#troupe harry

[gumballavocadoharry]

Lightheaded:

The stark morning light filtering through the blinds had been a cruel awakening, illuminating not just the room but the crushing weight of Yn's actions. The warmth of Harry's bed, the memory of his touch, the simple joy of a shared meal – it had all been a dangerous indulgence, a temporary lapse in the rigorous control she exerted over her life, her body, her very existence. Now, the illness roared back, a furious beast demanding retribution for the brief moment of freedom. The frantic flight back to her apartment, the desperate purging, the hot, silent tears – it was all a ritual of purification, a desperate attempt to wash away the perceived sin of letting go, of being seen. Professor Weaver's words about the messiness of good writing echoed in her mind, a painful parallel to the internal chaos she tried so hard to suppress, a chaos briefly glimpsed and then violently rejected.

Back in his own apartment, the silence was heavier than usual for Harry. He found the note on the bedside table, a flimsy scrap of paper that felt starkly inadequate after the intimacy they had shared. "Had to run, thank you for everything, call you soon." The words were polite, dismissive almost, a bandage too small for the wound he felt opening in his chest. Confusion warred with a deep, unsettling worry. Why would she run like that? After... everything? Their connection the night before had felt profound, effortless. They had talked for hours, laughed, shared stories, and then, the quiet, tender intimacy. It had felt right.

He moved through his morning routine on autopilot, the image of Yn – her bright eyes, the soft curve of her smile, the way she had leaned into his touch – stubbornly refusing to fade. He showered, dressed, and made his way to the restaurant. He had early prep to oversee, deliveries to check, the thousand small tasks that made up the foundation of his world. He needed normalcy, routine, the familiar rhythm of the kitchen to ground him.

At 'The Flourishing Feast,' the air was already fragrant with the scent of roasting vegetables and the subtle tang of sourdough starter. His team was arriving, the gentle clatter of pots and pans beginning to fill the space. Harry smiled, greeted everyone, gave instructions, his voice steady and practiced. But beneath the surface, his mind replayed the night, searching for clues. He remembered her initial hesitation with the food, the small portions she took at first, the way her eyes had lit up when she finally let herself taste and enjoy the dishes. He remembered the surprising ease with which she had relaxed after that, how the conversation had flowed, how vibrant and present she had become. And then... the sharp, panicked departure.

Sitting at one of the small, round tables in the dining area before service began, sipping a mug of dark coffee, it hit him with a sickening lurch. The puzzle pieces clicked into place – the avoidance of food initially, the forced casualness when he offered more, the sudden panic after a full meal, the desperate need to leave. He had seen things like this before, heard stories. It wasn't just cold feet, or regretted intimacy. It was something deeper, something tied to control, to fear, to food itself. Yn, his gentle, intelligent, beautiful Yn, was struggling. An eating disorder. The thought landed heavily in his gut, a cold, hard stone. His heart ached for her, for the hidden battle she was fighting.

He debated calling her, texting, but something held him back. He remembered the note – her need to "run." Maybe she needed space. He decided to wait, to let her reach out, as she promised. He focused on his work, letting the familiar comfort of creating food soothe his troubled mind, but the worry for Yn remained a persistent ache.

Around mid-morning, just as the first few customers began to trickle in for coffee and pastries, the bell above the door chimed, and Yn stepped inside. Harry's heart leaped. She looked pale, tired, lines of stress etched around her eyes, but she was here. She moved uncertainly towards one of the smaller tables by the window, avoiding his gaze. She was trying to look casual, perhaps, like she just stopped by, but her tension was palpable even across the room.

Harry walked over, his approach slow and gentle, trying not to startle her. "Yn," he said softly, his voice filled with concern. "I was worried when you left."

She flinched slightly, finally meeting his eyes for a fleeting second before looking away again. Her face was a mask of forced calm. "Oh, Harry. Yeah. Sorry about that. Just... had a lot to do. Early class." Her voice was strained, thin.

He pulled up a chair. "Yn, look at me." When she finally did, he kept his gaze steady, warm, and non-judgmental. "That wasn't just about class, was it? I found your note. You seemed... panicked." He paused, choosing his words carefully. This was fragile ground. "Last night was... amazing for me. Everything I hoped. But after dinner, after the food... you seemed to change. And running out this morning without a real word... it made me worry."

He took a breath, deciding honesty, gentle as it might be, was the only way. "Yn... are you okay? With food? With everything?"

