champagne within twenty-four hours of him texting the group chat; one to spray him down with and another to drink.

They hit town that night, drinking far too much, running into trouble like flies to honey. And he can't help but think, he's killing it at this adulting thing.

He’s twenty-two.

He’s back in London temporarily because Dee had called and promised to track him down in the city of angels and swing a baseball bat at his head so hard that it’ll be delivered to Zayn as a graduation present.

“It’s also his birthday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

So he buys the first flight out to London and takes a taxi straight to Dee’s address.

The first thing Harry notices is a scent; an utter Zayn-ness lingering in the air.

It’s early, the sun barely has time to get warm, and he isn’t quite up yet. It disconcerts him, that whiff of Zayn. It takes him back to the days where he would lie in his best mate’s bed, back in Wellesley. And hours long road trips in the windy roads of Spain and Portugal.

“It smells like Zayn in here,” he announces, without so much as thought of what the words would sound like out of his mouth.

Dee laughs.

Evidently, it sounds ridiculous.

But recognising the scent is instinctual, like breathing.

And he finds it ironic that becoming so familiar with someone that you can smell them in a room makes them feel like more of a stranger than anything.

“So threats are the only way I can get you home then?” Dee crosses her arms sardonically staring him down from across the room.

But there is a tinkle of delight in her voice that Harry recognises.

And she’s also biting her lip the way she used to when concealing a laugh.

A gust of wind blows in from the balcony and the thrill, that dizzying pull of one Zayn Malik runs through his veins like electricity, igniting them right to their ends.

Before he knows it, he is enveloped in the familiar combined scent of tobacco and lemon and bergamot.

A warmth floods through him.

Must be the sun, he thinks, from the now open balcony.

“You fuckin’ idiot.”

His grin is better than any drug Harry’s ever experienced.

Harry chuckles appreciatively, casually grabbing a slice of uneaten toast from the Dee’s plate and taking a hefty bite.

Zayn starts talking about his post graduation plans, joining his father’s company and working his way from the bottom up.

“I mean, Liam’s working with his dad and they’re making a pretty good run of it, I figure I’ll do alright.”

He keeps talking and Harry’s mind, half awake from the ten hour flight and lack of caffeine can still absorb the continued deep timbre of his voice as he starts excitedly babbling about how it’ll be the first time they’re all in the same place at the same time.

There’s a new lightness to Zayn and Harry’s not quite sure what it is.

He’s going on about how Poppy and Louis have finally gotten their act together and moved in to their own place when Harry completely loses track of his words. Zayn reaches out to grab a mug from the top shelf, moving around comfortably in the kitchen that isn’t his, and Harry’s mind can suddenly register nothing else. He is distracted by Zayn’s movements; swift and seamless.

The way he easily pours a steaming brew into the mug, scoops two sugar teaspoons of sugar into it, dribbles in some milk before giving the concoction a quick swirl has him enraptured.

He extends the mug out to him and Harry’s gaze snaps from Zayn’s hands to his face.

“What?” Zayn looks down at the mug in his hands. “Did I get it wrong?”

“No.”

"So?” Zayn questions with an expression of easy nonchalance.

Harry isn't sure himself, but his stomach is clenching uncomfortably and he doesn't think it's from the long haul flight.

“You and Dee normally have tea,” his mind is apparently just making words up as he goes.

“There isn't any caffeine in tea though is there?” Zayn points out with a chuckle, “And you’re quite the grouch in the mornings.”

He slides the cup over.

Harry takes a gulp; the coffee burns as it fills his mouth and slips down his throat, but the sensation is better than the alternative.

“I got almost everyone home and a reservation at Hibiscus tonight,” Dee stands up, announcing to no one in particular, “Please wear something that’s buttoned up all the way?”

The latter statement is aimed at him, disarmingly sincere.

“And try not to burn down my house while I’m out, will you?” Dee looks at Zayn accusingly after chucking her plate into the sink.

“First of all, it was your candle,” Zayn huffs, an inside joke he isn’t in on, “Second of all, the house is still very much intact, innit?”

She shakes her head, small smile playing on her lips.

And that’s when it happens.

Zayn leans forward and catches her lips with his own. Casually. Comfortably. As though it’s a daily occurrence between them.

Harry barely registers her kissing him on the cheek and walking out after that.

More than any heartbreak, Harry realises, is when you didn't even know there was something to break.

And everyone seems to be moving forward so rapidly; Poppy and Louis, Dee and Zayn, Liam, and even Niall who they barely see anymore because the bastard has the audacity to study medicine while knowing his own health decline, because, "a sick doctor? Come on, it'll be a fuckin' riot."

