#suffering in fish nerd

[tree-forg]

I am very enraged right now at the world for not realizing that FISH HAVE VERTICAL FINS. YOUR MERMAIDS MUST HAVE VERTICAL FINS TO BE PROPER FISH-PEOPLE. AGHHHHGGH YOU'RE DRAWING MARINE MAMMALS WITH FISH SCALES AND FIN TYPES. FUCK YOUUUUU THATS NOT HOW FISH WORK. AGAGAHGAHAHHHHHH.

[jamilelucato]

the punchline effect (fred weasley)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Warnings: This story leans more towards those above the age of 16 or a PG-13 rating. While there's no explicit sex, the themes and some of the dialogue suggest a level of maturity beyond a general PG rating. Summary: In the chaotic world of Hogwarts' seventh year, Fred Weasley's bad jokes become an unexpected distraction for the studious [y/n]. What begins as a test of patience evolves into something deeper as laughter intertwines with longing. Amidst the mayhem of magic and mischief, can they find a genuine connection, proving that sometimes the best punchlines lead to the most unexpected love stories? About [y/n]: I don't place her in any house, so you're absolutely free to choose. But outside of that, she's written as a girl (18-ish) and I think (I'm not 100% sure) I have mentioned she's white, or that she turns very pale (in shock, or something). Words: Almost 9k. A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! I missed Fred, truly. This one was absolutely just for me. But if you liked it, please leave a comment!

The class wasn’t exactly quiet. They teetered on the edge of acceptable behaviour, holding it together solely because the handful of students up front had decided to pretend they cared. The rest were swapping gossip, chucking crumpled parchment like Quaffles, and giggling in a way that would make a banshee jealous.

Professor Flitwick was fully aware, of course. But there was only so much a man under four feet tall could do when every time he tried to scold someone, they immediately transformed into cherubic little angels. And whenever he reached for an airborne note, it mysteriously ceased to exist. The man was clever. The students, unfortunately, were cleverer.

To be fair, no one really expected much from seventh-years at this point. The entire faculty had collectively resigned themselves to the fact that these kids were emotionally, mentally, and spiritually done. Frankly, if anyone snapped and hexed the ceiling, they’d probably just let it slide.

Which made it exactly the right moment for Fred Weasley to strike up a conversation with [y/n]. He leaned in, red hair gloriously unruly, smirk already forming. “Can I tell you a joke?”

They didn’t sit together by chance. No, this was most of the Professors’ grand experiment: seat the most notorious troublemaker next to the school’s most reliable nerd, and maybe her good influence would rub off. It was the academic equivalent of putting a cat next to a bath and hoping it would become a fish. George, the slightly younger twin, was exiled to the other side of the room by direct order of the Headmaster. Nevertheless, separating the Weasley twins was like cutting a Niffler in half and expecting it to stop nicking your silverware.

[y/n] sighed, long-suffering. She knew Fred. She knew that tone. Likewise, she knew that whatever came next was going to be deeply, profoundly stupid. And yet, here she was — the only one in the class not actively contributing to the unravelling of society — and, against her better judgment, slightly curious.

“Go on, then,” she muttered, finally turning to look at him.

Fred’s eyes sparkled. 

“What’s the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?” He leaned a little closer. 

There was a pause — five, six seconds of mental preparation — during which [y/n] considered pretending she didn’t hear him and diving face-first into her textbook. She also considered dying of secondhand embarrassment. But ultimately, she resigned herself to her fate.

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “What?”

Fred grinned. “Snowballs.”

Exactly as predicted: idiotic.

She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t detach. Fred stifled a laugh — poorly — just as Flitwick turned his tiny, deadly stare in his direction.

It wasn’t the first joke she’d heard from him. But this one had somehow done something. It was unclear what, exactly. Nothing obvious had shifted. The air was still thick with whispered gossip, Fred was still grinning like a boy who’d never known shame, and [y/n] was still trying to care about whatever Flitwick was scribbling on the board.

And yet — something had changed.

What it was, no one could say. Not yet.

While most Gryffindors complained bitterly about every single minute spent in the dungeons with Professor Snape, [y/n] had a particular vendetta against Transfiguration. Or rather, against Professor McGonagall herself.

It wasn’t that McGonagall had ever said anything cruel. That would’ve been easier. No, it was the look — that quiet, cat-like assessment that suggested she knew [y/n] could do better, but had already made peace with the fact that she probably wouldn’t. It was judgment and disappointment, wrapped in tartan and pinned together with a brooch.

Was it personal? Likely not. Did it feel personal? Absolutely.

Still, as Hogwarts kept pairing its brightest students with its biggest troublemakers in a grand attempt at character development, [y/n] had once again found herself seated next to Fred Weasley. The idea, no doubt, was that her bookishness might tame him, and his chaotic energy might “bring her out of her shell.”

Utter rot.

She didn’t need Fred Weasley to drag her out of anything. She was social. Just… not in McGonagall’s class. In that room, her entire personality narrowed to “avoid eye contact and copy everything from the board like your life depends on it.”

Unfortunately, Fred had not received the memo. Or he had, and shredded it for fun.

“How you doing?” he asked, with the kind of faux innocence that could only mean trouble.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just channelled every ounce of her nerdy energy into ignoring him.

He tried again.“What’s six inches long and has two nuts at the end?”

Her quill froze. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her expression dropped every other function but pure disbelief.

She turned to him slowly, like someone preparing to confront a boggart. “What did you just—? I can’t believe you— Why would you—?”

“Oi, can you let me finish?” he whispered, grinning. “Oops, that was… that was not the dirty joke.” He chuckled at his own brilliance. “I’ll start over. What’s six inches long and has two nuts at the end?”

“Stop saying that,” she hissed, now more horrified than outraged.

“Relax! It’s an Almond Joy,” he said smugly. “Honestly, the things going through your mind. Merlin.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.

“I don’t even know what an Almond Joy—”

She never got to finish. Her voice had risen — just enough to carry across the classroom.

“What’s going on there?”

Professor McGonagall was approaching, her robes billowing like an oncoming storm.

“Professor, I’m trying to pay attention, but she keeps—” One glare. That was all it took. Fred’s sentence withered on his tongue.

“It was nothing, Professor,” [y/n] said quickly, shrinking in her seat.

McGonagall lingered for a second, just long enough to make them both squirm, before returning to the blackboard.

[y/n] lowered her head and scrambled to look productive. Her handwriting was now panic-shaped.

“Blimey,” Fred leaned in again, his voice low and maddeningly amused. “Are you afraid of her?”

“No,” [y/n] muttered.

“Hm.” He crossed his arms and said nothing more. For once.

But even in the silence, [y/n] could feel him smiling.

This time — alright, fine — it was slightly [y/n]’s fault.

They weren’t even in class. She could’ve not come looking for him.

But then Samara handed her two Sickles for a bet. Then Ursula added six Knuts to the pile, and suddenly [y/n] was standing on the pitch with a pocket full of wizarding money and two friends staring at her like puppies left outside Honeydukes.

“Pleeeease!” they said.

It was an official Hogwarts Quidditch match — and as such, you could not miss the unmistakable presence of Fred and George Weasley, standing at the edge of the stands with an old wooden box and expressions that practically screamed entrepreneurial mischief.

As tradition dictated, if Gryffindor wasn’t playing, then the Gryffindor Beaters were definitely running the bets. And the turnout was impressive — even a few Professors had wandered suspiciously close to the betting box, dropping coins and pretending not to see anything.

“Ah, a customer,” George grinned when she approached. “Can you assist this fine young witch, brother?”

At this point, honestly, it had to be deliberate.

He turned to her with the wooden box, and as he flipped it open, [y/n] saw a scrap of parchment taped to the inside lid — names, numbers, and teams. She swallowed and held out the coins.

“Yeah, well,” she blinked. “Two Sickles from Samyra — for Hufflepuff. And six Knuts from Ursula — against Hufflepuff.”

“You’re not betting?” Fred asked, already taking the coins and scribbling down the numbers.

“Nope,” she said, flatly. Please Merlin, let that be the end of it.

But of course not. He looked up with that very specific brand of Weasley mischief — crooked smile, dangerous glint in his eye, and that posture that meant he was about to be the worst.

“Can I tell you a joke?”

“No,” she replied instantly, already turning on her heel.

But before she could escape, he gently touched her arm — not enough to stop her, but just enough to make her pause. She turned back, arms crossed, expression set to absolutely not in the mood.

“Please,” he said, already laughing. Which was never, ever a good sign.

She sighed like someone accepting their fate. “Fine. Go on,” after all, they weren’t in class, and she could, now, kick him in the shins depending on how terrible the joke was.

He took a second to compose himself, which only made her more suspicious.

“Are you a Slytherin?” he asked, voice low and weirdly serious.

She stared at him. Then down at her scarf. Then back at him. Deadpan.

He pretended not to notice the absurdity of the question.

“Because…” he took one last breath, “I really want to slither into your Chamber of Secrets.”

She immediately placed her hands to her face, in a full, dramatic palm drag. From hairline to chin, like she was trying to reset her entire operating system. It was the worst — a tragedy of a dirty joke. Or pick-up line, rather.

Was that a pick-up line?

She didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. She simply turned and walked away before her brain had the chance to process anything further.

But if you’d been paying attention — and I do hope you have — you might’ve noticed that she hadn’t rolled her eyes. Not once.

That was new.

At this point, it’s probably worth saying again: no, [y/n] and Fred Weasley were not friends. Or, at least, they hadn’t been when the school year started. Now… well, now it was harder to define what they were.

Fred was popular — the kind of boy everyone knew, or at least recognised by reputation. [y/n] had known who he was long before he ever looked in her direction. But apparently, he had known her silhouette from across the Great Hall for some time now.

It was a Saturday in Hogsmeade. Normally, [y/n] didn’t care much for the trip — not since third year when the novelty wore off. But now, with N.E.W.Ts looming and her Hogwarts days numbered, every corridor and crooked alley seemed to shine a little brighter. Like the whole place knew it was her last chance to love it properly.

That morning, she’d gone with Ursula. Samara had mysteriously vanished with vague talk of “plans” and “being mysterious,” which usually meant snogging someone behind Honeydukes. So it was just the two of them, arms full of sugar quills and chocolate frogs, wandering toward the joke shop.

Zonko’s was packed, as usual. Not that she or Ursula had any business there — they weren’t exactly prank-pulling types. But there was something oddly comforting about wandering the aisles and pretending to care about exploding sweets or belching powder. Like it was part of the Hogwarts package, and skipping it now would be sacrilege.

Besides, the place was warm, smelled like cinnamon and fireworks, and Ursula was dragging her by the wrist with the determination of someone on a mission.

“Just five minutes,” Ursula had said, which of course meant until one of them got distracted or bumped into someone embarrassing.

It turned out to be both.

Without quite realising, [y/n] found herself gently steered toward the shelves of potions, where the bottles gleamed like promises and mistakes. There were the usual suspects — Nosebleed Nougat, Perpetual Itch Powder, and, of course, the potions: brightly coloured, questionably legal, and temptingly labelled with things like Instant Obsession or Regret in a Vial.

She picked up the Hate Potion and raised an eyebrow. “Side effects may include irritability, brooding, and chronic eyeliner use,” she read.

Then came the Love Potion, all glimmer and pink swirls. She turned it in her hands, inspecting the label. People always went on about magical benefits, but no one ever mentioned what happened if you were allergic. Or if the magic decided it wanted something back.

She was just about to put it back when—

“Feeling desperate, [y/n]?”

The voice was a smirk wearing a human costume. She didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

She very nearly groaned. Or broke the bottle. Or both.

“Oh, hi, Fred!” Ursula greeted the redhead with a friendly grin. [y/n] couldn’t say the same.

“Hello, Weasley.”

“Looking for a good potion, girls?” he asked, lounging like he owned the place. Which, judging by the amount of stuff he probably bought there over the years, he might as well have.

“Not really,” Ursula replied, abandoning the potion she’d been fiddling with. “But hey — you’d know. Where do they keep the plush puffskeins now? You’re basically their number one customer.”

Fred looked mildly offended, but only for dramatic effect. “Near the back, between the dancing fangs and the hiccup powder.”

With a wink, Ursula left, no hesitation, clearly happy to abandon her friend and go off searching for adorable, overpriced puffskeins.

As soon as she was out of earshot, [y/n] turned to him, arms folded, eyebrow raised in amusement. “And you? What are you looking for, exactly?”

Fred grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up like he’d just thought of something outrageous.

“Always looking for trouble,” he said smoothly, like it was a well-practised line. “But when I spotted you here, I stopped looking. Thought I’d found something better. Also… I’ve got another joke.”

[y/n] sighed theatrically but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Go on, then. Let’s get it over with.”