The mask shattered. Her eyes widened, not with sadness, but with a sudden, fierce anger, a flash of raw vulnerability she immediately sought to protect with defensiveness. "What are you talking about? 'With food'? What is that supposed to mean?" Her voice rose, sharp and brittle.

Harry kept his voice low, steady. "Just... I noticed..."

"You noticed?" she cut him off, standing abruptly, scraping the chair back loudly. "You're 'noticing' things now? After one night? Are you diagnosing me, Harry? Is that what this is? 'Oh, she ate dinner, she must have an issue'?" Her hands were trembling, but her stance was aggressive.

"No, Yn, I'm not diagnosing you. I'm just concerned. Truly concerned. Your leaving like that, after everything... it wasn't normal. And I care about you."

"You care?" she scoffed, a harsh sound that didn't reach her eyes. "Or are you just disappointed I'm not the perfect, uncomplicated girl you thought I was after one dinner and one night? You thought you had it all figured out, didn't you? This easy connection, this chef who loves to feed people, this girl who loved his food... well, guess what, Harry? Life isn't that neat and tidy! People aren't just ingredients you can mix together perfectly!"

Her words were like knives, aimed to hurt, to push him away. Harry didn't flinch, though they stung. He saw past the anger to the fear driving it. "I know life isn't neat, Yn. I know people are complex. That's why I'm worried. Because I see you hurting."

"You don't see anything!" she practically yelled, drawing the attention of the few patrons. Shame burned in her cheeks, fueling her rage further. "You think you know me after a few hours? You think you can just waltz in here and start making assumptions about my life, about me?"

She grabbed her bag, her movements jerky and frantic. "Don't pretend you understand! Don't pretend you care!" She backed away from the table, towards the door. "I made a mistake last night. That's it. A mistake!"

With a final, searing look that held a complicated mix of defiance, hurt, and fear, she spun around and stormed out of the restaurant, the bell above the door jangling violently in her wake. Harry stood rooted to the spot, his heart aching, the words "A mistake!" echoing in his ears. He hadn't handled it perfectly, maybe, but his concern was genuine. He had pushed, and she had retreated, just as he feared.

Outside, Yn walked quickly, the confrontation with Harry a fresh wave of panic washing over her. She had lashed out, said terrible things, but the alternative – letting him see the truth, letting him see the depth of her struggle – felt like certain death. She pushed the encounter from her mind, focusing on her destination: college, her classes. Professor Weaver's advanced writing seminar.

She settled into her seat in the familiar lecture hall, trying to focus on the dense text on the syllabus, but her mind was a whirlwind. Harry's words, "Are you okay? With food?" kept replaying. He saw. He knew. The shame was unbearable. But beneath the shame, a different feeling stirred – a flicker of wonder that someone had seen, someone had cared enough to ask, despite her best efforts to hide it.

Then came the memory of the night before, the intimacy, the warmth, the feeling of being truly safe in Harry's arms. The taste of his food, enjoyed without guilt for a fleeting moment. His gentle hands on her skin. The way he had looked at her. The rush of affection, of undeniable love she felt for him, a feeling she had tried to suppress, to rationalize away, but which now felt overpowering. How could she feel this intense love and connection with someone who represented nourishment, pleasure, food, the very thing she feared and fought against? It was a cruel paradox.

She fidgeted in her seat, her stomach cramping. She hadn't eaten since the purging; the thought of it was abhorrent. Her head felt light, fuzzy. The professor's voice seemed distant, muffled. She tried to take notes, but the words on the page swam. She felt weak, shaky. Her usual routine of restriction was catching up to her, exacerbated by the emotional turmoil.

Just get through the class, she told herself. You can handle this. You're strong. But the strength she drew upon was the strength for denial, for control through deprivation, and it was failing her now. A wave of dizziness washed over her, sharper this time. The room tilted. She felt herself swaying. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She tried to grip the edge of the desk, to ground herself, to fight the encroaching darkness, but her limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Voices rose around her – panicked, startled. A hand reached out, but it was too late. The world dissolved into blackness, the last coherent thought a jumble of Harry's face, the taste of food, and the crushing weight of her secret.

She woke to the unfamiliar smell of antiseptic and the low murmur of voices. A hospital room. Her head throbbed, and her body felt heavy, drained. Her eyes fluttered open. A figure was sitting beside the bed, leaning forward, his dark brown hair falling slightly over his forehead, his green eyes fixed on her face, filled with a familiar, overwhelming tenderness and relief.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

He reached out, his hand gentle as he touched her cheek. "Hey, Yn. I'm here."