They all seem to be working towards something substantial in their life. Whether it’s moving in with your on-again-off-again partner or finally labelling your relationship status or fitting into the shoes you’ve been groomed for your entire life, they were all traveling in the same orbit.

Change, Harry thinks, is always bittersweet. A scary monster that hides beneath his bed that he's learned to battle since the age of four, that first big terrifying leap into the unknown guided by nothing but the certainty in his parents hand.

And he’s happy for his mates, really, in all their certainty.

There’s just this bitter taste in his mouth he can’t explain.

He’s twenty-three.

And by now, he’s had one too many broken bones to not instantly recognise pain when he sees it.

Harry knows deep cuts from scrapes, however hidden they are by blood. He knows how bruises hurt and age and heal. And he understands intimately the look of pure stoicism in the face of pain.

So when he sees her, he knows she’s hurting.

He’s at a wedding out in Napa Valley and she’s just by the bar, the wine glass in her hand never too lonely for too long.

He instinctively just meanders towards the girl who looked as lost as he is.

“Let me guess, you want to buy me a drink from the free open bar.”

Her accent American, her voice bored, and her expression unamused.

“I was going to go with the ‘make me the third happiest person in the room’ route, but that works too,” Harry counters before taking a seat next to the one exchanging the proverbial blood bleeding out through her chest with gushing red wine in her hand.

“You’re Harry Styles,” her voice perks up.

“Excuse me?”

He’s more than a little taken aback; he hardly calls himself a recluse on the long list of millionaire start up owners, but he ever really considered the fact that his face and name might be common knowledge.

“You’re the heir to Styles Enterprises,” she goes on, as though reciting from a list she’s memorised, “You stuck it to your old man by starting up your own company five thousand miles away and you refused his buyout even when your four most expensive start up acquisitions failed. You’re kind of legendary in the industry,” she raises the glass to her lips once more with an eyebrow raised.

He’s more amused by it than anything.

“And what industry is that?”

“Tech journalism,” she lifts her chin at the words, pride evident on her face, “My name’s Beth Matthews.”

“Is that how you met and fell in love with the groom, Beth?”

It catches her by surprise. She’s blinking rapidly at his words, as though wondering if she misheard him somehow, “What are you—”

“Call it an instinct,” he shrugs.

He tells the barkeep that he'll have what the lady is having and plants himself firmly by her side for the rest of the night.

It's a familiarity, he decides. Their connection is one of two damanged people who sought for a home in others without having the blame of being the one who did the breaking.

Harry Styles didn’t unwittingly fall in love with Beth Matthews, he jumped; head first, eyes closed and trying not to think of it too much.

In hindsight, he should have really seen it coming; she does, after all, have the dark hair and eyes to match.

He hates to admit it, but he does have a type. And one moment she’s reluctantly laughing at his jokes by the open bar at the garden party of a wedding reception, and the next she’s whispering secrets to him at 2am from the bathroom they’ve locked themselves in.

He can’t for the life of him remember how they had acquired exactly thirteen thousand inside jokes over a few hours and too many glasses of wine, but all of them made him laugh and they’re snuggled next to each other with every crook and cranny of their bodies fitting perfectly.

Beth’s hair, which held scent traces of a lemon-y shampoo and the cigarettes she’s been smoking all night, reminds him of both home and the open road.

It’s quickly becoming apparent, even in his alcohol hazed mind, that he’s liking this girl a great deal more than he had intended to. It’s evolving into more than what he had hoped for; a few drinks, a straightforward shag, and a number on a napkin that will never be used.

But it isn’t until he finds himself staring at that the way her brow furrows before she sneezes that he realises that he’s a goner.

Hoping to impress her, he recounts the exaggerated tales of how he aided and abetted in multiple runaway brides in Vegas while attending a bachelor’s party.

“If you want, I can totally steal the bride and keep her distracted while you go for the groom,” he jokes.

An inexplicable sadness returns to her eyes.

A distraction; that’s all it had been for her.

“You know, it’s refreshing to see someone who can afford to take a million second chances but still holds on so strongly to the first,” she says.

He loses his trail of thought at that.

“Victoria. You still love her don’t you?” Beth prods on.

“What?”

“I mean, that’s what this all is, isn’t it? You keep falling for the ones you can’t have, like you’re re-living some kind of a trauma,” she slurs, “And it all stems back to that first runaway bride, that first person you fell in love with but couldn’t have.”

There’s a silence between them and Harry’s not quite sure what to say.

He hadn’t realised that he’d told this stranger so much about himself. He definitely wasn’t expecting her to be as perceptive to his words and stories and nuances.