She had learned early on that resistance was futile. One look at his ridiculous, lopsided grin—his puppy-that-fell-out-of-a-moving-cart face—and any no would crumple into a yes before it even left her mouth.

Fred cleared his throat with the gravity of a performer about to hit the punchline.

“Are your legs tired?”

She blinked. That one caught her off guard.

“A little, actually,” she answered honestly, forgetting that she was being set up. “But I haven’t had nearly enough of Hogsmeade yet. I’ll be walking loads today.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief as he quickly adjusted course. “Well, if they do get tired, let me know,” he said, tone low and maddeningly cheeky. “Because as long as I’ve got a face, you can always sit on it.”

For a split second, silence hung in the air like a suspended spell—and then [y/n] absolutely lost it.

A laugh burst out of her so violently that she doubled over, one hand clutching her stomach, the other grasping the shelf for support. It wasn’t a dainty chuckle; it was a full-bodied, gasp-for-air, shoulder-shaking sort of laugh—the kind that turned heads and drew stares.

Fred stood there, blinking, slightly stunned. He’d told a hundred of these lines—maybe more—and, typically, he got groans, eye-rolls, or in the case of his brother George, outright heckling. But laughter? Real, honest, undignified laughter?

That was new.

And she wasn’t laughing with the joke—she was laughing at it. At him. And oddly, instead of feeling mortified… he felt rather proud.

He started laughing too.

“You—where—where do you find these?” she gasped, wiping her eyes.

Fred lifted both hands. “I admit nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes, still grinning. “You definitely read them somewhere. Come on. Spill.”

He hesitated. His ears went red.

“Fred,” she said warningly, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll assume it’s your own original material. And then I will cry.”

He winced. “Fine. I found a book.”

“You should write to the author and let them know they’re a menace to society.” She leaned against the shelf, catching her breath. “Good Merlin, Weasley. That was absurd. Completely mental. What’s the name of the book?”

Fred’s laugh faltered. His throat clicked audibly as he swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape. His cheeks flushed so deeply they were nearly the same shade as his hair.

“What’s the name?” she repeated, still giggling, not yet clocking the shift in his expression.

He exhaled slowly. “101 Pick-Up Lines for People Who Like to Laugh,” he said. And then, after a pause: “…Over the Age of 18.”

Oh.

[y/n] straightened ever so slightly, eyebrows lifting. She tried very hard not to read too much into the title.

“Well, they won’t make anyone laugh,” she said, aiming for casual but not quite pulling it off. “Besides, who’s meant to enjoy the laughing—the one telling the joke or the poor soul forced to hear it?”

Fred’s smile faltered slightly. The pink in his cheeks began to fade as he studied her expression, looking for any hint of mockery. But she was still cordial, still calm, still… kind. Which, somehow, worsened it.

“We should all enjoy laughing,” he replied, voice a bit more serious now, less performative. “I suppose it’s for the one who reads the joke, right?” His shoulders dropped a fraction, relaxing into the moment.

“I haven’t got a clue. You’re the one with the book,” she replied. Then, after a pause, she smiled—not wide, not teasing, but something soft, something that barely touched the corners of her mouth and still said everything. “Though… I must admit, I ended up laughing.”

“At me,” Fred said quickly, a little too quickly, his voice jumping an octave higher with defensiveness. “Not at the joke.”

It should’ve stung. But somehow, it didn’t.

Around them, Zonko’s remained its usual mess of spinning trinkets and prank-infused chaos, but for a heartbeat—or maybe a little longer—it all blurred into the background. It was just two nearly grown kids standing far too close in a shop they’d probably never browse together again.

“Hm.” She tilted her head slightly, a tone light but final. “I should go rescue Ursula before she marries a puffskein.”

“Already too late,” Fred said, following her gaze toward the back of the shop. “She’s registered three of them under her last name. Ceremony’s at noon.”

“Oh no,” [y/n] giggled, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded once, like she’d decided something, and turned to leave. “See you around, Weasley.”

And just like that, she was off, disappearing between shelves of enchanted stink pellets and screaming yo-yos. Fred stood there a moment longer, staring at the spot she’d been, one hand fiddling with the edge of his sleeve.

He still had the book in his pocket. But suddenly, it didn’t feel all that useful any more.

It wasn’t exactly warm, but after what felt like endless days of snow, the sun had finally come out to make a bit of an appearance. Most students with free classes had migrated to the fields surrounding the school, especially the clock tower courtyard. [y/n] was one of them, basking in the rare moment of sunshine.

She sat alone, her body stretched out on a multicolored, plaid towel she’d thrown onto the grass, eyes shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. She was perfectly content, just listening to the distant chatter of students and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

Then, unexpectedly, she felt the familiar weight of someone sitting down on her towel, the fabric shifting beneath her. The change in balance was subtle, but unmistakable. She knew exactly who it was, even with her eyes still closed.

“Hot day?” His voice—deep, casual, and annoyingly charming—cut through the ambient noise.

[y/n] opened just one eye, peeking up at Fred Weasley, who was grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

“Not as hot as you?” she shot back, the words practically tumbling out, expecting yet another one of his ridiculous jokes.

Fred’s smile widened, and he gave a small, pleased nod. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

She smirked and closed the eye she had opened. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized what she’d said, and it made her laugh—a quiet, breathy giggle that only came out as a puff of air through her nose. If only the Professors could hear them now…

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind where you didn’t have to say anything to enjoy the company. The sun bathed them both in a warm glow, the sound of students and distant laughter creating a peaceful backdrop. [y/n] kept her eyes closed, but she could hear his calm breathing beside her, steady and unhurried.

“No jokes for me today?” she broke the silence, her voice low and teasing. 

Fred shifted on the towel, his legs readjusting as he stretched out a bit more. She cracked open her eyes just in time to see him lay down, his head resting on the towel, even though she herself wasn’t with her head down. 

“I donated the book to my brother,” he said, almost offhandedly.

“George?” she asked, the first Weasley name that popped into her head.

“Ron, actually,” he corrected, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I think he’ll need it.”

“Is your little brother an aspiring comedian?” [y/n] couldn’t help but ask, eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Fred laughed, the sound rich and warm. 

“No,” he said, the word almost too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

“Then what’s he going to need it for?” she continued, genuinely curious now. “To embarrass himself?”

Fred chuckled again, the laugh almost surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting her to know so much about the Weasley family. “He doesn’t need any help with that department,” Fred replied, still laughing softly.

“So what’s he going to do with this classic piece of wizarding literature?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Fred gave a nonchalant shrug, but she could tell he was amused by her genuine, almost naive curiosity.

Since her question had gone unanswered, [y/n] let it drift away and decided to test another current instead.

“I heard you and your twin want to start your own joke shop,” she said lightly, as if it didn’t matter either way. “Is that true?”

Fred turned his head to look at her. The sunlight caught in his lashes. “We hope so,” he replied, at last. “I don’t really think of us as academics, you know?”

“But you guys are smart,” she said, the words escaping before she could think twice. The moment they left her lips, she regretted it—not because they weren’t true, but because she already knew what he’d say next.

“How’d you know?”

Right on cue.

She bit the inside corner of her mouth, cornered by her honesty. “Well, we’re partners in most subjects and… you catch up. That’s more than most.”

“We don’t get good grades, though,” Fred tilted his head slightly, brow raised. 

“Right,” she nodded. “But grades aren’t everything.”

“They are to you,” he said, gently—not accusing, just perceptive.

She paused, drawing in a long breath, then letting it out slowly.

“No, not really,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought they were, or maybe I just wanted them to be. Now…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “Now, I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life, like you and George.”

Fred didn’t interrupt.

“I’m just lost,” she said finally, pressing her lips together in a tight line before looking back up at the sky.

Fred didn’t offer a solution. He just lay there beside her on the chequered towel, quiet. The sun warmed her skin, but it was the closeness of him—his steady presence, the quiet understanding in his eyes—that made her feel less like she was drifting.

After a long moment, he spoke. “If it helps… even with a plan, everything still feels uncertain. We’re just pretending we know what we’re doing.”

She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes again. “You’re pretending?”

“All the time,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I just happen to be superb at it.”

She smiled—small, but real. It crept up slowly, tugging at her lips before she could stop it. And that was simply it. There was no need to say more.

Still, rather than let it drift too far into the future category (an area she wasn’t ready to unpack on a weekday afternoon), she nudged him playfully with her shoulder and asked, “Don’t you have any other jokes for me? I know you can conjure one with your mind.”

He turned his head toward the clouds again, lips twitching, voice mock-thoughtful. “Actually… you just made me remember one.”

“Please, go ahead,” she said, laying her head on the towel as well, next to his.

Honestly, she couldn’t believe she was the one begging for a Fred Weasley joke. Of all the things she thought she’d become by seventh year, “enthusiastic dirty-joke-enabler” hadn’t made the list.

“Do you have telekinetic powers?” he asked, his tone casual—too casual.

[y/n] narrowed her eyes suspiciously and turned her head to look at him. Fred turned toward her too, face close enough that she could see the faint freckles across his nose and the sunlight catching in his lashes. He looked like he was on the edge of laughing—and maybe on the edge of bailing out.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he chuckled nervously.

“What? No! Come on!” [y/n] opened her mouth. “I’m curious now!”

He exhaled in surrender, still chuckling. “Just remember—you asked for it.”

“Go on,” she nodded solemnly.

Fred cleared his throat like a performer warming up for a very questionable debut.

“Because you just lifted one of my body parts without touching it.”

There was a full second of silence—then she gasped in outrage.

“NO!” [y/n] shoved him hard in the arm—hm, strong forearm, her brain noted—and scrambled back an inch on the towel, looking both mortified and scandalised. “Fred Weasley! We’re lying next to each other in public! That’s absolutely foul!”

Fred doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. “You asked for it!”

“I was expecting a pun!” she wailed, face red, but her eyes sparkled. “A clever pun, not—you know—perversion!”

He was still laughing, and she was too, despite herself.

She flopped back down with a groan, shielding her face with her arm. “I can’t believe I encouraged you.”

He peeked at her from the side. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m scarred,” she corrected.

“You’re grinning.”

“Only because I’m plotting revenge.”

Fred grinned at the sky again, satisfied. “That’s fair.”

The sun was still bright overhead, but the moment between them felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that comes when two people have laughed a little too loudly and are left with only the warmth of each other’s presence.

Neither of them said anything else. But neither of them moved.

And maybe that said more than anything ever could.

It was Quidditch match day again. The air buzzed with anticipation, banners flapped wildly in the wind, and students filled the stands in their house colours. However, that day there was no one orchestrating the underground betting ring or smugly redistributing galleons post-match. That was because the Weasley twins were both on the pitch, flying high on their broomsticks, darting through the air as they desperately tried to block Bludgers coming from all directions.

And somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about sports, [y/n] found herself once again in the stands, right in the thick of it.

“You’re drooling,” Ursula said dryly beside her, clearly enjoying herself. She was now very well-versed in her friend’s current obsession—mainly because [y/n] wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Piss off,” [y/n] replied without looking away from the field, showing a finger at her friend. Her eyes were locked on Fred, who had just zoomed across the pitch to block a Bludger headed straight for Harry Potter.

Gryffindor won—of course they did. Half the school seemed to be rooting for them. The crowd exploded into cheers as Harry caught the Snitch, and the players landed, brooms now in hand rather than between their legs. [y/n] left the stands, suddenly unsure what to do with herself.

Why was she going down there? Why was she following the surge of students onto the pitch like a Quidditch groupie?

Because she had a reason. Sort of.

Blending in with the crowd, she made her way closer, dodging hugs, backslaps, and the odd flying elbow. Fred was laughing, flushed from the match, surrounded by fans and teammates—but even in the sea of people, his eyes flicked toward her like he’d been expecting it.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, she jumped in front of him with a grin that could only mean trouble.

“I’ve got a joke for you,” she said, eyes sparkling.

Fred raised an eyebrow, grinning like a boy who’d just been handed a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved. “Oh, yeah?”

She nodded, taking a breath like she was about to cast a complicated spell.

“Do you know if I could become a broom?” she asked innocently, though the corners of her mouth were already twitching.

He tilted his head, very parrot-like. “Er… can’t say I do.”

“Because I’d love to stay between your legs for an hour or two.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she burst into laughter—half from nerves, half from sheer pride in herself. Her hand flew to her face as a blush bloomed furiously across her cheeks.

Fred blinked, clearly caught off guard. And then—he roared with laughter, clutching his side like she’d physically winded him.

“Bloody hell!” he wheezed between breaths. “You did not just say that!”

She turned away in mock shame, still giggling.

He leaned closer, voice low and full of that wicked, teasing tone she’d come to know too well. “If that was your way of joking, you just put every line I’ve ever used to shame.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Yeah, well. I learn from the best.”

