#lana del rey i love you

[epitomereally]

@hd-wireless 2023 fic claim: LA, Who Am I to Love You? for @sitp-recs

AO3 // FIC PLAYLIST

Harry’s summer in LA is not going as expected. Pansy Parkinson keeps inviting him to parties in the Hollywood Hills and harassing him to finally go to the physical therapist, Blaise Zabini keeps slipping new strains of his company’s magical weed into Harry’s pockets in hopes of an endorsement, and Draco Malfoy keeps having sex with everyone but Harry.

Liv, there's nothing I can say that everyone hasn't said before: you're such a lovely, kind, supportive part of our fandom and I can't think you enough for everything you do (especially sticking up for my fic while it was still on anon!). I was so so so excited when I saw your prompt — thank you for letting me rhapsodize about magical Los Angeles and also for letting me be horny in your ask box 💕💗💞

This fic took a village & is immeasurably better for all of their feedback: @thehoneybeet, whose essays about how some key scenes should change led to more clarity and kindness in the fic (and who let me steal their words VERBATIM); aulophobia, who tamed my run-on sentences (or at least half of them — blame me for the rest) and britpicked the hell out of this American fic (any Americanisms remaining are my own); @theonetruenim for their enthusiasm and wonderful LA vibes check; and @chaoticbindery for talking with me about Chicano magical traditions and a sensitivity read.

I'm feeling really sappy about this story. I truly love LA and I hope everyone else can see something to love about this illogical and metastatic city in the fic, whether it's the interminable sun and traffic, bougainvillea cascading over a fence, or the smog making the sunsets violent and gorgeous. Thank you to everyone who read it (especially @sitp-recs & @romaine2424 for your recs) — it means the world.

A brief snippet for the * ~ LA V I B E S ~ *

Luna and Neville spend a magical week in LA. Neville works during the day, developing a new strain with Blaise, but Luna is stupendously free. She accompanies Harry to yoga, where she compliments the teacher on her lack of Wrackspurts. Harry’s teacher accepts the compliment graciously and completely seriously. Despite being a Muggle, she is apparently senses when her aura is being declared clear, despite the incomprehensible words Luna uses.

They go to Harry’s favourite juice bar and Luna delights in ordering the oddest-coloured drinks she can: black (charcoal), royal blue (spirulina), hot pink (pitaya), and then green, green, and more green.

He and Luna spend hours outside. They lay on the beach—the first time Harry’s taken his shirt off in front of anyone who’s not a Healer since the bite—and Luna spends hours tracing it gently, completely intent, her nose almost pressed into Harry’s side. Harry dozes, waking up every time she hits somewhere sensitive. Despite applying extensive sunscreen, he somehow acquires a bit of a glow about him. He loves it. Harry, who was always tan in England, had felt positively pale before now in LA. He had been technically darker than Malfoy and Pansy, but his skin didn’t have a healthy flush of recent sun exposure; it looked almost green, olive tones coming out against the gold of Malfoy’s and amber of Pansy’s. Somehow, all the Slytherins have freckles. They no longer look sickly and afraid like at Hogwarts; instead, like they had ripened and melted in the LA sun. When they arrive back at Malfoy’s, Harry likes how Malfoy laughs at both of them, not unkindly, when they immediately demand Sun-Healing Potion.

They walk along the canals of Venice and the tiny alleys, where Luna stops to marvel at pomelos the size of Harry’s head, or brush her fingers through mulberries which stain her hands wine-dark for the rest of the day, or weave a crown of fig leaves.

They wile away the time in Draco’s garden. Butterflies flit around them—Harry’s not sure if they’re even real, given the mild explosions from Draco’s garage, where he’s madly inventing effects. Luna takes time to tell Harry about every plant in the garden, what’s in season, and what Draco has enchanted to bloom despite the heat and the sun: bougainvillea and wisteria and jacaranda and Birds of Paradise and one English tea rose. It’s odd how at-home Harry feels in Malfoy’s back garden—they’ve only just barely become friends—but he does and Malfoy seems to like him there, anyways.

On Thursday evening, after 48 hours of mad plant alchemy between Neville and Blaise, they come home. Neville’s only got one long scratch down his cheek, which is apparently a rousing success for trying to cross marijuana, Gillyweed, and a Venomous Tentacula. The poison is apparently a mild empathogen in small doses, the Gillyweed makes Harry feel as if he’s floating and unexpectedly makes him blow bubbles, and they all lie in the backyard, laughing and dozing and chatting. Bubbles float above them, trapped by the jacaranda: purple and pink and iridescent, shifting in front of Harry’s eyes. Somehow, butterflies are still flitting about the garden; the fairy lights glow above them in the dim of the twilight. A giant purple blossom from the jacaranda drifts down to the top of Malfoy’s head, and Harry can’t stop staring, entranced by how lovely he is, how golden and beautiful. He falls asleep on the cushioned wicker sofa out back that night, Luna curled around Pansy in a chair, and Neville snoring away. Harry wakes up feeling better than he has in a long time.