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face. The carefully constructed walls she had built around herself had crumbled with her physical collapse. There was no energy left for defense, only raw, exposed vulnerability. Harry's presence wasn't a threat; it was a lifeline.

"How did you know...?"

"They found your phone in your bag," he said softly, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "Your emergency contact list. I was on it." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "I tried calling you after... after you left the restaurant. When you didn't answer, I kept calling. Someone at the college finally picked up and told me what happened." His expression was a mixture of worry and deep affection. "I came as fast as I could."

He carefully shifted, pulling the chair closer, then gently lifted the covers and slid onto the edge of the bed, pulling her towards him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, her head resting against his chest. His warmth was a balm to her cold, fragile body, a feeling of absolute safety she hadn't realized she craved so desperately.

His presence, his unwavering kindness, broke something open inside her. The anger, the shame, the fear – it all dissolved for a moment, replaced by an overwhelming need to explain, to confess, to finally voice the source of the 'messiness' she couldn't write about, the pain she'd buried for so long.

Her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper. "Harry... I'm so sorry... the restaurant..."

"Shh," he said, shaking his head gently. "Don't worry about that. Just focus on getting better. What happened, Yn?" His gaze was steady, compassionate, inviting her to share without pressure or judgment.

The dam broke. The words tumbled out, raw and painful, revealing a wound that had festered for years. "It's... it's my grandmother," she began, the admission heavy on her tongue. "When I was growing up... she was... she was obese. Severely. And she... she was so jealous of me. Of my body."

Harry listened intently, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. His expression remained open, understanding.

"I was always thin," Yn continued, her voice gaining a little strength as the story poured out of her. "Naturally thin. And she hated it. She'd make comments... all the time. About what I ate, how much I ate. She'd watch me, criticize me." Tears began to stream down her face again, but these were different from the tears of shame and anger. These were tears of old, deep hurt. "She'd say mean things... call me names. Say I was too skinny, like it was a bad thing. She'd make me feel like... like my body was wrong. Like I was wrong, just for being naturally slender."

She squeezed his hand, needing the anchor of his touch. "It was like... every meal, every time I ate, it was a performance, a source of judgment. She'd try to make me eat more, then criticize me if I did. Or if I didn't. Nothing was ever right." Her voice cracked. "She body-shamed me... for being skinny. It sounds crazy, I know, but it... it got inside my head. This idea that food was dangerous, that my body was wrong, that I had to control it fiercely, otherwise... otherwise something terrible would happen. Like I'd become like her, or that I wasn't good enough as I was."

She looked up at Harry, her eyes pleading for understanding. "It started small... just trying to be 'good' with food. But it spiraled. It became about control, about punishing myself, about feeling empty because empty felt safe. And last night... eating with you... enjoying it... letting go... it felt amazing, but then afterward... the guilt, the fear... it just flooded back. It's like... the illness is screaming that I lost control, that I failed."

Harry listened to every word, his heart aching for the young girl she had been, internalizing such cruel, twisted messages from someone who should have loved and nurtured her unconditionally. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer platitudes. He simply absorbed her pain, his grip on her hand firm and reassuring.

When she finished, breathless and tearful, he didn't try to fix it. He just looked at her with those kind, intelligent green eyes, full of compassion and understanding. He gently lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"Oh, Yn," he murmured, his voice filled with tenderness. "That's... that's a terrible burden to carry. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault. What happened to you was cruel and wrong."

He shifted closer, gently pulling her into a hug, positioning himself carefully around the wires and monitors. He held her close, letting her lean against his chest, letting her tears soak into his shirt. He didn't need her to be strong right now. He just needed her to feel safe, to feel seen, to feel loved. He held her like she was the most precious, fragile thing in the world, whispering soft reassurances against her hair.

"You are not wrong," he said, his voice a rumble against her ear. "Your body is not wrong. You are beautiful, inside and out. And you are so much more than this illness. You don't have to fight this alone anymore, Yn. Not if you don't want to. I'm here. I'm right here."

Harry listened, his embrace tightening slightly, his breath warm against her hair. He didn't interrupt, didn't judge. He simply held her, a steady, comforting anchor in the storm of her confession.

When she finished, exhausted and emotionally raw, he just held her for a long moment in silence. Then, he spoke, his voice low and filled with profound empathy. "Oh, Yn. My sweet, strong Yn." He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me with this."

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes again, his own slightly wet. "What you went through with your grandmother... that sounds incredibly difficult. And what you've been carrying all this time... alone... Yelling at me today, running away... I understand now. It wasn't about hating me, it was about protecting yourself from something that feels terrifying."