Yet there they are, both stewing in their bleeding hearts and a lung cavity full of confusion.

Stranger still, is that his mind didn't immediately go to Victoria. As a matter of fact, it's been months since he had even so much as thought about her.

“You know, when we were sixteen, we used to sit on his parents roof and dream of a life where we’d go make something of ourselves,” she reaches into her purse and pulls out the wedding invite, the very one that had the smiles of the happy couple plastered on, “And now he has. I’m just not in it.”

His mind is a riot; as if he’s been hit in the head and all the blood is rushing to his head.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts all of the sudden.

She freezes, turning her head to stare at him.

“Well, if we never felt pain, we wouldn’t appreciate happiness nearly as much as we do, now would we?"

His eyes lock on her own hazel hued ones, astonished by her eloquence after drinking half the bar dry.

“You really think it’s that simple?”

She thinks for a moment before deciding on a response.

“I hope so.”

Beth gets to her feet unsteadily and leaves him in the bathroom alone, taking his heart with her.

He’s twenty-four.

It hasn’t exactly been a fun ride so far.

Harry has lived in six countries, aided and abetted in five runaway brides, invested in four failed start ups, been in three fights, and had his heart broken twice.

And he’s pretty sure both times were by the same person, wearing different faces.

Which is probably why when he rushes into the bridal room to find Dee frantically pacing and on the verge of tears, he doesn’t know what his presence is meant to do or not do.

“Tell me something good,” she pleads.

“What?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“No,” Harry declares, the scene all too familiar for him, “No, no, no, no, no. No! I am not about to find myself involved in a sixth runaway bride situation, especially not with Zayn on the receiving end, Addison, you are not doing this to me.”

His head is spinning and he can’t believe it, she starts saying his name when her head tilts in contemplation.

“Did you just say sixth?”

He assures her it isn’t the time nor the place for the story and she starts moving around nervously once more.

Fearing the worse, he asks relucatntly, unsure if he even really wants to know the answer. Unsure if the deepest darkest parts of him actually wants for an opposite outcome, “What’s wrong?”

“Just tell me something good, Haz, I need to hear something good.”

Her voice is pleading and sincere. And he doesn’t quite know what is good or true is anymore. So he goes with what he knows, “He loves you.”

Dee sighs, sitting herself down, eyes flickering to the bouquet in the corner.

“Zayn’s loved you since he was eleven,” Harry all but forces the words off his tongue.

He hates to admit it, but it had been clear to him since that first English period that Zayn is utterly unobtainable due to the fact that he already belonged to someone else.

“You may have thought that he was interested in a play thing, a doll, a pretty thing to put in a trophy case but you saw the truth eventually, you walked in love with him with your eyes wide open. You chose him every step of the way.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Dee whispers, barely audible, as though she’s talking to herself more than she is talking to him, “Everyone keeps telling me that I love him and that he loves me. And that we make perfect sense together. But how do you tell the difference between something that actually exists and something that only exists because everyone tells you it does?”

“What are you saying?” Harry exclaims, “This is Zayn we’re talking about.”

“The same Zayn who nearly had a heart attack in the garden shed when you didn’t come back from that stupid prank,” he starts, “The same Zayn who came this close to punching out a French physician, the one who bought you that ridiculously expensive painting when you graduated Sorbonne.”

She looks up at him pacing around the room, like she’s thinking.

“I just can’t shake this feeling that that nothing about us makes sense, not the way that—” Dee stops herself mid sentence.

She looks uneasy, even more so than she did moments before, like she’s about to confess something terrible. And for a moment, he’s almost relieved. Almost.

“Not the way that it should,” she finishes the sentence somewhat inadequately.

Dee looks like she’s choking when he says it, like suddenly there is not enough air in the whole room to fill her cracking lungs.

Secrets are a weird thing, he thinks to himself.

“Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense.”

Harry’s not sure who he’s trying to convince more, really, himself or her.

He sits himself down right in front of the bride, reaching to hold her hands steady in his own because she looks like she might disintegrate.

“Maybe there are a million universes out there where you don’t meet Zayn, and you marry someone else,” he suggests, “But you’re here, in this universe, and it’s real.”

She looks at him in something like wonder and he doesn’t know if there’s anything else left to say.

There’s a knock on the door telling him it’s time.

He gets up to leave her to it.

She has probably two good minutes if she wants to run. It’s an instinct he quite understands.

He’s lived in six countries to date.

He’s aided and abetted five runaway brides, put his entire life savings into four failed start ups, been in three physical fights where he's literally had the lights knocked out of him, and had his heart broken twice.

But he’s standing next to Zayn at the end of the aisle on his wedding day. And his smile is so full of light when he sees the bride walk down the aisle, it blinds him.