Luna and Harry go for hikes in the Hollywood Hills: Runyon Canyon, and Cahuenga Peak to the Hollywood Sign, where Harry feels like a tourist for the first time in LA. They even even drive west up into the Santa Monica Mountains, where Harry roasts to a crisp, exposed among the shrub, with the ocean vast and glittering to his left. Luna’s a calming presence in the passenger seat of Harry’s car, humming along in a scattershot, off-key melody to songs she’s never heard before. While they hike, Luna points out a peppercorn tree, crushes the pink berries between her hands and puts them into Harry’s nostrils; he sneezes. She marvels at the wild mustard, coating the hills with yellow sprays of flowers. She stands in front of an agave, blue-green spikes taller than her, with what appeared to be a giant asparagus rising from its center. It must have been thirty feet tall, covered in yellow and red anemones. Luna loves it instantly. She loves the prickly pear too, with their bloody metastatic fruit sprouting off the paddles—Harry finds them frankly unnerving. She finds wild rosemary off the trail, soft and plush; it’s so intensely savory that Harry feels like he’s being punched in the face with a focaccia when he smells it.

Harry had just tolerated LA—it was a means to an end, a long shot to get rid of the wolf. It almost feels like cheating to see it now through Luna’s eyes, just after Parkinson tempts him with a Quidditch offer. Harry feels as if he hasn’t made a real choice in his entire life: his path laid out by Voldemort and Dumbledore from his first birthday; his apathy during Auror training; and finally the bite. He didn’t think he had a real choice in front of him here, either, but now, in the unexpected beauty of LA through Luna’s eyes and generosity of Pansy Parkinson, he does.

[tusk-rumours]

i love mariners apartment complex

[amourcamil]

By the way the parties on DECEMBER 18TH!!

[bbmxbby]

How the morning of the first day of school hits you.

[smutinlove]

idk i feel like im kinda flopping but oh well

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am your mould, but the shape of you is true absence, leaving me purposeless.’

[text id: and is this not treason? / my soul belongs far more to you than it does to me.]

[notforeveryonesk6666]

Never have I dealt with anything as difficult as being in love with you but not being able to love you

[slavicbabydoll7]

[dollyswan]

[julia-1112]

[calatia]

heath ledger

[nighttime-thoughts]

I sleep so that we can meet.

[muchlovefleursblog]

Trust me, it’s true 🤍

[xhoneymxxn]

[salsakiyoomi]

“i think we need to take a break.” sukuna tells you, “a break from each other.”

you almost choke on your water — was he serious?

“what?” you finally manage to utter out.

“you heard right.” he says, turning his face away from you, he won't even look at you now?

you scowl — what a coward — “a break from what exactly?” you say, crossing your arms, “from the fact that we're not even technically dating?”

“i told you from the beginning that it won't be anything more than that.” he says, still not meeting your gaze but you can see the frown on his face — it's true, he told you it would never be anything more than just friends with benefits.

but still.

“then what do you need a break from?” you ask sarcastically, you're seething at this point, and you're trying to ignore the ache in your heart,

“the fact that you fuck me every night and get off from it? or maybe the fact that we have drinks and talk until the sun rises —” you're spilling words out at this point, unable to hold yourself back from how hurt and pissed off you are from him.

it pisses you even more off when he tries to cut you off.

“no! you don't get to say anything in this.” you say, “look at me.” you demand and when he doesn't, you scoff “i said look at me!”

he finally turns to look at you, all you see is indifference written all over his face, but the slight tremble in his jaw tells a different story.

“goddammit!” you exclaim, all you want to do is curl up in a ball and cry your eyes out, “you were just leading me on, weren't you?”

“no —” “you damn liar!”

you run a hand over your face and now it's your turn to look away from him, you can't stand to see his face, nor the look on it.

almost as if he pities you.

“you can't tell me everything we had was nothing more than just sex, ryomen.” your voice is quiet and shallow, as if you lost all of your willpower.

“i was clear with you from the beginning.” he says inadequately, “i don't do love , y/n.”

involuntarily, you let out a scuff of a laugh.

not because what he said was funny.

it was because you were stupid.

you should've never fallen in love with him.

“get out.” you say after a pause,”i don't wanna talk to you anymore.”

you see the way his mouth falls open then closes as if he was gonna say something, but chose not to instead.

a beat of silence passes then you watch as he leaves your place and shuts the door behind him.

and you're left alone.

you sit on the bed as tears begin to brim your eyes — your heart aches unbearably in your chest, and you let out a wrecked sob

ryomen sukuna was someone you should've never ever even thought about falling in love with.

he truly was an enigma.

a/n : it's the fact that this falls still quite far away on the timeline but i needed to get it out of my system.