Fred grinned, eyes crinkling. “I’ll need a full recovery before I can match that energy. Give me a day or two. Or three.”

“Or forever,” she said, rolling her eyes, though her smile stayed stubbornly in place.

Their gazes lingered a second too long.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile held stubbornly, like it didn’t care if it gave everything away.

Their gazes lingered—just a moment too long to be casual. Just long enough to feel like something was changing. Around them, the pitch still buzzed with leftover chaos—shouts, chants, streamers tangled in the breeze. But in the bubble of that glance, it all faded into the background.

“Oi! Kiss already!” George shouted from a few metres away, his voice booming over the noise and absolutely on brand.

The remaining players and fans burst into laughter.

And just like that, [y/n] folded inward, embarrassment blooming red-hot across her face. Without thinking, she ducked into Fred’s chest, hiding herself from the entire universe. He smelled like cut grass, sweat, and something oddly warm, like worn cotton and adrenaline. And weirdly… she didn’t mind. She didn’t pull away.

Fred didn’t flinch or tease—he just wrapped his arms around her and let her hide there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Dumbass,” Fred muttered fondly, patting his twin on the head as George passed by, clearly proud of the chaos he’d caused.

Then Fred lowered his voice, leaning just enough for her to hear over the fading noise.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

She turned her head, cheek pulling away from his chest just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were sincere, still glinting with laughter, but quiet now. Waiting.

“Blimey, yes, please,” she breathed, a nervous giggle escaping her lips, fluttering like trapped butterflies.

Fred steered her through the thinning crowd with an easy confidence. His left hand clasped hers firmly, and before they knew it, they’d gone from a gentle stroll to a proper dash, legs pumping like they were kids again. Giggles bubbled up between them, that daft, happy sound only teenagers – or those utterly smitten – could manage.

Breathless and flushed, they found themselves a good distance from the echoing cheers of the Quidditch pitch. [y/n] watched, a touch of wonder in her eyes, as Fred’s gaze swept around, his mind clearly flicking through mental blueprints. He’d located a hidden area, a spot promising that much-desired privacy. And it had almost all four walls; one side was more of a charming archway. Still, it would absolutely do.

But it would serve the purpose of the moment.

Another tug on her hand – barely a moment of looseness this time – and he was guiding her towards the nook he knew from the legendary Marauder's Map (a perk from his less-than-angelic youth). Without so much as “Can I?” — as if he needed it at that point — he released her hand to cup her face, both palms warm against her skin, tilting her chin up to bridge their height difference.

A proper Weasley grin was playing on his lips as he finally leaned in for a kiss. [y/n] vaguely registered the fact that she was probably grinning herself, but that thought quickly faded into the background noise of pure sensation. The taste of him, the sheer pleasure of their lips meeting, the soft brush of his breath against her cheek. His lips, surprisingly cool at first, were then incredibly sweet, like a lick of Honeydukes best. Little details started to bloom in her awareness: the way she had to lean up slightly, the gentle caress of his fingers moving from her cheek to her nape, then tangling in her hair.

Given Fred’s reputation as the school’s prankster, this wasn’t exactly the snog she’d mentally rehearsed. Not that it was a bad thing, not at all! It was brilliant, actually, the kind of kiss that surely had fireworks popping off somewhere unseen. And judging by the way neither of them could stay away for more than a snatched breath, both were in complete agreement. They kept coming back for more, a silent conversation of lips and tongues.

Truth be told, his repertoire of dodgy jokes had led [y/n] to expect something a bit more… naughty. A bit spicier. This kiss, however, was pure, unadulterated romance, worthy of a movie — but a PG-rated one.

After so many dirty jokes, it was a bit of a surprise.   

But she wasn’t about to complain. Not one bit. She simply melted into him, her hands finding a comfortable spot on his shoulders, fingers twirling through the glorious, untamed mess of his red hair.    

Time seemed to blur and fade. Dear reader, between us, it was a good half an hour. They kept pulling each other in, with a proper longing hung in the air, a silent yearning for something more than just a kiss. Cor blimey.    

Eventually, though, the moment had to wind down, and they found themselves chuckling again, like a pair of right idiots. And that was sort of it.  For that day.

Perched on her bed, [y/n] was doing her best to hide the monumental disappointment bubbling inside as she answered Ursula’s interrogation.

“And how long has it been, exactly?” Ursula asked, referring to how many days had passed since the kiss [y/n] and Fred Weasley shared.

“Four days,” [y/n] replied, perhaps a tad too quickly. “Give or take,” she added, attempting a casualness that felt about as convincing as a Niffler denying a magpie.

As if she hadn’t been counting the hours, marking them off on an invisible calendar.

“Hm,” Ursula pursed her lips, stretching them out.  “A bit of a long time, that,” she declared, sounding like a right scientist analysing a particularly baffling test tube.

“A long time!” [y/n] exclaimed, indignation momentarily overriding her attempts at nonchalance. Then, she bared her teeth in a grimace that was more “agggh” than a smile, before returning to her best uncaring expression. “Not that I'm bothered, mind you.”

“You have nothing,” Ursula observed, like a post-it reminder.

“We have nothing,”[y/n] echoed, confirming the dire situation.

“Still, you’d think he'd have said something,” Ursula mused, tilting her head. “Has he even spoken to you?”

The question sent another wave of frustration through [y/n], who mentally flicked through the last few days, desperately searching for any sign of Fred acknowledging her existence beyond the bare minimum in their shared classes.

“He did… sort of. He went a bit like this,” she demonstrated, raising her eyebrows and giving a sort of half-hearted upturn of the lips that barely qualified as a smile. It wasn’t a great impression of Fred, admittedly, but it conveyed his lack of effort. “And then he said, ‘What up?’ Who says that?”

Ursula, witnessing her friend's building fury, had to agree, it was a bit rubbish.

“No cheeky jokes?”

“Not a single one,” [y/n] confirmed, her tone still laced with disbelief.

“Shocking,” Ursula declared, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

Defeated, [y/n] flopped back onto the bed, sinking into the mattress.

“You were just another conquest,” Ursula offered, her tone taking on a slightly mournful note.

“Just another…” [y/n] started to agree, to wallow in the disappointment, but then she stopped herself.

She refused to let Fred Weasley off scot-free. If he’d wanted her to fall for him, well, now he had a girl properly smitten, and he’d better deal with it. Because if not, Merlin’s beard…

“This is not how it’s going to be,” [y/n] announced, suddenly leaping out of bed with a newfound determination. It was nearly eleven at night; everyone should be tucked up in bed (or at least pretending to be for curfew).

“What are you going to do?” Ursula asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“I’m going to get what he owes me,” the girl stated, her eyes gleaming with purpose.

“And what exactly does he owe you?” Ursula asked, thoroughly bewildered, as if she’d missed a crucial plot twist. [y/n]’s sudden change of mood had left her slightly behind.

[y/n]’s expression hardened. “A punchline.”

It was not some sudden descent into full-blown stalker territory that had [y/n] knowing Fred’s whereabouts, mind you. Absolutely not. In fact, the cheeky git himself had let slip, the day before that disastrous Quidditch match that led to all this kerfuffle, that every Wednesday night he and his twin would sneak off to Hogsmeade.

“Where d’you reckon we get half our brilliant prank ingredients from?” he’d grinned, that familiar Weasley smirk plastered across his face. Zonko’s, naturally.

Well, now the tables had turned, hadn’t they?

Being a seventh-year, [y/n] and plenty of others were clued in on the secret passage to Hogsmeade. Still,[y/n] hadn’t exactly been using the clandestine route, not even for a bit of off-season shopping. But Fred must have been on his way back from the village just as she was legging it down the stairs and along the corridors to intercept him.

Reaching the hidden entrance, [y/n] stopped just shy of it, bathed in the rather dramatic light of a solitary chandelier halfway down the corridor.

She looked almost spectral, despite the fact her night robe was a rather fetching shade somewhere between purple and wine. A proper nightgown it was, tied snugly just under her bust. Not exactly see-through, but light enough. Still, no need to fret on that front, as she had her trusty pajama shorts and vest top underneath.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, she waited, patience wearing thin. Just as she was about to give up, she heard muffled noises, and her heart gave a little flutter. Did she actually have the nerve to go through with this?

Swallowing hard, she held her breath until he and his brother emerged from the passage, chuckling away with bags in their hands and that unmistakable waft of butterbeer clinging to them.

“Want to hear a joke, Weasley?” she called out, perhaps a tad too theatrically.

There were two Weasleys, however, both looking utterly bewildered at the ghostly figure illuminated in the dim light.

“Fred Weasley,” she clarified, clearing her throat and making it crystal clear which ginger menace she was after.

George didn’t hesitate for a second. He swiftly relieved Fred of the bags he was carrying and scarpered, a look on his face that suggested he either knew exactly what was going on — or at least, would soon understand; Fred would certainly tell him later. [y/n] could have sworn she even saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

And then George was gone, vanishing with surprising speed, that [y/n] felt hazardous. But Fred, the remaining Weasley, didn’t look scared. More…confused.

He didn’t look guilty, either.

“Well,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse, like he’d forgotten how to use it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He took one cautious step in her direction — but there were still a solid five feet between them. A deliberate distance. “I want to hear the joke.”

[y/n], who was still mentally processing George’s Olympic-level retreat, blinked at him.

“Go on,” Fred coaxed. “Tell it.”

She didn't actually have a joke thoroughly prepared, not one bit. She was going to have to pull one out of thin air, cobble something together from the chaos in her brain because she refused to look like an idiot.

“Are you my homework?” she asked, miraculously managing to keep her voice steady.

Fred raised a single brow — and not the amused kind.

And suddenly, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He didn’t look amused. He didn’t look irritated. Fred just looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from sneaking around with your twin in the middle of the night — no, this was deeper.

Realising this, she took a deep breath, all hope draining away. Resigned to her fate, she delivered the punchline, ready to turn tail and run:

“Because I should definitely be doing you.”

But she didn’t run.

Couldn’t. Not with his eyes on hers like that — fixed and unreadable, and yet… He wanted to laugh! Oh, it was written all over him: the way his mouth twitched at the corners, the faint scrunch of his nose, like he was physically restraining the chuckle. And yet — he didn’t.

And that’s what got her. That right there. The rational part.

Why was he being rational?

“What?” she asked, blinking, part bewildered, part boiling. “Say something, for Merlin’s sake.”

Still, he said nothing. He looked just as dazed as he had when he’d first spotted her in the corridor.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, a smile curling bitterly at her lips. “Leave me hanging, Weasley. Snog me in the middle of nowhere and then act like it was some shared hallucination.”

She laughed — sharply, dryly — and then, to her horror, kept going. “Better yet, don’t talk to me at all. I’ll do the honours for you, yeah?” She mimicked his voice — that low, cheeky drawl he used in the back of Potions class. “What up?”

She took a step toward him. Then another. Neither of them noticed the space between them shrinking — there was too much tension fizzing in the air, humming like a misfired spell.

Fred stuffed his hand into his front pocket — a small, nervous gesture she might’ve missed if she weren’t watching him like he held all the answers to her unfinished diary entries.

“I’ll tell you what’s up, Fred Weasley,” she declared, jabbing a finger in his direction with each word like she was reciting a particularly aggressive haiku. “I need to know where we went wrong. Was I just another name on the list? Another laugh between broomsticks?” She inhaled sharply. “If so, fine. Not ideal, but fine. I can handle that. But if you’re ignoring me because—”

Don’t say it, her brain whispered.

“Because I’m a terrible kisser,” she pushed on, her voice wobbling only a little, “then just tell me. Honestly. That’s all I’m asking for. I mean, if you were a terrible kisser, I’d have said something. Kindly, obviously. Maybe even offered a second chance. For improvement purposes.”

She was rambling now, properly spiralling, but she didn’t want to dare give him a chance to speak. 

“If my kiss didn’t set off your fireworks — pun intended — then fine. I’ll resume my day, quietly and gracefully. But, you know, we could keep with the dirty jokes, they are relatively funny, they’ve grown on me — pun not intended — and I…”

She trailed off only when she saw it — the tilt of his eyes, the almost-smile.

It wasn’t full-blown, not quite. But it was there, hovering.

Mouth still half-open, [y/n] froze like the sentence hadn’t quite finished leaving her lips. She glanced from Fred to the room, as if retracing her steps, searching for something she’d missed.

“You talk too much, you know that?” Fred said casually, hand still buried in his pocket.

She frowned. “I didn’t use to.”

That earned a real smile from him — quick, unguarded, boyish.

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed. “But then some genius professor had the bright idea of sitting the quiet ones next to the troublemakers. You know, to ‘balance each other out’.” He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking away. “Seems it worked.”