He’s sure that their paths cross in a different million universes in a different million ways, some of which they probably don’t even so much as glance at one another.

Maybe in all of them, Zayn never loves him back the way Harry loves him.

But still, he’s here in this universe.

So Harry considers himself lucky after all.

[thewhiteproblem]

Decolonising Media

First written in March 2017 and posted now as a resource for a conversation between white people on how we can tackle The White Problem.

-

I grew up in a small majority white city at an almost completely white school surrounded by media - advertising and tv - that did nothing but re-enforce my whiteness. Yes there were black and brown people there, but to me they were just people. Being brought up in these overwhelmingly white surroundings creates the My First Experience of Race, ever problematic argument, 'I don’t see colour’. Because 99% of all the faces I see, whether 2D or 3D, are white and anything else becomes quite ignorable in its difference.

Here’s our level one decolonisation step - we need to stop thinking of white as a norm or a base and everything else as other. From medical forms, White/british/other, to the term People of Colour, which homogenises everyone that isn’t white - whiteness and white fragility are centred and protected constantly and it’s time for us to acknowledge and change that. (I’d like to point out here that I know a lot of people use the term People of Colour as a self identifier which I’m not trying to undermine, I just want to draw attention to the language we use when talking about race, and how that often revolves around the white experience



Black and brown people come in every colour, including white if you’re albino or white passing. This is the problem of the man made system that is race, there is no room for complexities, we try and split each other into skin tone but the reality is latinxs and anyone of mixed race can appear white, and people from ‘white’ countries can be dark skinned like Italy and Spain. The concept of race is made up, not to say racism doesn’t exist because the repercussions of race are real. but the reality is its a shitty describing systems that is full od holes and flaws, it defines how we see race still. the other box - ‘The racial categories used in the US census are a product of the political history of the united states. People who we’d consider white, black and hispanic here might be categorised totally differently in Brazil, where different demographics and history have lead led to different race concepts.’ *cue wtf is latino vid. Is it your name? Your accent? You’re ability to speak the language? The fact you get racially profiled from your appearance? The truth is there’s no clean answer because.. This is also true in Europe where.. dark skin italian arguments. Mixed race people perceiving themselves as half something and half something else. the first time i realised i was black - guardian article. We have to stop speaking for others and know what boundaries our identity lies within. Race as social identity not genetic Having said that its a social construct we cant ignore the implications of the effects of race, the effects are real which is why whitewashing is an issue


Non-binary artist Jacob V Joyce in their book 'The Alphabetical Anthology of White Liberal Proverbs’ refers to 'a slavery that evolved instead of ending’, and that is what is happening with colonialism as well - it has evolved instead of ending through how we represent black and brown people in media. Whitewashing is the first point to address - taking black and brown stories and telling them through and for white eyes. If we take it all the way back, a huge part of the message in white washing is ‘I can play you better than you can play you’ which can be found in ‘entertainment’ like the Minstrel shows from the 1840s onwards. White people dressing up in blackface to demonise and ridicule black people is overt racism that we can now all agree is completely unacceptable, so over time it has had to morph and evolve to spread unchallenged. It becomes less blatant but the message does not change. I can play you better than you can play you. To this day, white people continue to be cast in roles that weren’t written for them, taking stories that aren’t ours to tell. The message we are sending here is clear - we see your story, we think it’s cool and we are going to profit from it, with or without your consent.

“I’ve become the butt of many jokes,” she said, referring to her role in Aloha. “I’ve learned on a macro level about the insane history of whitewashing in Hollywood and how prevalent the problem truly is. It’s ignited a conversation that’s very important.”

In defense of her casting, she offered: “The character was not supposed to look like her background which was a quarter Hawaiian and a quarter Chinese.” The obvious lesson to learn here is that race is more than skin colour and what someone looks like, it’s a cultural heritage you tap into, that is passed down. It’s personal. It’s as intimate as sexuality. And no one should be explaining it to you/validates it for you.

The flip side of whitewashing is a more insidious perpetuation of colonialism - tokenism. Whilst genuine multiculturalism and cultural sharing are great and important and make us stronger, tokenism - using faces to claim diversity - is a pathetic attempt to tape over the deep scars in our societies that were left and continue to be re-opened by centring whiteness. This is a point at which white liberals especially fall down - those who do see racial inequality as an issue that needs to be addressed but think it can be fixed purely through visual representation. Yes, seeing yourself on screen and in media is crucial but that is not where it ends.