He smiled, a gentle, hopeful smile. "You are so strong, Yn. So incredibly strong, to have fought this for so long, to have kept going, to be here now, talking to me." He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "You don't have to fight alone anymore. I'm here."

He paused, his gaze softening even more. "You know," he said, a fond smile playing on his lips, "for me, food... cooking... it's my way of showing love. It's about nourishment, yes, but it's also about care, about bringing people together, about making them happy, about celebrating life's simple pleasures. It's my love language, really. Besides... you know," he squeezed her hand, his eyes twinkling playfully, hinting at the passion they had shared, "other kinds of affection."

His expression turned serious again, tender. "I promise you, Yn. We can figure this out. We can find a way for you to heal your relationship with food, with yourself. I won't push you, I won't judge you. I'll just be here, holding your hand, holding you close, however you need me to."

He looked at her, his love for her evident in every line of his kind face. "That night, Yn... it wasn't a mistake for me. Meeting you isn't a mistake. I... I fell in love with you, Yn. Hard. And seeing you like this, hearing your story... it just makes me love you more. For your strength, for your vulnerability, for you."

Tears streamed down Yn's face again, but these were different. Not tears of shame or panic, but tears of release, of being truly seen and accepted. The love she felt for him, the profound, overwhelming feeling that had paradoxically terrified and comforted her, was safe here.

"Oh, Harry," she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. "I... I love you too. So much."

He pulled her back into his arms, holding her tightly, a promise in his embrace. In the sterile quiet of the hospital room, surrounded by fear and uncertainty, they had found a fragile, powerful certainty in each other. The path ahead would be challenging, filled with healing and difficult steps, but for the first time in a long time, Yn didn't feel entirely lost in the messiness. She wasn't alone. She had Harry, and his love, and that felt like the most powerful nourishment of all.

[deadghosy]

☆BEING MATTHEO’S CHILDHOOD FRIEND TO LOVER ☆ male version||female version

COMPLETELY protective over you ever since childhood. He literally fought a kid back then because they didn’t like that you were a “girl” playing boy games with them. You were sensitive back then, so of course you cried to mattheo about it. And mattheo did something about it. He punched the kid and stole their teddy bear to give it to you.

He asks you about girl things so he can flirt and treat a girl better. You could be literally reading a romance book, and he wants to learn too. Please teach him or else he’s gonna whine about losing another girl.

“Sooooo what does a girl like for a guy like me to tap that ass…cause I got a girl on my roster..” mattheo says sliding by you in the library table you sat in. You were literally getting to the good part of where the two main characters were gonna kiss. “Why are you asking me these questions riddle…” you say with venom in your tone towards his last name. Mattheo frowned. “Actually my name from you is Matty, Matt, and matty bear. So please—”

“—Please kill yourself and never let your soul rest after.” You say getting up from the library table and walking away. Mattheo’s jaw drop as he followed you offended. He never interrupted your reading time ever.

When your period comes…he’s asking you “what the fuck that is” and “why is it hurting you” with a frown. He’s thinking he can solve it like any other with a wave of his wand…but it’s more complicated when you explained how your uterus is shredding itself and that’s all you can get out before mattheo started to gag and leave your dorm room like the overdramatic king he is.

He still loves you dearly so he got you tea and some materials you need for the rest of your week.

Sometimes when you two have a sleepover, which is just either of you two sneaking into the girls dorms or the boys. You two gossip like little girls ready to rip someone’s heart out.

Mattheo is 50/50 on you doing makeup on him. But if you really plead and want to do it. He’s gonna let you. He can’t say no to you sadly.

A guy had broken your heart once, so he broke his face in…and broke his dick. Don’t ask.

Couple of girls hated how close you were to Mattheo. He’s a handsome guy, so of course people may spread rumors around. And Mattheo doesn’t really like that, he’s going to the girl and showering her how equal rights have hands.

If you two ever argue, it leads to Mattheo apologizing first. He’s a sucker for you, he doesn’t know why. He just doesn’t want you to be mad at him.

It’s even worst when you talk to anyone else than him.

When you fully ignore him, no texting, no calling, not even talking to you in public and being by you makes him go insane. He’s smoking in the courtyard. Jaw tightened as he eyes you across. He can tell that you know he is staring. He can tell you know indeed when you shift a lot.

The way you feel his burning gaze on you, it made you feel warm. You always loved mattheo, but with him always “going after” girls…you just thought that maybe he wouldn’t love you back.