“Oh, it did,” she shot back. “Now I’m the one who won’t shut up, and you’re quiet as a—”

“Uhm,” his brows perked up. “I think there was a joke in that book about flies.”

“What was it like?” she asked curiously, then scolded herself, scowling. “Well, I don’t want to know it,” she snapped. “Stop deflecting! Are you going to answer any of my actual questions?”

“They were more like wild guesses,” he said, smirking.

He had that look — smug, maddeningly attractive, and about five seconds from saying something entirely inappropriate.

“Stop smiling like that,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Honestly. It’s infuriating.”

“I’ll be serious then,” he said, drawing in a breath. And he was — all the mischief softened, replaced by something sincere.

“I didn’t like kissing you,” he paused. Dramatically. “I loved it.”

She blinked.

“But then,” he continued, “I got scared. Because the thoughts running through my head — during and after that kiss — were… a bit intense. And frankly, they’d been lurking long before we even kissed. Since the moment you laughed at one of my ridiculous pickup lines, something… grew.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Pun very much intended,” he informed, just like she had, before. Then he went on, “The lust definitely grew — along with, well… other things.”

Her eyes widened, and she asked, with a kind of horrified curiosity, “During the kiss?”

Fred had the nerve to grin, cheeks turning a shade of pink. “Also right now.”

“But we’re fighting…”

He leaned in slightly. “And I’ve never seen you look so hot.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said, deadpan. “It’s making me want to keep arguing.”

“But I still don’t get it,” she pressed, exasperated. “And no, I’m not dragging this out for vanity’s sake, to keep looking hot. I genuinely hope to understand. If you were so… enthusiastic about me”—she waved vaguely toward his trousers—“then why did you ghost me?”

Fred let out a strange sort of laugh — rough and awkward, like it scraped up the back of his throat on the way out. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his face softening like he was about to deliver news of a lost pet.

“Because you’re a virgin,” he said, voice full of tragic respect. He even tilted his head forward a bit, as though observing a moment of silence. “I was trying to be decent. Give you time.”

She stared at his hand. Then at his pitying, chaste little face.

And burst out laughing. Not a giggle — a full-on guffaw that echoed off the stone corridor, wild and unstoppable.

“I’m not a—” she tried, choking on a sob of laughter.

Fred looked wounded.

“I’m not a virgin, you absolute melon,” she wheezed, wiping at her eyes, still grinning like mad.

“But…” his eyebrows crashed together. “You blush every time I make a more sexual joke.”

“Yes, because you say those things in class,” she snapped, still giggling. “With Professor Flitwick like two feet away.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking.

They stood in silence for a moment. [y/n] was catching her breath from laughing so hard, while Fred was… well, recovering whatever shred of ego he had left — after all, he’d called her a virgin when she wasn’t, and had apparently sworn himself to celibacy for no reason at all.

The castle stayed quiet, but the air had turned colder as the hour crept on.

“So,” she finally said, relaxing her shoulders, her voice calmer now, almost casual, “was that kiss of yours the PG version?”

Fred looked at her, head tilted.

“What would you have done,” she went on, “if you’d known I wasn’t… chaste?”

He didn’t quite smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Memory? Something just shy of dangerous.

“Why do you want to know?”

She gave a little shrug. “I don’t think I hate you anymore. Not now that things are cleared up — the confusion, the vanishing act, the… sexual urges.”

“I never explained my sexual urges to you,” he said, frowning slightly.

“Oh no?” she asked, dragging one finger in a casual path over his chest, then up his neck. Half-pointing, half-caressing. “So what was that Chamber of Secrets line about, then?”

He bit back a chuckle. “I don’t want to fuck you in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“That wasn’t the line,” she smirked. “You said you wanted to sneak in and crawl to me.”

“It wasn’t crawling either,” he stepped closer — close enough now that he had to tilt his head all the way down to meet her eyes.

“You're giving me a hard time, Fred Weasley,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “What’s a girl gotta do around here to earn a big reward?”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words had physically affected him.

“I think you’ve had enough puns for one night.”

She smiled — slow and wicked.

“Oh, but you know what I haven’t had enough of yet?”

Fred’s eyes searched hers, scanning for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

The half-light made her look ethereal — like she belonged to this strange hour of the castle, somewhere between dream and trouble. Her lips were parted, breath shallow but certain. Fred brought one hand to her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek like he was memorizing the shape of her. Then, slower still, he dipped his head.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It didn’t slam into her like the last time, like something impatient. It unfolded. A murmur of heat passed between their lips as they met, warm and unhurried, the kind of kiss that asked, Are you sure? and answered, Yes, I am.

His other hand came to rest on her waist, drawing her into him. She responded with fingers curling into his shirt, tugging slightly — asking for more. Their bodies fell into place as if they'd done this a hundred times before. As if they were always meant to fit this way.

Fred pulled back for a breath, their foreheads touching. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like she was the beginning of a very good secret. And then he kissed her again — deeper this time, more urgent. His hands were moving now, one threading into her hair, the other pressing her closer until there was no air between them, just heat and want and years of almosts.

She gasped against his mouth when he backed her into the cold stone wall, and he laughed softly — not mocking, just amazed.

“I really didn’t plan to kiss you against a wall,” he whispered.

She tugged him forward by the collar. “Shut up, Weasley.”

They kissed again, and again, the world shrinking to the echo of their breaths in the corridor. She felt his fingertips graze beneath the hem of her shirt, just a brush, not daring more than the skin at her waist. But it made her shiver all the same. And Fred noticed.

“You’re cold,” he murmured against her lips.

“No,” she replied. “I’m on fire.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Good.”

They stayed pressed together like that for a while, as the castle held its breath around them — two people caught between recklessness and reverence, between the thrill of wanting and the sweetness of being wanted back.

[mediumgayitalian]

“After you.”

“Nerd.”

Nico tugs on a curl as he walks by Will’s bowed head, scoffing when Will winks at him. His hand lingers, though, waiting for Will to kick the door shut, trailing past his ear and down his neck and twisting down his arm, sliding down to his palm. His fingers are cold, as they always are, and Will brings them up to his mouth and kisses them, gently, and Nico rolls his eyes then, too, but the smile pushes out onto his face anyway.

“You can’t be doing all this in public,” he scolds.

“You started it,” Will points out, even though he’d be doing this anyway. Cursed be the day Will has Nico next to him and keeps his distance. He can’t imagine it. When he is around him he often feels like the desperately spinning needle in an old compass. Whirling around to find his source, his true North.

“Stop saying mushy shit in your head.”

“Out loud it is, then.” He clears his throat. “Oh, Nico, shimmering stars in my skies —”

They’re loud, far too loud, for this time in the morning, and even Nico’s slapping hands and laughing shushes do nothing to keep the infirmary quiet, but Will can’t bring himself to care. Partially because each one of the fuckers kept him busy for hours yesterday, straight through lunch, but mostly because the freshly risen sun beams almost directly onto Nico’s face, melting his eyes into pools of amber, and he smiles in that quiet, private way of his, close-lipped and crooked. There is breath in Will’s lungs, he knows it, but his body forgets, and all he can see hear think feel is the shape of Nico’s smile, and the slope of his nose, and the feel of his cool roughened hands on Will’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and the words are muffled by his palms but the sincerity is not. The sincerity is punched out of him like the air hisses out of the gills of a hooked fish.

Nico huffs. “You’re buttering me up.” But he is preening; shoulders shuddering and eyelashes fluttering at the praise. At the wideness of Will’s eyes, the brazen, blatant awe.

He doesn’t let Will look long, because he rarely does, but he pulls away with a smile, softens his distance with three quick squeezes to Will’s fingers, with a brush of his hair. He stalks over to the nurse’s station, humming, plucking the clipboard from the wall and inspecting it, pulling his own crumpled paper from his pocket and smoothing it out side by side. Will trails by after him, plucking his coat from the bench and shrugging it on.

“Where are you today?”

“Arena, mostly. Kiddie classes today. You in here all day?”

Will looks over at the sleeping Hermes kids — all nineteen of them — and sighs. “Yep.”

“Won’t see you much, then.”

“Ugh.”

“However will you survive.”

“Maybe I have a nervous breakdown and get reassigned. You think I’d thrive in California? Maybe Pennhurst —”

“Oh my gods.”

There’s no one quite as effective as shutting Will the fuck up as Nico. Something about him just makes him pensive, makes him reflective. Makes him realise that time is limited and silence holds weight, that moments of quiet tranquility are infinitely more valuable than one realises outside of them.

Also tonsil hockey. That works pretty well, Will has to admit. Lou Ellen has disgustingly described it as ‘Will’s off button being located in the back of his throat’, which, fair, but she shouldn’t have said it.

“Have a good day at work,” Nico murmurs, pecking Will’s pout. “Try not to commit medical malpractice. Or negligence.”

“…I might do negligence.”

“Oh, shut up. You love your job.”

“I love you,” Will grumbles, his own smile twitching behind pressed-closed lips. “My job drains me and violates several labour laws.”

Conveniently ignoring the second half of his complaint, because he loves to watch Will suffer, apparently, Nico murmurs “Love you too, drama queen, I’ll bring you lunch,” kisses him again, and then jogs off, headed for the Arena.

Will sighs, turning to his clipboard, and starts running through a list of every god he knows, thanking them for Nico.

He’s pretty lucky.

[stillalivebydemand893]

Enemies to lovers?

18+(repost)

Story:You hate Erik Campbell. He’s loud, smug, stupidly hot, and somehow always in your space. Everyone says you’re gonna fall in love - you’re just trying not to commit a felony first.

“Why don’t you fuck off for once, Campbell?” You were practically screaming at your best friend’s brother — your archnemesis, your biggest headache, and unfortunately, the hottest man you’d ever laid eyes on.

Erik fucking Campbell.

Tattoos, smirks, muscles, the whole damn package — wrapped in the personality of a smug, overgrown child who lived to piss you off.

Ever since you'd moved to the neighborhood, it was like gasoline meeting fire — a full-blown combustion of insults, shouting matches, and unresolved sexual tension no one dared talk about.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE ALL THE DAMN TIME?!” he yelled back from across the kitchen. Julia, his sister, sat on the counter, watching the chaos unfold like a telenovela. “God, these two are gonna get married one day,” Bobby muttered to her as he passed by, grabbing a soda. “If they don’t kill each other first,” he added with a chuckle.

You pointed at Erik like he was the root of all evil. “Why the hell are you always here? Get a job, Erik.” You turned to storm off, but he followed you, hands on his hips like an offended housewife.

“I HAVE A JOB, YOU BRAT.”

You snorted. “You work three days a week, Erik. That’s barely a job — it’s a hobby with a paycheck.”

“Guys, seriously. I’m trying to swim in peace.” Julia sighed, squeezing between you and your favorite enemy.

“We’re coming,” you growled, turning back to Erik with the fury of a woman on the brink of a breakdown. “But this isn’t over, asshole.”

“Watch it, brat,” he said with a devilish smirk, leaning down just enough to make you blush for reasons you’d rather die than admit.

Maybe it was the way he towered over you. Maybe it was the way his voice dipped when he was pissed. Or maybe it was just your hormones, which clearly had no self-respect.

“Oh, and Briana’s coming over,” he called over his shoulder, heading toward his room. “Try not to light her on fire again.”

“Maybe tell her to stop wearing three pounds of hairspray — she wouldn't go up like a human torch,” you snapped, bolting for the garden before he could chase you down and drag you into his personal hell.

Briana. His occasional hookup and your full-time bully. She had the IQ of a paper towel and the personality of a fake tan. And she hated you.

One time, she actually said, “I don’t think Europe’s a real country.”

You had to physically stop yourself from seizing. “It’s not a country, genius. It’s a fucking continent.” “Whatever, nerd. Maybe you’d stop studying if you got some dick.”

The moment Erik walked in, she flipped like a switch — sweet, giggly, fake as Barbie’s tits.

It was a pool party disaster waiting to happen.

“Hey Peach, can you help me with the BBQ? Can’t find the lighter,” Bobby called — your sweet friend, aka your protector from Erik’s cereal-stealing tyranny.

“Hold on, lemme check my bag.” You fished out a pink lighter, clicked it to test the flame — and right then, Briana sprayed a cloud of toxic-ass hairspray a little too close.

Flash. Boom. WHOOSH.

Her head lit up like a damn torch.

She dove into the pool, screaming, while you tried to pretend you weren’t dying of laughter. She came back the next day looking like Lord Farquaad after a breakdown.

Erik, of course, blamed you. Briana refused to sleep with him for four weeks. Watching Erik suffer without sex was better than Christmas.

He was moping around the house like a divorced housewife with blue balls.

Then came the revenge.