To truly start decolonising our media we have to engage in genuine research. Simply showing a brown or black face is not the answer, it is just the start, really the bare minimum that we have all been resting on so far. The WritingWithColour tumblr blog, in their essay 'A Discussion on Culture and Erasure' explain that 'While we are no different from the majority in terms of our minds, our passions, our ideas, we are different in where we come from. Our experience was shaped by our culture and in order to show us as true characters, you must give your own characters our ethnicity’s history. Our comforts will be different from yours because we grew up being comforted by different things.’ 
 Creating media invariably includes research, so why do we shy away from researching existing cultures that are different to our own? We will happily create entire fantasy worlds of wizards, dragons, witches and elves, and post-apocalyptic wastelands where we can indulge in a fantasy of surviving in ruins, having nothing and maybe even being hunted by intruders - just imagine! And if it gets too much, don’t worry you can just turn off the tv. Simple right?

For all the effort put into creating these worlds, there is a clear reluctance to get into deep honest research of black and brown cultures that is respectful and accurate and insighful. ‘Our comforts will be different from yours because we grew up being comforted by different things’ is a key line here that goes back to the idea that white is 0, white is a neutral base. It’s not. To continue to treat it like it is forces whiteness onto your audience, you characters and your work

Names are a huge, easily solvable part of tokenism. Alex Parrish in Quantico, for example, played by Priyanka Chopra. The name Alex Parrish says that it was assumed this role would be played by a white person and when ABC landed Priyanka Chopra to play the part, it wasn’t deemed important enough to change her name so she could be represented in a more genuine way. Whether the character has an in-depth back story or not, culture is part of identity, the pinnacle of which is a name.

Representation is seeing yourself on screen, GOOD representation is seeing your life on screen, treated with the same respect and detail that every other character’s is. This happens regularly to queer people in media too, the most ‘acceptable’ forms of gay relationships (read: skinny white cisgender able-bodied people) are portrayed, and still have drastically reduced screen time compared to their straight counterparts. Their stories will not run as deep, with backstories at times being overlooked entirely.

Representing only a single facet of a character’s complex identity - one that you deem to be most easily digestible is not only lazy, but a harmful perpetuation of the idea that you must conform to be accepted. You make them gay but not too gay, you make them brown but not too brown. The centring of white heterosexual fragility is at this point embarrassing. We need to sharpen up and address our shortcomings in how we create media, and make moves to fix them. More importantly still, we need to make space for and support black and brown writers and creators who have been dealing with this shit from day one, and are waiting for us to catch up. Remember that their achievements are not our failures, and everyone wins when we take responsibility for our privilege and decolonise our media.

[excerptsfromunfinishednovels]

Excerpts From Unfinished Novels #8: 9.81ms-2

Genre: romance, sports drama

Warnings: characters being sexist dickheads, strong language

Word Count: 3,118

Summary: Alex is still learning to live in his own newly-single space, but his friends are not making it easier. Maybe some time with his rival-turned-diving-mate Connor will help him figure things out.

This excerpt is from the first half of the novel.

The party was still in full-swing when Alex climbed out his bedroom window, hopped up the fire escape and made his way to his usual spot on the roof of the apartment building. Everything had been fine, it had all been absolutely fine until Rosie-fucking-Gardener had sauntered past him. He’d been cracking jokes with Brian and Patrick and some of the other guys from the squad, had been able to keep his hands busy holding beer bottles and whatever food happened to be near, had been able to ignore the Marissa-shaped space by his side, and had been able to avoid Connor and the weird feelings that kept popping up whenever they were near each other.

It had been going SO WELL. And then.

“Hey Alex,” the red-haired woman all but purred at him as she walked past while he was mid-joke.

She was the kind of woman that knew just how beautiful she was, and just what effect she had on men; subtly emphasising it with skirts and sweaters that clung just right. Her friends beside her giggled and tittered amongst themselves, eyeing him up.

‘Vultures,’ he thought to himself disgustedly, ‘Bloody vultures, picking at the carcass of someone’s ex the second they’re dumped.’

Outwardly though, he gave her a nonchalant nod of his head, and the slow, lazy smile he had patented for use on the female population only, and continued telling his joke as Rosie and her posse moved on.

“Oh man, Rosie Gardener, Rosie-always-wears-suspenders-Gardener was checking you out, said hey to you!” Brian all but yelled in triumph as soon as they were far enough away. “So, what are you going to do? Turn on the patented Harris charm – I did see that smile by the way – treat her mean, keep her keen? Hump her ‘n’ dump her? What?”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Alex sighed, rolling his eyes – how did he know that Brian would have to start with this crap, the same crap he’d been going on and on about the last two months.

“What?! What the hell man, why not?” Brian screeched – exactly the same as the past ten times.