Jealousy is something mattheo has built into him. He doesn’t know why, so when a ravenclaw student tried to ask you out. He couldn’t stand it. He had to take you away. He couldn’t bare to lose you. He ushered you away from the student, taking you to an empty classroom. He couldn’t handle not being near you, he hated it the most. You are his other part.

He hates it.

“I don’t know who that guy was. But you’re mine. Okay? You’re mine, you always have been even if we both didn’t recognize it. Shit, I know I’m dumb to think to just push my feelings away from you. But I can’t help but love how you are so amazing…” he says slowly at the end. Kissing your head and closing his eyes. You smile slowly. Your heart swell with warmth, taking a deep breath in as you wrapped your arms around him too. You loved him just like how he loves you. He loves you as if you were the made the creation of his favorite food. He loved you like making new potions. He loved you like music to his ears.

He always has been a gentleman before you two dated. He made sure he opened doors for you. He made sure you were comfortable with things. He would even sacrifice his cloaks if you were cold.

He’s like a puppy in love as he just lights up seeing you.

He loves his girl very much. You are the prettiest thing he could ever ask and give for.

[scaramionee]

I may hate jeg*lus with my whole fucking heart but I'm totally on board with the Gilderat cologne lore making everyone go batshit insane

BRING THAT SHIT ONNNN YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

[troupe-of-eldritch-horrors]

Hey Clyde- are the souls/minds within still aware? Like- do they talk to you?

Clyde: . . .

Clyde: . . . They do . . . Some talk more than others...

Clyde: It's... Been rough, getting used to it all... Some hate me, some are... kind... for some reason...

Clyde: I don't know why...

[see-through-my-eyes]

But why do they both look like cinnamon rolls who could kill you ?

Lorenzo Berkshire (Harry Potter fandom)

Sharnalk (HxH)

They are both like: yeah i do bad stuff but I like cookies.

I guess it's the vibe of an intelligent golden retriever.

[bowling-with-ham]

me approximately 3 days ago, deep in my goes wrong era, listening to the mischief makers pod and getting to ep 5: who the FUCK is harry kershaw

me today one full season of MMNI later: alright mischief makers pod tell me everything about my new best friend harry kershaw

[unproduciblesmackdown]

hey this site does have summer stock (1950) i can find out for myself if everyone comically trades their affianced or they don't really bother b/c idk judy garland's role's sister tires of showbiz too much to marry gene kelly anyways, very conveniently, and orville keeps just wandering out of every scene looking lost after being shooed away

[risetherivermoon]

i like doing lil polls and getting peoples opinions in reblogs and such, so heres another question for you!

Is it more satisfying for a misunderstanding to be solved quickly and no 'aftermath' (characters having development or troubles concerning it) or for it to drag on and have aftermath?

[autotrails]

American Auto Trail-Lickskillet Road (Columbus to West Point GA)

American Auto Trail-Lickskillet Road (Columbus to West Point GA) https://youtu.be/2Kpv607AKdQ This American auto trail explores a section of western Georgia along the Chattahoochee River; it follows Georgia Highways 219 and 103, and Lickskillet Road.

[gumballavocadoharry]

Front door delivery:

The days that followed were a blur of relentless pressure. Professor Weaver’s words echoed in Yn’s mind, a constant reminder of the chasm between the person she presented on the page and the person she was in reality. She revised her story, trying to inject the raw, messy truth Weaver demanded, but the words felt flat, controlled, scrubbed clean of genuine pain. The effort was exhausting, layered on top of the gnawing physical fatigue that came from subsisting on the bare minimum.

Harry, true to his protective nature, had started a quiet campaign of care. He didn’t pry directly, didn’t demand explanations. Instead, text messages would arrive, casual check-ins disguised as questions about her day or sharing some mundane detail about the restaurant. Then, small, carefully packaged containers of food began appearing. Sometimes he’d drop them off at her apartment door with a quick text saying, "Just a little something I whipped up. No pressure, but thought you might like it." Other times, he’d catch her near campus and press a warm pastry or a small pot of soup into her hands with that gentle, knowing smile that both comforting and terrifying.

She appreciated it, more than he could ever know. Each gesture was a tiny, fragile bridge across the gulf she felt. She’d open the containers, inhaling the rich, savory scents – a creamy tomato soup, a hearty lentil stew, a perfectly baked scone. For a fleeting second, the craving would surge, a primal need her body couldn’t entirely suppress. But then the familiar anxieties would clamp down, the voice of the illness whispering accusations, tallying the calories, dissecting the ingredients, turning an act of love into a potential threat. Most of it ended up discarded, a gut-wrenching waste that fueled her guilt, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat it. The small amounts she did manage to consume felt like victories, followed swiftly by the familiar need to compensate.