You were finally about to get laid — a hot date set up by your cousin, the guy was packing, polite, and knew how to kiss. You were ready to sin like it was Sunday.

But Erik?

Oh, Erik had other plans.

“OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” he gasped, storming into your driveway like a soap opera star. “What the fuck—” you turned to see him holding his chest like he’d been stabbed. “YOU GHOST ME AND SHOW UP WITH HIM?! AFTER YOU GAVE ME HERPES?”

The silence hit like a slap.

“WHAT?!” both you and your date shouted at the same time.

“Erik, you son of a—” you stormed toward him, ready to rip his nipple piercings clean off.

“Please don’t beat me up again!” he dropped to his knees, hands clasped like a fake Catholic boy begging for salvation.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER—”

“Okay, I’m leaving. Don’t ever text me,” your date snapped, jumping in his car and peeling out like the devil was after him.

Now Erik was in your face. One breath away. You couldn’t tell if you were about to hit him or kiss him. Maybe both.

“I will fucking kill you. We were supposed to fuck, Erik. What the hell?!”

“You left me with blue balls for four weeks,” he said, voice low and taunting. “It’s payback time, brat.”

Your knees buckled.

You grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer, your lips an inch from his. His eyes widened, fixed on your mouth like it held the answers to the universe.

“Listen to me, asshole,” you whispered. “I’m horny, ovulating, and at my limit. Pull one more stunt, Campbell, and I’ll burn you next — and this time it won’t be an accident.”

He swallowed so hard you could hear it. His jeans betrayed him. You smirked.

You let go of his shirt and turned back toward the house, praying your vibrator was fully charged.

Or else you were going to cry.

The Present Day

You were lounging by the pool, slipping off your shirt and revealing your brand-new bikini. The sun hit just right.

“Oh damn, look at you—body tea is burning hot,” Julia gasped, slathering sunscreen on her thighs.

“Thanks, babe. Got it on sale last Sunday,” you giggled, catching Erik’s eyes glued to you. The way he stared made your skin flush hotter than the sun, but you brushed it off—until Briana strutted into the garden.

“Speaking of burning hot—she’s back,” you muttered, collapsing into the lounge chair and sliding on your sunglasses.

“If she touches my skincare one more time, I swear I’ll redo her hairstyle—with hedge clippers,” Julia scoffed.

You giggled but fell silent when Erik placed his hands on Briana’s waist and kissed her like a man starved. You looked away. Whatever. You couldn't explain the jealousy bubbling under your skin. Was it rage? Horniness? Maybe it was just Erik—how he acted soft with her, and with you, like you were the final boss in The Exorcist.

“I’m going for a swim,” you announced and dove in. The water was cold, perfect, and cleansing. Thirty minutes later, you surfaced, refreshed and ready to tan—until the devil herself blocked your way.

“Oh. You again,” Briana sneered.

You grabbed your towel, pretending she wasn’t even there.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” she said, voice tight with venom.

“Plotting your next haircut? Sorry, sweetheart—I’ve retired,” you replied, plopping back on the sunbed, unbothered, flipping open your book.

“No—you bitch—”

At that word, you sat up, spine straight, eyes locked on hers.

“Watch your mouth,” Julia snapped, standing at your side.

“Tell your little friend to stop staring at my boyfriend. Or there’ll be consequences.”

You and Julia burst out laughing.

“Oh my god. Babes, you’d make such a good stand-up comedian. That was hilarious—and so sad.”

“He’s mine, you fuck. And he’ll never want you.”

You stood up. Calm. Cold. Knuckles white, pushing hair behind your ear.

“Briana,” you said, voice sugar-sweet and sharp like a blade, “you can have him. Hell, stick a name tag on his forehead. I promise no one’s coming for your boy toy.”

You turned to walk—then she grabbed your hair.

“You bitch—!”

“Touch her again and I’ll break your nose!” Julia shouted.

But you were faster. Reflexes kicked in—thank you, self-defense classes. You grabbed Briana’s wrist, spun, and slammed your elbow into her stomach. She let go with a gasp.

“Touch me again,” you hissed, “and the only makeover happening will be your fucking face.”

You walked off, heart pounding, blood boiling. Erik had seen it all. Of course he had.

He was going to kill you.

Inside, you collapsed on the couch, breathing hard. Your neck stung—you reached back and winced. That bitch had scratched you. Her claws were like knives. You headed to the bathroom for antiseptic. God knows where her hands had been.

You were about to pour it on when the door slammed shut.

“ARE YOU FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?” Erik barked.

“Don’t close the door—hey—!”

Your chest tightened. Panic started to rise. Shit. Not now. The door was sealed shut. Claustrophobia wrapped around your throat.

“I’ve told you so many times—just once, can’t you try not being a menace? You elbowed her like some goddamn Kung Fu Panda!”

You reached for the doorknob, shaking.

“Where do you think you're going? I’m not—wait—why are you—”

He froze when he saw your body trembling.

“Erik, it’s stuck. It won’t open—I can’t breathe—” You slammed your shoulder against the door in desperation.

“Hey, hey—stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

He pulled you back and tried the door himself. Nothing.

“Great. We’re stuck until someone comes into the house.”

You curled up on the floor, knees to your chest, hyperventilating.

“Shit. Are you okay? I—fuck—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he crouched beside you, his voice low, worried.

“Erik… I’m claustrophobic… I’m gonna faint…”

“Shit. I forgot—fuck.” He ran his hands through his hair. “The pantry. When Bobby locked you in—dammit.”

He tilted your chin up gently. “Hey. Look at me. Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Something about his voice, his hands, his eyes—it grounded you.

“That’s it. Deep breaths.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked pretty crying, he thought. Not the time to say it.

You shuffled toward him, letting him wrap his arms around you. He held you close, rubbing your back slowly.

“I’m sorry for punching your… girlfriend. But it was self-defense.”

You looked up at him, vision still blurry.

“I’m sorry for yelling. And for slamming the door,” he said, quieter now. “And she’s not my girlfriend. I could barely call that a ‘thing.’ And after today? It’s definitely over.”

You blinked. “She told me to stay away from you. Said I didn’t stand a chance.”

Erik paused. It was like his brain was buffering.

“What? Jesus. I invited her to break things off. What the hell is she—?”

He laughed, rubbing his face. You laughed too. It felt like something shifted.

“You really elbowed her,” he said, grinning. “Like a total badass.”

“Self-defense classes, baby.”

You threw your head back, and hissed at the sting in your neck.

“Ah, shit.”

“Let me see,” he said, lifting your hair to inspect the scratches. His fingers brushed your skin—your whole body shivered.

“Yeah, she got me good,” you muttered.

“Sit up. I’ll clean it.”

You stood. He trailed his fingers along your skin, slow, electric. You glanced at the mirror and caught his reflection—his eyes were dark, predatory.

“Pass the antiseptic, Peach.”

“You haven’t called me that in forever,” you whispered. “It sounds… nice.”

He smirked. “Brat suits you better.”

“Fuck—can you blow on it? It burns.”

“Hold still, brat,” he said, placing a firm hand on your waist.

You giggled—until his breath hit your skin. Hot. Slow. Dangerous.

A moan slipped out of you when he gripped your hips tighter.

“Fuck—” you gasped, steadying yourself against the sink.

“You’ve got to stop,” he growled in your ear, pulling you against him. “Or I’ll ruin you, Peach.”

“Stop what?” you asked, feigning innocence, grinding into him.

“You’re such a needy little brat.”

He grabbed your jaw, tilting your head, and bit into your neck. You were already soaked.

Your bikini top hit the floor, and his hands were everywhere—one on your throat, the other squeezing your breast like he was starving.

“Stop teasing,” you gasped. “I need you.”

He kissed your collarbone, biting hard enough to make you cry out.

“So damn eager for me, aren’t you?” He angled your face toward the mirror. “Look at yourself. Look at what I do to you.”

His fingers slipped into your bikini bottoms, circling your clit. You nearly collapsed, gripping the sink for dear life.

“F-Fuck, Erik—it feels so good,” you moaned, watching his devilish smirk in the mirror.

“That’s my girl.”

He pushed two fingers inside you, pumping hard and fast until your legs shook.

Right before you came—he stopped.

“Asshole—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. He spun you around, lifted you onto the counter, and crushed his mouth against yours. Raw. Desperate. On fire.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed. “Or I swear, they’ll have to drag me out of here in a bodybag.”

You cupped his face, panting. “I don’t want you to stop. Not now. Not ever. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

“Careful what you wish for, Peach.”

“Ruin me.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you like a madman, hands in your hair, your nails clawing down his back. You reached into his swimsuit—fuck. Thick. Pierced. Dripping.

“Thinking of giving me another STD, brat?”

You smacked his chest. “Pull another joke like that and I will bite it off.”

He laughed and kissed you hard.

“Come on, Princess. Legs wide open.”

You obeyed.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, stroking your cheek like he was about to wreck you and worship you all at once.

“Stop being soft—I can take it.”

And then he slammed into you.

You gasped—his piercing stretching you just right. Pain and pleasure crashing together.

“F-Fuck, Erik,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Breathe, baby.”

His thrusts grew harder, faster, cruel and perfect. He kissed you again as you shattered around him, moaning into his mouth.

He came seconds after—burying himself deep inside you, groaning into your neck.

You stayed like that. Breathless. Bruised. Blissed out.

His cock still inside you.

And you never wanted to move again.

The bathroom was quiet now.

Heavy breathing. Damp skin. The scent of sex still clinging to the air like smoke after a fire.

You were slouched on the counter, Erik still between your legs, his hands resting on your hips like he didn’t quite know how to let go.

You blinked, trying to ground yourself, brain foggy and dazed. Every nerve ending had been lit up like fireworks and you were still feeling the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

You could feel him still inside you, twitching slightly. His chest rose and fell, forehead pressed to yours.

“Say something,” you mumbled, voice soft, unsure if you wanted him to.

“You ruined me,” he said, finally.

You let out a breathless laugh, still reeling.

“Says the guy who rearranged my guts like IKEA furniture.”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the face mid-thrust.”

“Brat.”

“Asshole.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time. No heat, just... softness. Dangerous softness.

And that terrified you more than the hate ever had.

You pulled back. “This doesn’t mean anything, right?”

His eyes met yours. Too direct. Too serious. “Does it have to mean nothing?”

That question. You hated it. Because it cracked something inside your carefully-built armor. He wasn’t supposed to ask things like that. He was supposed to fuck you and leave you confused. Not… not care.

You looked away, slipping off the counter as he finally stepped back. Your legs trembled slightly. He noticed.

“Need help walking, Princess?”

You flipped him off while pulling your bikini bottoms back on. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. You looked real stable when you almost collapsed onto the shampoo bottles.”

You scowled. “Don't get cocky just because you got lucky.”

“I think I made you lucky, sweetheart.”

You grabbed the nearest towel and threw it at his face. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you begged me to ruin you not five minutes ago.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—but footsteps echoed outside the bathroom door.

Voices.

Julia.

Briana.

“Oh, shit,” you hissed.

Erik’s eyes widened slightly. “They’re inside?”

You scrambled to fix your top. He looked down at himself, still half-hard, still glistening, and cursed under his breath. “I swear if anyone walks in—”

“Just act normal!”

“You’re glowing like a slutty Christmas light. What part of this is normal?”

You reached for the doorknob.

It turned.

“Wait—” Erik said, too late.

The door opened.

And there stood Julia.

Wide-eyed. Jaw dropped. Then a slow grin curled on her face.

“Oh… my god.”

Your face was crimson. Erik was flushed too, shirt halfway on, swimsuit still suspiciously low on his hips.

Julia blinked. “I was coming to check if you guys had killed each other. And instead—you killed her coochie.”

“JULIA,” you hissed.

“You’re welcome,” Erik added, smugly.

Julia burst out laughing. “Okay, that’s going in the group chat.”

“No, no, no—Julia, I swear to God—”

She turned on her heel and marched down the hall, cackling. “Erik and Peach just went biblical in the bathroom!”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m never showing my face outside again.”

But Erik? He just leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching you.

“What?” you snapped.

“That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

You squinted at him. “This doesn’t change anything.”

His smile faded slightly. “Doesn’t it?”

You looked away.

“Look,” he said, voice quieter, serious again. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. You know that, right?”

You stiffened.

He stepped closer. “You can keep calling me an asshole. I’ll keep calling you a brat. That’s our thing. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re not just some girl I fuck in a bathroom,” he added. “You’re the girl I’ve been trying not to want since the day you threw a beer at my head.”

You blinked.

“Twice,” he added.

You nodded slowly. “You deserved it.”

“I did.”

Silence fell between you again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was charged.

Unspoken things lingering.

“I’m scared,” you finally admitted, softly.

He reached up, gently brushing a thumb along your jaw. “So am I.”