“Because as you seem to have so easily forgotten, Marissa and I broke up-“

“You mean she dumped you,” Patrick helpfully informed him from his other side.

Alex’s breath hitched as the familiar twinge lanced his heart and stomach simultaneously, making him want to both cry and throw up.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice hard, “Marissa dumped me.”

“Exactly! Which is why you should have had at least one rebound shag at this stage, instead of sitting around moping like a bird,” Brian scoffed.

“We went out for five years,” Alex pointed out, hoping it would help his friends understand, but knowing it really wouldn’t.

Brian and Patrick blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“Argh,” Alex groaned, throwing his hand over his face, “I loved her guys! I thought, you know, that what we had was, well-“

“If you say special mate I’m going to call you Ms. Alexandria Harris for the rest of your life, but before that I will throw up on you and then you’ll be mopey and covered in vomit. I mean, come on man,” Brian continued, practically wailing, “You’ve gone from manly diving star to whiney girl, it’s got to stop!”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Patrick added solemnly, “I mean, it was bad enough with the crying, the eating ice-cream and the listening to mushy love songs in the dark, but now…”

“Now you’re turning down Rosie Gardener!”

“So?”

“So? So! You hear what he says Patrick, you hear?”

“I hear all right.”

“Yes I am saying ‘SO’ to Rosie Gardener, and all those other girls who’ve been eyeing me like a piece of meat because they are all exactly like Marissa.”

“Well, yeah in that they’re all HOT,” Brian leered, Patrick eagerly nodding along.

“But there’s the problem – I don’t want someone like Marissa now. I don’t want someone who only wants me for my car and my money, and who’ll leave me when she finds another guy with more money and a better car than me. I want someone who wants me for…me,” Alex answered honestly, wincing in anticipation of the tongue-lashing he was going to get.

Brian and Patrick stared at him with muddled expressions, as if they really didn’t know what to think.

“Pull down your pants,” Brian ordered.

“What?” Alex asked, confused.

“Pull down your pants so I can see your vagina and know that you are in fact a woman, so it’s okay for you to be saying such corny bullshit.”

Alex scowled and snapped, “Fuck you.”

“No thanks.” Brian grinned.

“But there’s always Rosie Gardener.” Patrick grinned right along with him.

“Ugh,” Alex’s scowl grew deeper, practically growing into his face, “I thought you guys were my friends, can’t you even try to understand me?”

“We do,” Patrick replied defensively, “But you’re making it difficult for us.”

“Yeah, and now it’s getting a bit embarrassing,” Brian pointed out in a frank tone.

“Fine,” Alex snapped, completely irritated, “Then I won’t EMBARRASS you any longer with my presence.”

With that, he turned and stormed off, not caring that he was the host of the party, just needing to be Out Of There.

Vaguely, he heard a call of, “Oi Alex! Come on…” but it faded away as he grabbed a six-pack and headed straight into his bedroom.

Alex huffed and threw himself on one of the deckchairs he, Brian, and Patrick had installed the day they’d moved in, tossing the six-pack on the deckchair beside him. He pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jean pocket, pulled a cigarette out and put it between his lips. With a flick of his thumb the lighter roared to life, and he hesitated a moment as he held it in front of his face. Marissa hated it when he smoked, had begged him to quit. Well she clearly didn’t give a shit about his bad habits anymore. He lit the cigarette and inhaled aggressively, holding the smoke in for a moment before tilting his head back and exhaling slowly, trying to enjoy how his head went slightly dizzy from the nicotine.

It wasn’t working; he was fired up, angry, frustrated, and just WHO did those assholes think they were?! Could they not even try to see things his way? Of course not, for in The Way of All Things Man, the natural thing to do when your best friend is grieving is to rip into him until he comes to his senses. Alex snorted with contempt. Friends, bah! They might as well be dead. He might as well be dead.

He smoked the rest of his cigarette morosely, immediately lighting up a second one when he was done before pulling a can from the six pack and cracking it open. Clearly his night was not getting any better, and clearly his thoughts weren’t going to get any more cheerful.

Might as well get shitfaced in peace.

*

Conor scowled as he watched Brian and Patrick act like complete fucking assholes as usual. Why Har- Alex was friends with them he couldn’t fathom…well, not since he and Alex had actually started spending time together and he’d admitted to himself that Alex wasn’t as much of an idiotic lughead as he’d thought. His scowl intensified when he saw the miserable look on Alex’s face, and he was about to walk over and try help him out when Alex suddenly stormed off to his room, grabbing a six pack on the way. Conor quickly grabbed a six-pack of his own and followed him. He frowned when he walked into an empty room, but quickly realised where Alex had gone and ducked out the window to follow him.