And you both knew the war wasn’t over.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

You were done being enemies.

At least for now.

Later That Night

The house was buzzing. Julia had obviously told everyone. The group chat was in flames, and your phone wouldn't stop vibrating from notifications like:

“Bathroom battle ends in bang ✨”

“Y’all owe me $20. I knew they were gonna hook up first.”

“Plot twist: Enemies-to-lovers confirmed.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

You were mortified.

And pissed.

Mostly because Erik wasn’t helping. He was walking around like he owned the place, smug as hell, throwing cocky little glances your way every five minutes like he’d just invented sex and got a Nobel Prize for it.

You tried to act unaffected.

You tried.

But then he had to go and take his shirt off again at dinner.

“Put a damn shirt on,” you muttered under your breath as he passed behind you with a soda.

“Why? You’ve already seen everything,” he said with a wink that made your fork almost bend in your hand.

Julia, across the table, was no help.

“Okay, but why is the sexual tension still higher than my student loans?” she whispered.

You glared. “Because I hate him.”

Erik leaned in behind you suddenly, his breath brushing your ear.

“No you don’t.”

You shivered.

Julia just straight-up howled.

An Hour Later

You escaped to your room, needing air. Needing to forget the way his hands felt. The way he looked at you.

You stood in front of the mirror, brushing your hair, still scowling at your own reflection.

He had no right to kiss you like that.

Touch you like that.

Make you feel—

“Still mad at me?” came a low voice from the door.

You turned.

There he was.

Leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, no shirt, his swim trunks riding low on his hips like he did it on purpose. His hair was damp. His eyes were darker than before—like he knew what he’d done to you and was ready to do it again.

“Go away,” you muttered.

“You don’t want that.”

You hated how right he was.

“I didn’t say come in,” you snapped as he stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him.

“I’m not here to argue.”

You folded your arms. “Then what are you here for?”

His eyes dragged over your body. “To finish what we started.”

Your breath caught. “You finished. I’m good.”

He smirked. “Sure you are.”

“You’re cocky.”

“You like it.”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer.

“You gonna slap me again?” he teased, voice dropping an octave.

“Maybe.”

He was right in front of you now.

“Or maybe…” His hand slid to your waist. “You want me to ruin you again.”

You shoved his chest—not hard enough to move him, just enough to feel the muscle under your hands.

“Stop playing with me, Erik.”

He leaned in. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not kissing, just close.

“I’m not playing,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

You swallowed.

His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

“You hate me, remember?” he murmured, voice velvet-dark.

“I do.”

“Say it.”

You locked eyes with him. “I hate you.”

His lips finally met yours.

And just like that—you were undone.

He lifted you up, your legs wrapping around him instinctively, and carried you to the bed like he already knew the way.

You were fire and gasoline.

His mouth was hungry, his hands demanding, like he’d waited years for this moment. Your shirt was gone, your shorts lost somewhere on the floor, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, grinding against you until you whimpered.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Again.”

“Your fault.”

“Gladly.”

He peeled off your panties and kissed his way down your stomach, biting, sucking, marking.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said against your skin. “Say it.”

You moaned. “Fuck, Erik—”

“Come on Peach say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue circling your clit, fingers inside you again, slow and deep, curling just right. You were writhing, desperate, moaning his name like it was the only thing you remembered.

“You taste like sin,” he whispered. “And I’m starving.”

You came hard, hips jerking, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as you cried out.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way back up your body, lips hot and wet against your neck.

“You want more?”

You could barely breathe. “Please.”

He slid inside you again—deeper, slower this time. His lips brushed yours.

“I hate you,” you whispered, trembling.

He kissed you, slow and devastating.

“No you don’t.”

And you didn’t argue.

[centrally-unplanned]

I watched two documentaries recently that were very "2000's nerd culture" which I thought were very fun! In like a meta way as cultural commentary, of course, it is me after all. The first was Indie Game: The Movie, a 2012 documentary on the making Braid, Super Meat Boy, and Fez. It is a "creator-focused" documentary and in particular for the latter two games the film crew actually filmed them mid-production & release, which does make for some authentically heartfelt scenes.

So in a certain sense all eras of documentary will contain this, but the 2000's going into the 2010's was absolutely rife with a new wave of films, often supported by crowdsourcing funds like Indie Game was, primarily concerned with the self-legitimization of niche subcultures. By creating something cohesive, academic, and prestigious like a documentary, the film can codify the subculture as "real" and "worthy", and additionally lend credence to narratives about the subculture that have grown prevalent. And to be clear, this is not a criticism, even if there are parts that are - all meaning and identity is forged in similar ways. But for nerd culture in the 2000's, there was a particularly intense need for this process, because this was the era of nerdom going mainstream. That level of culture shift generated demand for all the above, which films like this aim to supply. There were lot of films of this type - we made a brony "documentary" propaganda film guys, nothing was exempt.

Indie Game is overwhelmingly the story of outsider artists bleeding and dying for their art, which will triumph above all odds. And it leans, heavily, into the bleed; at one point Phil Fish (creator of Fez), openly states he might commit suicide if his game fails. Much screen time is spent on personal sacrifice, financial poverty, the "doubters", etc. This is of course a classic tale for artists, but if I may be so bold that is something of an easy sell - emotionally, narratively - for someone writing the Great American Novel. It is maybe harder to sell if you are making this?

(Cover art by Bryan Lee O'Malley btw - very era appropriate!) How do we make "dude in hat solves puzzles" worth the Starving Artist life?

We do that by positioning these games not as games, but as paradigms. These games, by dint of being the independent vision of unitary creators, are making games that Big Gaming never could. New digital means of distribution are allowing artists to cut out the middleman of publishers, groups that corrupt the real vision of creators. And with no barriers to development, now anyone (maybe...even you?) can make games that can compete in the big leagues. Indie games through this lens are a different product than mainstream titles, and these creators are opening doors. And their suffering is going to be financially rewarded with success and money to boot! That is the narrative Indie Game is selling to its audience of gamers, to understand why the indie games they bought and loved are meaningful.

And to be clear, as much as I am about to deconstruct this, it isn't like totally false or anything. Starting in the late 2000's digital platforms like Steam, more accessible development tools like Unity (released in 2005), and so on did in fact make smaller games appealing to more niche markets more viable, and by virtue of their nicheness yeah they can do things big budget games maybe can't. These creators absolutely had passionate visions for their games, sacrifice for your passions is fine (not bashing that part here), hats off to them. Indie games in this era would absolutely "change gaming".

But not really in the ways this narrative wants them to, nor with the "meaning" people of the time expected it to have. For one, there is a conflict in this documentary of them wanting to highlight "bold new visions" and also wanting to highlight...popular indie games. This is Super Meat Boy, for example:

Yeah, never had a 2D platformer blob guy dodging traps before in gaming! "No see its retro" yeah retro to what, old games? Like those Nintendo made back in the 90's, which you explicitly mention in your documentary? You know, niche indie studio Nintendo? This isn't a bash, at all, at the game itself, but instead the idea that "AAA Studios would never"; they totally would, and always did. There has never been an era where the large gaming studios weren't also making creative games, but for this narrative they need to be propped up as static for it to make sense. And the actual niche indie stuff that big studios wouldn't touch don't sell well enough to justify being in this film!

And the idea of the "solo developer" is also, hm, let us say a bit sus. Not that these developers weren't solo or small teams, they were (though ofc a solo core creator will often have dozens of helpers on supporting roles that get sidelined in this "unitary vision" narrative); but that such a model is all that new? How big do you think development teams were in the 90's for so many classic games? The original Pokemon Red/Blue game had less than a dozen core developers (the total staff list, including American localizers, is ~30 people - Super Meat Boy meanwhile seems to have 16 for comparison). You wanna bring up the dev teams for PC-98 visual novels? They were made in an Akihabara cave with a box of pixel art scraps by like 6 people! You think those games didn't have "unitary creative visions"? Small gaming companies have always been a part of the ecosystem, getting niche titles funded & published using insane magic and pure luck. The "indie boom" is better seen as a change in the numerator.

Though what did change is that, by being self-published, development was approachable by outsiders in new ways. Though even then, this is a bit of a lie - Jonathan Blow of Braid was an industry veteran, and everyone here plays the "convention circuit" and networks with people like the PAX crew and Xbox representatives. But with the games being published by an individual over a studio, even a studio of a half dozen people, it is far easier for the audience to see the creators as "one of them". No office, no suits, just a man in his gamer den banging out his dream. That aesthetic is core to why this narrative was potent at the time, and why making a documentary to codify it was seen as compelling. It takes an already ascendant idea, polishes it, packages it as nonfiction, and then sells the idea back to the people who invented it. LIke so much media, to be clear! I always enjoy seeing it, it is the dialectic of culture in action.

I also find it very funny to see a documentary made in 2012 playing tropes that will become far more ~problematic~ just around the corner. Burnout and work-life balance - in a documentary where a developer, crying, discusses suicide if his game fails, to remind you - is pretty much never mentioned, and a successful game launch is absolutely presented as justifying endless crunch. You would never see that today. The only women in this documentary are wives and parents - which is very amusing, because the co-creator of the film is a woman! No one thinks gender is relevant to mention. Boy would that change in a few years.

Indie games today, of course, are just a segment of the gaming market. They are incredibly common now, so much so that most people lose money making them, people discuss oversaturation, big studio companies have "indie wings" to cover consumer preference ranges, etc. There is no magic in it anymore, it is just dev strategy. So yeah, very enjoyable as a representative time capsule in a strain of culture that is pretty much gone now! The Capital-R Romantic Era of indie gaming; what a time.

In the next post, we are going much more niche, so stay tuned for that. Or don't, I don't know you, and like this was a loooot of writing. Maybe i'll, idk work on that for the next one? ...I probably won't -_-

[magical-girl-coral]

Kipperlilly and Lucy for "value me" either way works wonders in my mind

anons in my inbox want to make me suffer. well, jokes on you, bitch, we're in this together now.

"As Lucy knelt down by her best friend's grave and laid her favorite flowers on the flat ground before removing the weeds around the headstone, she found herself having to fight the urge to punch a fist through the word written on the tomb. It took her a second to realize she clenched her hand hard enough to draw blood, so instead she takes a deep inhale of air, exhales it slowly, kneels down and takes out a flimsy piece of paper that her prepared speech on it. This is all a part of the healing journey, Lucy reminded herself. This just a part of the process. Like Jawbone said, we can get out any time we want if it doesn't help. She dusted her dress and cleared her throat. "Dearest Kipperlilly, it's been five months since you died and I came back to our world. We've somehow managed to enter our senior year after an insane summer full of crazy missions, and our grades aren't as bad as we feared they'd be. We still need to find another member for our party before senior year ends or we'll be broken up, but a part of me thinks you're enjoying that right now." Lucy cringed at her own loose tongue. Don't go off script. You wrote this. "All our friends are doing better than I had hoped. Ivy is acing her ranger classes and is bonding with her classmates. Oisin found a close friendship with Ayda, finally finding someone who's just as a massive nerd as he is. Ruben is still having trouble finding himself again after everything that happened, but I heard he's working on a new album with Fig, so I hope that will help him. Mary Ann and Gorgug are still going strong. I'm still trying to wrap my head around how she bagged him so fast. One second you were dying and burning and I was dying with you and the next-" Lucy choked on her tears. "God fucking damn it, why did you do it Kipperlilly?" she asked the ground, clenching that sad of paper in her hand. "Why did you have to do all of that? Did you really never have any faith in us? Were we not strong enough for you? Not powerful enough? Not fucking loyal enough? I loved you! I was in love with you! I memorized all your eating habits so one day I'll cook you breakfast! I remember how much you hate the smell of fish and how you liked sour foods more than you'd like to admit! You told me you loved me, Kipperlilly? How fucked up do you have to be to think that love should be thing that throws you into an early grave?!" The tears that dropped from her face smeared the ink. "And the worst part after the betrayal? I still fucking love you. I want you back in my life so bad that it feels like I'm dying all over again. And I can't tell this to anyone cause who would understand me? Thanks to everything you've done, everyone just sees you as that side little mean girl that wasn't even important enough to be the main villain or henchmen. They'll never understand how light I felt when I was around you. All my life I had to carry my heart on my own, but I met you, and it finally felt like someone carried this awful burden with me and I was able to breath just like everyone else. Who is supposed to hold my heart now, Kipperlilly? I can't handle this all on my own again!" Lucy wiped the rest of her tears and stood up tall from the grave. "I don't even know if you're hearing me, or if you bother to listen to what I have to say, but I hope you still believe everything you've done was worth it. Because there was some nights I wonder if it was ever worth it meeting you." She turned and left with those last words, ignoring the pitying look the gravekeeper gave her as she left the cemetery to gain back whatever was left of her life. Somewhere deep in hell, a lost soul felt lose it's last shard of hope.