He stopped when he reached the roof, and took a moment to watch Alex as he flopped onto a deckchair and moodily lit up a cigarette. Even when they’d been nothing but fierce rivals on the diving board he’d always recognised that the other man was incredibly good looking; his dark skin was flawless, he had a chiselled jaw, sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, and his arms were perfection. It had been easy to ignore it, reduce Alex’s good looks to an objective fact, but once they’d been forced to spend time together and had gotten to know each other, it had gotten much more difficult. Alex was kind, and funny, and genuine, and realising that he liked him as a person had only deepened Connor’s attraction to him, girlfriends and the zero percent possibility of anything ever happening be damned.

Alex lit up his second cigarette and Connor shook his head and walked towards him.

“Hey,” he said nonchalantly as Alex cracked open a can. He moved the six-pack on the other deckchair onto the ground and took a seat.

Alex tensed and frowned as he watched Connor sit beside him. The usual mixture of nerves, excitement and…something else… reared up in his gut and he took a long drink of his beer before he replied, “Hey. I’m not in the mood to fight.”

“Good; neither am I.” Connor grinned and cracked open his own can. He took a drink, sighed and then lay back on the deckchair, crossing his legs.

The two men sat in silence, gazing up at the midnight sky above them and taking an occasional sip of their beer.

Suddenly Alex murmured, "You still here?"

"Yup."

"Why aren't you leaving?"

"Why aren't you?" Connor muttered in contempt, glancing at the man sprawled beside him.

"Because I was here first," Alex mumbled defensively, his half-lidded eyes flicking momentarily in Connor's direction before returning to the stars above.

"Well I'm here now, so deal with it." Connor sighed in reply. He was silent for a moment before he said, “Honestly, I thought we were passed this Alex.”

Alex sighed, suddenly feeling guilty. “We are,” he replied. “I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of a shitty mood tonight.”

“I noticed Brian and Patrick were being their usual delightful selves,” Connor said, rolling his eyes.

Alex snorted and said, “Yeah. They’re not bad guys, they just…”

“Have all the emotional maturity of an empty crisp packet?”

Alex let out a bark of laughter and said, “Yeah.”

Silence reigned over the roof again, and Connor idly twiddled the pull ring of his can back and forth as he tried to force himself to speak, to say something.

“How are you holding up?” he eventually asked, inwardly smacking himself at how lame he sounded.

“I’m all right.” Alex shrugged. “Some days are okay…some days aren’t so great…”

Connor immediately regretted speaking as a fresh wave of misery clearly came over Alex, and he tried frantically to think of something that would help cheer him up.

“So, I hear Rosie Gardener is the latest to set her sights on you,” he said teasingly.

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about it,” Alex half groaned, half laughed, throwing an arm over his face, “I mean, it’s not that she’s not hot, and it’s not like I wouldn’t or anything, it’s just…two months! Two months and everyone, including her is acting as if nothing ever happened! I feel like a piece of meat! And there’s no one who understands that I just need time to deal, or or-“

“Grieve?”

Alex huffed in surprise; not that that wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, but to hear it from someone else was quite a shock.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly, “That.”

“I get it,” Connor shrugged, “After me and James, well you know, and even though it was me who said it and all, I couldn’t really…hell I still can’t really and it’s been over six months.”

“Yeah,” Alex said sympathetically, “It must’ve been rough. I would’ve given my condolences at the time, but well…we weren’t really talking at that point.”

Connor laughed, a rough barking noise contradicting his regal appearance.

“I notice that the guys and girls are still after you,” Alex teased. “As I recall, you were the last one to be chased by Gardener.”

“Hunted would be a more appropriate word,” Connor muttered, smirking though. “Some people have no respect for a need to have some time alone; they’re like – “

“Vultures,” Alex interjected.

“Exactly.”

Connor finished his beer, crushed his can, tossed it on the ground and then picked up another one. He took a swig and then said, “Can I bum a smoke off you?”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Alex said as he opened the packet and held it out to the other man.

Connor sat up and took a cigarette, placing it between his lips while Alex held up the lighter and lit it for him. Light and shadow played over Connor’s chocolate brown skin and Alex suddenly found himself staring in fascination at the way the other man’s long lashes swept down towards his round cheeks, and how his soft-looking lips wrapped around the cigarette. He looked away, feeling his face heat up, and quickly scooted back when Connor’s cigarette was lit. Connor inhaled, sighed happily on the exhale, and there was no way in hell that Alex was staring at the way his head tilted back slightly.