[howitcouldgoes]

In honor of the Adventure Zone and the suffering game coming out soon I’m gonna talk about the moments in The Adventure Zone that got me the most emotional

Obviously spoilers for the Adventure Zone

5. Johann the Bard’s death

This one I think caught the majority of TAZ fans off guard. Whenever an NPC died.. it was always during the events of recovering a grand relic - never after the mission. It’s like-

Johann was here. And then he wasn’t.

And most people grew very attached to Johann during the episodes and arcs of making fun of him, asking if they’re ok with being forgotten, him and his relationship with the Void Fish— and to include this with my number 5

WHEN MAGNUS AT THE END OF THE PODCAST

NAMES HIS FUCKING DOG AFTER JOHANN

OHMYGODDD

4. Meeting Lup

Now- not when Lup was freed from the Umbra-staff and called out her brother for being gay, while that was a funny as fuck moment, that’s not what I’m referring to.

It’s when we cut back to the Stolen Century and we meet Lup officially for the first time. I just remember hearing her speak for the first time and her antics and I remember being like “god.. she’s just like her brother.”

And we get to know her and it’s like- we also find out she is nothing like Taako. She’s more empathetic to people - to strangers- she’s smarter than him(like book smart) , SHES a nerd, she flamboyant and kindhearted and it’s like also-

We’ve known her forever. She was in every single adventure the boys had- she was this overwhelming presence in the entire podcast - from her name burnt into the wall, to “where’d you get that umbrella?”, to flying to Taako’s aid every time he was in trouble— she had always been a character without a name or face to her and then we she is finally formally introduced you just love her instantly.

That’s amazing writing.

3. Arms outstretched

Now this got everyone.

It was such a powerful moment between brothers and between friends- even Griffin didn’t see it coming.

He fully expect them to just let Magnus float off into the astral plane but then they change the entire plot of the story and saved Magnus and brought him back.

Taako and Merle both using a spell slot to bring back their bestfriend. Also foreshadows to their deeper connection back in their stolen century.

The music behind that scene was also fucking phenomenal it was beautiful and I loved it.

2. “You fucking took everything from me”

Ok SO- THIS ONE IS INCREDIBLE- it starts me on the same tangent every time.

In this moment Taako has fully remembered all of the events that happened before Lucretia erased their memories and he is fucking infuriated.

Because if Lucretia had not done it that day- Taako and Barry would’ve found Lup. THINK ABOUT IT - that day they were going to check Wave Echo cave- they would’ve found Lup’s corse and the red robe and the umbrella - Taako would’ve made the connection and Barry would’ve figured it out instantly and Lup would’ve been set free and back.

But because Lucretia did it they never went to WaveEcho cave and they never found her- until a decade later- Taako found her stupid and unknowing - took her umbrella and watched her skeleton decay- AND NOW HE REMEMBERS THIS

And it’s too late to go back to WaveEcho now, the fucking hunger is here and her corpse is long gone, if she was a lich barry would’ve found her by now, and if she was in Phanadalin- it was all glass now - where could she have gone?

Taako is realizing silently what Barry isn’t aware of- Lup was right there. SHE WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM- and he couldn’t find her, he couldn’t save her.

In this moment of rage Taako realizes his sister is gone. She’s never coming back. Lucretia took his everything from him.

And it’s all her fault.

1. Magnus’s death

Now. The day I finished TAZ Balance edition, at 9:38PM, I cried myself to sleep. OF COURSE I DID

“HOW DOES MAGNUS DIE?”

SURROUNDED BY HIS LOVED ONES

WITH HIS DOGS

AND MAGNUS FINALLY ENDS HIS ULTIMATE QUEST- HE SEES HIS WIFE IN THE AFTERLIFE

Magnus, rushing in to everything because he ultimately wanted to die a crazed hero so he could see his wife again but still feel like he died doing something worth it just for her, who never loved another ever during his years alive, who turned down the temptation of his own relic because if he was going to see his wife again he wanted her to be proud of him, Magnus Burnsides whose ultimate destination and goal was to see the love of his life again.

And he finally did.

Magnus got the happy ending he truly deserved.

Magnus Burnsides is the most relatable character in all of the Adventure Zone(to me at least) I love and cherished him like he was truly my friend- so when he dies at the end of the podcast I cried like I was grieving a real person.

[abimee]

its been a minute I think everyone needs a re-introduction to my WOLs and their counterparts immediately actually

this is Tick-Tock Tutti, usually known as just Tock --- she's my 11-12 year old WOL (currently 17-18 in Dawntrail) who was born hearing music in people's hearts (entelechy) and who is the Singer of Light, travelling the world to sing the song of the Warrior of Light (Ardbert).

She loves spicy things, her accordion, the peels of oranges, and making friends. She loves Urianger, Haurchefant, Hermes, and a whole bunch of other people, but in specific Haurchefant was like a father to her and Urianger is the closest thing to that as well. She hates Thancred and Garleans and thinks Emet is a nerd.

She had a crush on Alisaie when they met and then later on had a crush on Ronnitt, but is currently dating Wuk Lamat :] She's the daughter of a merchant woman who makes clocks and has 24 aunts who run the Tutti Merchant shop in Ul'dah.

Her charm points is that she's fat, has a little brown nose and ear tips, bites people she doesn't like, and is only 3'2!

Her only job is SCH, and she's dedicated entirely to the Nymians. She shares a WOL story with my bestie's wol Luka Redfield, with her being a Dwarf named Tockitt in his world, and Luka being a regular catboy who fishes in her world, before Ultima Thule lead their world's to curl into each other and now whenever they are close they are each the WOL and whenever they are far apart they are each other's universal counterparts.

further information: Tock identifies as bisexual, and trans-agender, she/her, on some sort of spectrum but doesnt identify as autistic. She is entirely blind in one eye and has sight problems in the other.

This is Ruyan of Azim, a 28 year old (currently 33 in DT) oronir-uyagiri Au'Ra. transexual cis-agender woman (he/she, NEVER they/it), bisexual, like 7'4. Exists in an alt-timeline to Tock, became an adventurer for money after leaving Kugane and got picked as the WOL by happenstance.

Suffering from the uyagiri sense of guilt for ''wanting'' for a good chunk of his life, ran around wearing ugly clothes and not allowing himself to feel happy.

Has a nasty sex-only one-sided relationship with graha during the expedition of the crystal tower before being abandoned by him and going into a depressive state, later comes to form a relationship with her second-best friend Haurchefant Greystone, who survives in his universe by the alteration of fate by an outside force (see below).

Gets married to Haurchefant after EDW and has three children with him. He originally had a crush on Urianger but never acted on it, is friends with Lyse and Ysayle and is amicable emergency contact to Estinien. Sees alisaie and alphinaud as weird cousins. Him and Wuk Lamat bond over being trans Warriors :]

Doesnt have any hobbies or likes because she has just started living recently but is really into savory food, music, and having sex. Also enjoys sewing and gardening.

His charm points are his long nose, chronic pout, curly (after EDW) hair, and voice.

His only job is Warrior.

further information: Ruyan is mixed-type Bipolar, and has psychotic episodes. She can be considered partially deaf and has some spinal issues that dont present in his every-day life

Has a sidekick for life in Ryder of Nowhere, a she/her trans man (NEVER call her he/him, a woman, etc), whos an oronir ex-communicated. Ryder is actually a time-hopping WOL from a dead universe who has Graha Tia's heart beating inside of the dead corpse body she stole from the Steppe, and was originally a duskwight-au ra child who was abandoned by her mother and raised by lesbian pirates.

and little miss perfect herself, Althaea!

Althaea, known for her convocation seat as Azem, is a ~42 (relative to human years, in Amaurotine time shes around 180,000 years old) year old agender person. She/her only, agender bisexual but lives in a society where gender and sexuality arent concepts so thats applying eorzean terms to her, around 7'8 relative.

She is the Azem for both Tock and Ruyan.

Born to two Cthonic Horns researchers, her distinctive pointed ears are from a genetic test her father performed to see if traits pass from parent to child. Raised with a twin sister, Althaea is very visibly Bipolar, with some developmental disability NOS.

OBSESSED with bugs (insects, arachnids, etc), non-conceptualized food, hot days, running around, and sex. Besties with Emet, married to Hythlodaeus, and has a strange relationship with Hermes that can be considered ''best friends with sexual applications''. Coworker friends with Mitron and Halmarut, and an older sister figure to Themis.

She disagrees both with the creation of Zodiark and Hydaelyn, and defects from the Convocation to find a way to stop the Final Days without either things happening. Has an ectopic pregnancy after the first calamity is diverted and attempts to give birth to it, and survives.

Her charm points are her breasts, her big teeth, her huge nose, and her infectous curiosity combined with her refusal to give up even when everyone else is laughing at her.

Her job is a sort of proto-SCH, and her Familiar is a half-polar bear half-butterfly humanoid figure named Eos. She had another familiar prototype before eos, named Selene, who was sent to Pandaemonium due to fears of her having an unchecked amount of power.

further information: Althaea has brain damage, Bipolar, and is possibly exhibiting symptoms of Downs syndrome. She has a pronounced overbite and likes to sleep without anything on top of her

[aliensandanxiety]

Pirate Jotaro having a longing for the sea because of that small bit of merfolk heritage in him from Jonathan.

And hell, Jonathan suffered enough in canon, here he lives and gets to meet his part-human descendants 🥲

FISH GRANDPA.

Pirate Jotaro can still be a nerd for ocean stuff but now he gets to be on a boat all the time. Imagine mer Kakyoin showing him all the sea creatures and bringing him shells 🥺

[victimsofyaoipoll]

Round 1

Propaganda Under Cut

Yona

She’s the fiancé of prince Sidon, (arranged marriage) and since Sidon is almost always shipped with link, people went feral the second they saw her. She’s genuinely very kind and cares about her people and wants Sidon to be happy! She is NOT jealous, she wants him to hang out with his Best Friend. I have seen firsthand in real-time, people being SO misogynistic and cruel, and saying she’s ugly. She’s good in a crisis, very friendly, has a great design, and she doesn’t deserve the hate in the slightest!

I'M DESPERATELY TRYING TO FIND CUTE ART OF HER AND SIDON AND QUITE LITERALLY EVERYTHING REGARDING HER IS JUST STRAIGHT UP BLATANT HATE AND DENOUNCING HER AS SOME LAST MINUTE ADDITION TO THE STORY AS ORCHESTRATED BY JOHN NINTENDO TO STOP SIDLINK FROM BEING CANON LIKE THIS IS THE THE JOHNLOCK CONSPIRACY OR SOME MESS... i just want to see cute art of a green shark woman with a lovely smile :((((

so the breath of the wild fandom is pretty well known for REALLY liking prince sidon aka that one really tall fish guy. and they're also really well known for shipping him with link because every fandom needs a gay ship right. so then the sequel (totk) comes around and it's revealed that sidon has a fiance now and it's not link it's some zora girl from another domain. the game hasn't even been out for a month but i've seen people act so vile towards her like yona get behind me!!!!

Zelda

She spent 100 years in a metaphysical wrestling match with an ancient and primal evil after seeing it destroy almost everyone and everything she held dear in the hopes of saving the few that remained and Link's main goal after HIYAHing his way out of a amnesia-inducing coma was to come in and tag team said evil in order to save her and like 90% of the memories he can regain focus on their relationship with each other and its gradual improvement up to the point where Link fucking dies protecting her and it's the push she needs to awaken the power to push back the blight and PEOPLE ARE STILL OUT THERE IN THEIR POST-CANON FANWORKS TRYING TO TELL ME THAT LINK FUCKS OFF AND LEAVES HER ALONE TO GO SMOOCH THE HOT FISH PRINCE BECAUSE ZELDA WAS BEING TOO OVERBEARING OR WHATEVER AND HE COULDN'T DEAL WITH THE EXPECTATION??? LIKE ZELDA'S WHOLE FUCKING ARC WASNT ALSO ABOUT HER STRUGGLING WITH EXPECTATION AND FAILING TO LIVE UP TO IT AND YOU WANT ME TO BELIEVE THIS WUALITY THEY BOTH OSTENSIBLY HAVE IN COMMON WOULD DRIVE A WEDGE BETWEEN THEM?? WHERE'S ZELDA YOU COWARDS?? I DON'T EVEN CARE IF YOU DON'T WANT HER AND LINK TO BE TOGETHER, JUST STOP DIMINISHING THE GRAVITY OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP AND MAKING ZELDA SUCK FOR NO REASON. SHE'S A BIG NERD! SHE GETS TOO IN HER OWN HEAD! SHE'D DO ANYTHING TO HELP THE PEOPLE SHE CARES ABOUT! SHE UNASHAMEDLY AND EXCITEDLY TRIED TO FEED HER PERSONAL KNIGHT A LIVE FROG IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE! HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE HER 

Im specifically saying botw Zelda here because oh my gOSH this poor girl can get made out to be like a horrible bitch when people. want link to get that shark dick. on average she doesnt get thattttt badly treated compared to some others but goddamn.

title character but people hate her because they want link to get w sidon. so she gets fridged or entirely forgotten even though shes literally his canonical soulmate and they have been reincarnated together hundreds of times (w ganon but whether u make em poly or make him the long suffering third wheel is up to you). people will be like oh but zelda was mean to him that one time (??). be serious w me rn. she just got removed from fandom entirely and if that isnt the epitome of victim of yaoi idk what is.

[sephirthoughts]

Heya got some questions for that ask game. :3

32, 27, 23, 18, for my boy Bellhop. And if you don't want to do him, perhaps for my man Reeve? I want to hear your thoughts. ^.^

OH BOYEEEEEEEE i'm doin both cause no one can stop me

for anyone who doesn't know, @soundcrusher and i have been fixated on the upside-down Bellhop from the Haunted Hotel in Rebirth lately because he's adorable so strap in babes

32. If you could make this character a meal, what would you make them?

astronaut food in those packets they use on the space shuttles so he could eat it upside-down obviously

27. Do you like to ship this character with other characters or do you prefer not to?

i like to think that he's a huge engineering nerd (self taught) and he built the trap door and rigged his rope and pulley system himself, and that he and Reeve Tuesti would connect over tinkering and building gadgets and eventually have an adorably nerdy relationship

23. Has this character permanently altered or impacted your psyche in a way you won’t forget?

yeah i used to not care about the unnamed upside-down bellhop and now i care about him a lot. he's nero's other brother head-canonically to me, which makes him yet another of vincent's children, with hilarious/tragic results

18. Do you prefer to see this character suffer or know peace? Angst or comfort? Both?

I JUST WANT HIM TO BE HAPPYILY CREEPING PEOPLE OUT FOREVER

32. If you could make this character a meal, what would you make them?

i feel like Reeve is in serious need of some comfort food, so: congee, scallion pancakes, steamed bao, dumplings, sichuan fried fish with chili oil, and golden-fried mantou with condensed milk for dessert. that'd put him in a food coma for several days

27. Do you like to ship this character with other characters or do you prefer not to?

i have a lot of Reeve ships because he's sexy af but also he's technically just Some Guy in a world full of superhumans, but he's also hyper-intelligent and super wealthy so it's like he has his own set of superpowers anyway, so he can actually hang. i like reeve/vincent, reeve/cloud, reeve/bellhop, reeve/rufus, reeve/tifa, reeve/tseng, reeve/cid, etc. etc.

23. Has this character permanently altered or impacted your psyche in a way you won’t forget?

reeve reminded me that guys with beards don't have to be burly warrior types, they can also wear suits and look sexy as hell

18. Do you prefer to see this character suffer or know peace? Angst or comfort? Both?

I ALSO JUST WANT REEVE TO BE HAPPY WITH HIS MANY ROBOTS AND SOMEONE WHO WILL BE NICE TO HIM

[billygoat26]

Oh yeah, time to be very late to the hyper analysis of the first outro in season two of JJK! Spoilers ahead btw… obviously but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Here’s the outro btw.

Anyways, idk wtf is being said, but the visuals is what I was focused on… more so the fish because Gojo and Geto have been my main JJK focus soooo….

Anyways, ya see how it starts off with both of their respective fish being white? Obviously one is Gojo’s, considering that bright ass blue eye, and the other is Geto. Geto wasn’t bad at the start. He, along side Gojo, was actually doing good, not suffering with the thoughts and questioning the purpose of Jujutsu Sorcerers and Non-Sorcerers. Of course, we get a glimpse into the transition throughout the episodes, closer to I believe it was episodes four and five of season two. I could be wrong.

But when the fish are shown again, they’re parting ways. A theme shown multiple times between Gojo and Geto, though we all already know why that is..

While parting ways, Geto’s fish fades to black, which if I understand that correctly, it’s like his transition to the “dark side” had been more or less complete, like his actions and mindset were solidified after the departure.

Which leads me to believe that even just before the mini argument, Geto wasn’t fully sold on the killing of all non-sorcerers. Though in the show it’s made to seem like he’s already made his peace with it, I feel like Gojo not killing him and actually letting him go might have been the final push somehow? I dunno.

I’m still trying to figure out the whole thing with Gojo watching the darker fish and Geto looking away from the lighter one, but I truthfully don’t know about that one. Maybe, considering how we’d seen Gojo behaving with the “if you cry and apologize I won’t kill you” thing and later on during the shibuya incident and his fight against the cursed spirits with “feral Gojo” as I think the fandom calls it, it might be like a strange symbolism of the Ying and Yang stuff. A little bit of bad in the good (the dark fish with Gojo) and a bit of good in the bad (the light fish with Geto). Maybe Gojo was a bit more “understanding” for a lack of a better term of the reasoning back then, taking into account his own statements prior to Geto’s spiraling? Geto was probably still rejecting the little bit of goodness that might have proved to spark an internal conflict.. Just some brainstorming on that bit though.

And yet at the end of the outro, the two fish are still swimming together, which probably goes to show how close they still are despite their parallel paths.

In math nerd terms, I’d like to put their friendship in terms of perpendicular lines; they were destined to meet at a point, but fate refused to let them stay together. Hence the divergence in paths.

[metaphysical-human-being]

I need step-dad stan

Stan who refuses to watch Fidds relationship suffer anymore than it already has so the moment he gets even remotely stable again he's making sure Fidds gets some type of shared custody

Stan who spends weeks preparing the room for Tates first summer making sure everything is super kid-proof including literally throwing away any and all alcohol, cigs, etc from the house

Stan who, upon actually meeting the kid, becomes the most awkward man in the world

Stan who's terrified of becoming like his dad accidentally becomes the "cool/relaxed" sorta dad/ basically an uncle and refuses to raise his voice at the kid

Stan who doesn't wanna overstep his boundaries and wants to bond so when he sees the kid doing something he definitely shouldnt he just offers to tag along/be a get away driver just to ensure the kid doesn't hurt himself

but also bonding! in the only way he knows how!

"Oh some kids challenged you to a fight? You know how to throw a punch, right? What? Of course I won't tell your dad!"

Fishing trips too. I think him and Tate would genuinely bond over a shared interest in fishing

"Do you love my dad the way my ma loved my dad?" "your mom loved your dad? Wait not shIT-"

anyway yeah step-dad stan and his questionable but ultimately sweet parenting skills

(also would so let him eat dessert first before dinner because "rules are for nerds")

[ghoultrifle]

Here's what british shops the ghouls would work in

Mountain - garden centre. he talks to all the old ladies about the best soil for this season and has all the best recommendations for beginners, he'll talk for hours if you don't escape

Rain - sea life aquarium. takes people on guided tours and uses his water ghoulness to communicate with the fishies and get them to put on a show (only if the visitors are nice, otherwise he asks the fish to splash and scare the customers)

Cirrus - pets at home. doesn't really agree with their practices on how they keep the animals so she infiltrated pets at home as an employee and steals any animals she thinks are suffering :') cumulus wasn't happy with it at first but she's getting used to their home doubling as a rescue centre

Phantom - one of those travelling circuses. we've all seen how bendy new bug is, it only feels fitting that he travels around showing off his skills

Swiss - tesco security guard and a really shit one at that. he always gets distracted thinking about what meal deal he's going to get on his break and forgets he's meant to be doing loss prevention

Cumulus - kfc manager. she has that authority that sweaty 16 year olds who work there actually respect. because of that it's the best kfc in the area

Dew - currys pc world. dew is a hardcore pc nerd and you can't change my mind. loves talking to little kids getting their first set up. hates giving tech support to old people who refuse to learn

Aether - corner shop. just has bossman vibes honestly. definitely has one of those signs thats like 'only two schoolchildren allowed in at once' after a particularly harrowing vape incident

Aurora - premier inn receptionist. kind if you're nice to her but a real bitch if you treat her the wrong way. will cancel people's pre-paid breakfasts if they piss her off :)

[heavensbeehall]

More about the other victors & chapter 16

They're a little strange, but I'm pretty sure neither of them is going to try to make me uncomfortable by stripping naked.

Again, Katniss is not a sexual being yet. She is most comfortable with Beetee, Wiress and Mags because she understands those type of relationships. Also the three of them are awsome.

I glance around the Training Center. Peeta is at the center of a ribald circle of knife throwers. The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls. The male tribute from District 5 is vomiting wine on the swordfighting floor. Finnick and the old woman from his district are using the archery station. Johanna Mason is naked again and oiling her skin down for a wrestling lesson. I decide to stay put.

Peeta is much better with people, all kinds of people. Katniss doesn't know what to do with naked people. So she stays with the nerds.

I want to know what Finnick and Mags talk about at the archery station.

I feel bad, knowing that their district must have suffered much worse than ours. I feel I need to defend my people.

Here's a chicken or the egg question. Are the victors from 3 and 4 rebels because their districts are rebellious. Or are the districts rebellious because their victors are?

Plutarch Heavensbee in the magnificent purple robe with the fur-trimmed collar that designates him as Head Gamemaker. He's eating a turkey leg.

I don't know why I find it hilarious that he's eating a turkey leg, but I do. I am imagining one of those rlly big ones from fairs and stuff.

When we make our way into the dining area, I see some of Peeta's gang have other ideas. They're dragging all the smaller tables to form one large table so that we all have to eat together. Now I don't know what to do. Even at school I used to avoid eating at a crowded table. Frankly, I'd probably have sat alone if Madge hadn't made a habit of joining me.

I wonder whose idea this was. I suspect Chaff. But we can see some of the school versions of Katniss and Peeta. He was always with a group from the town kids. She prefers to be alone.

Chaff doesn't seem as bad at lunch. He's sober, and while he talks too loud and makes bad jokes a lot, most of them are at his own expense. I can see why he would be good for Haymitch, whose thoughts run so darkly. But I'm still not sure I'm ready to team up with him.

This description of Chaff reminds me of my dad. He's a people-person and feels the need to entertain everyone all the time. (It can be exhausting and I can see why someone as introverted and inhibited as Katniss would be put off.) But the fact that he makes an effort to seek out Haymitch--who pushes everyone away--makes me love him. You know Haymitch says mean stuff to him and he just laughs it off.

After lunch I do the edible-insect station with the District 8 tributes--Cecelia, who's got three kids at home, and Woof, a really old guy who's hard of hearing and doesn't seem to know what's going on since he keeps trying to stuff poisonous bugs in his mouth.

I think Woof knows exactly what he's doing when he puts poisonous bugs in his mouth.

Finnick appears again when I'm picking up fishing tips, but mostly just to introduce me to Mags, the elderly woman who's also from District 4. Between her district accent and her garbled speech--possibly she's had a stroke-- I can't make out more than one in four words. But I swear she can make a decent fishhook out of anything--a thorn, a wishbone, an earring. After a while I tune out the trainer and simply try to copy whatever Mags does. When I make a pretty good hook out of a bent nail and fasten it to some strands of my hair, she gives me a toothless smile and an unintelligible comment I think might be praise. Suddenly I remember how she volunteered to replace the young, hysterical woman in her district. It couldn't be because she thought she had any chance of winning. She did it to save the girl, just like I volunteered last year to save Prim. And I decide I want her on my team.

Do we thinks Mags did have a stroke? I have a headcanon that she's had a speech impediment her whole life but that's just in the imaginary Mags story I write in my head.

In fact, I feel as if I've somehow been initiated into the victors' circle. During the next two days, I spend time with almost everybody headed for the arena. Even the morphlings, who, with Peeta's help, paint me into a field of yellow flowers.

Yellow flowers again.

Mags, who I can understand a little better now, decides she's just going to take a nap.

Queen shit. I love Mags.

[beatriceboo19]

DOUBLE POST DAY!!!

So uhhhhh

i have so much to yap about but I'ma yap about Epic the musical this time-

So in the song suffering and different beast just the sirens. In Greek mythology and the story of the Odyssey the sirens are not fish they are actually birds. To be specific the are women with a bird body and a woman head (I researched this on my own time bc I wanted too-) the sirens were known to take men's souls and singing like what most people think sirens are! I'm a very big nerd when it comes to Greek mythology! But that's all I wanted to say! Sirens in Greek mythology could copy voices as well but I don't think they can morph into the person lololol

(this is obviously no hate to epic the musical as I am a big fan of epic and also no hate to Jorge!!! I'm just a big nerd for Greek mythology and wanted to say it)