“Technically I quit,” Connor said. “Occasionally however, I like to indulge in my little vice. I won’t tell coach if you won’t?”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Connor threw him a wink and a cheeky grin and Alex quickly took a mouthful of beer to stop himself from grinning like an idiot in reply. As he swallowed he shivered as a sharp breeze blew across the roof.

“Cold?” Connor asked with a smirk.

“No,” Alex replied in spite of the goose bumps breaking out over his bare arms.

Connor snorted, placed his can on the ground, stood and walked off, reappearing a few moments later with a blanket from Alex’s bed. He tossed it at Alex’s feet and then sat back on his deckchair, curling up. Alex stared first at the blanket and then at Connor, his thoughts whirling. Eventually he sighed, stood and dragged his chair so that it stood flush against Connor’s. He sat, took up the blanket and arranged it so it was draped over both of them.

Connor leaned against the side of the chair and sighed happily as he curled under the blanket. “Thanks.”

“Couldn’t let you catch a cold; what would coach say if he found out?”

“He’d yell at me for being an idiot.”

Alex laughed and leaned against the side of the deckchair. He felt loose-limbed and relaxed, and happy in a small, strange way, as he took a swig of his beer and rested his arm on the arm of the deckchair. A sudden thrill ran through him as his arm brushed against Connor’s.

“Oh sorry,” Connor said, starting to pull his arm away when Alex suddenly reached out and grabbed his hand. “Um…what are you doing?”

“I don’t…shit, sorry,” Alex babbled, immediately starting to pull away, his expression sad and angry and scared all at once, but Connor grasped his hand firmly and said, “No, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I was just startled.”

Alex regarded him warily, and Connor interlaced their fingers and squeezed his hand, smiling at him gently. Alex eventually relaxed and squeezed his hand back, sending a small smile his way.

“I…I have no idea why I’m doing this,” Alex eventually said, his voice trembling.

Connor bit his lower lip as he tried to sort his thoughts out.

“You know,” he said slowly, “it’s been proven that humans need skin contact just as much as we need social interaction in order to keep themselves emotionally and mentally healthy. It’s actually called skin hunger.”

“Skin hunger sounds like a B horror movie.” Alex laughed.

“I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s a scientific fact. When was the last time you actually had contact with another person?”

“Um…probably since before Marissa and I broke up…she was pretty distant in the last few months,” Alex admitted, his tone awkward.

“So this is probably your body’s way of trying to get some measure of comfort.”

“Maybe…” It was nice of Connor to give him an excuse for his behaviour. “I’m still sorry I just grabbed your hand, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all right; I’m certainly not going to complain that a gorgeous man wants to hold my hand.”

Alex snorted with laughter, his heart picking up speed at the word ‘gorgeous.’ “Shut up.”

“Do you need anything more? I’ve been told I give good hugs.” Connor said, the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.

“Oh my God you are ridiculous.” Alex laughed and nudged Connor’s shoulder with his own.

“Ridiculously huggable.”

“You are such a dork.”

“A dork whose hand you’re holding.”

Alex’s smile was suddenly soft and affectionate as he looked at Connor and said, “Yeah I am.”

Connor felt his breath hitch in the face of that smile, and he couldn’t think of any appropriate way to respond other than to roll his eyes, nudge Alex’s shoulder and squeeze his hand.

“So please tell me you’ve listened to that playlist I sent you,” he said.

“I did actually.”

“Aaannd?”

“And yes, you’re right; Celtic music is good,” Alex admitted.

“Yes, I knew you’d love it!” Connor cheered victoriously.

The two men continued to talk animatedly, completely losing track of time until there was a suddenly cheer from the apartment below them, followed by the sound of voices shouting in unison, “Ten, nine, eight…”

“You know,” Connor said shyly, his thumb rubbing circles over the back of Alex’s hand. “They say that whatever you’re doing at the start of the new year, you’ll be doing that for the rest of it.”

Alex looked down at their joined hands and then at the roof around them. “I could think of worse ways to spend my year,” he said with a grin.

There was a huge cheer from the apartment and the sky was suddenly filled with bright and colourful fireworks. Alex stared up at the sky, feeling a sense of contentment wash over him for the first time in months. He started as a hand touched his cheek and turned to look at Connor, who was smiling at him fondly.

Connor leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek before pulling back. “Happy New Year Alex.”

Alex’s heart fluttered, and though he still couldn’t quite understand what he was feeling around Connor, he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to keep exploring it until he figured it out. “Happy New Year Connor.”

So that’s excerpt #8 from the Unfinished Novels! Did you enjoy reading it? Let me know what you thought of it in the comments! 

If you like what you’ve read please reblog and share with other readers, I really appreciate all the support!

Slán!

C.x