Her writing courses were intense, demanding not just intellectual rigor but emotional vulnerability she couldn't afford. In her Advanced Fiction seminar, surrounded by peers who debated symbolism and character arcs with passionate intensity, Yn felt increasingly detached. Her brain felt sluggish, wrapped in cotton. The words on the page swam, the professor's lecture a distant hum.

The room began to tilt. Not metaphorically, but literally. The fluorescent lights seemed to pulse, then dim. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her stomach churned with a sudden, violent emptiness. She gripped the edge of her desk, the wood rough under her clammy fingers. Voices seemed to recede. She tried to focus on the professor, willing the dizziness to pass, but it intensified, turning the room into a spinning vortex. The faces of her classmates blurred into indistinct shapes.

Panic flared, sharp and cold. She couldn't collapse here, not now, not in front of everyone. That would draw attention, questions, concern she couldn't handle. Taking a shallow, shaky breath, she focused all her energy on staying upright, on projecting an image of calm attention. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, the world slowly righting itself, leaving her trembling and nauseous. The professor’s voice filtered back in, discussing narrative structure. Yn nodded, feigning comprehension, her heart still pounding against her ribs, the near-miss leaving her shaken to the core. She needed to be more careful. She needed to maintain control.

Dragging herself out of class felt like an Olympic feat. The cool autumn air did little to revive her. She walked slowly, her legs feeling wobbly and insubstantial beneath her. Her apartment felt miles away, a distant sanctuary where she could finally collapse without scrutiny.

Just as she turned the corner onto her street, a familiar figure stepped into her path. Harry. He was leaning against a small, nondescript car she hadn't seen before, holding a container. His green eyes, usually so full of light, were clouded with a gentle concern that tightened something in her chest.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice warm and low. "Thought you might be coming this way. Just finished tweaking this new sauce for the putanesca, wanted a second opinion from my favorite discerning palate." He offered the container, a small fork resting on top.

Yn hesitated. The dizzy spell had left her weak and vulnerable, her defenses lower than usual. The smell wafted towards her – rich tomatoes, briny olives and capers, a hint of garlic. It smelled… real. Grounded. Not terrifying.

"Oh, uh, hey Harry," she managed, trying for a casual tone despite her shaking hands. "That's… that's really thoughtful."

"Just trying to get it perfect," he grinned, though his eyes still held that worried flicker. "Go on, tell me what you think."

She took the container, the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. The sauce was thick with chunks of tomato, olives, and capers, tangled with perfectly cooked strands of spaghetti. She lifted a small spoonful, her hand trembling slightly. Bringing it to her mouth, she tasted it.

It was incredible. A burst of bright tomato, balanced by the salty olives and capers, with a subtle kick of chili and the depth of garlic. It was vibrant, complex, alive. It tasted of comfort and skill and warmth.

She swallowed. And for a moment, there was no guilt. Just the pure, simple pleasure of a genuinely delicious bite of food.

"Wow, Harry," she breathed, a genuine smile touching her lips. "That's… that's amazing. Seriously. It's perfect."

His face lit up, the worry lines easing. "Really? You think so? I wasn't sure about the balance of the olives..."

"No, it's spot on," she insisted, taking another small, hesitant bite. This one felt a little harder to swallow, the anxieties starting to creep back in, but the taste was still undeniable. "It's really, really good."

He seemed genuinely pleased by her reaction, the chef’s pride evident. "Well, that's high praise from you. Listen," he paused, looking from the container to her face, his expression softening further. "I know you're busy with classes and everything, but I made a big batch tonight. There's way too much for just me. Would you consider… having dinner over at my place? Just a relaxed evening. No pressure, just good food and maybe some terrible jokes."

The invitation hung in the air. Her mind raced. Dinner. At his place. A real meal. The illness screamed a resounding no. It conjured images of losing control, of calories consumed, of shame. But another part of her, the part that craved connection, warmth, and the simple pleasure she'd just experienced, felt a desperate pull. And after the dizzy spell, the terrifying reminder of how fragile her body was, the idea of being in Harry's safe, warm space felt powerfully appealing.

She looked at him, at the genuine kindness in his eyes, the hopeful tilt of his smile. He wasn't asking her to explain anything, just to share a meal, his way of looking after her without making it explicit. It was an olive branch, a bridge offered across the chasm.

Swallowing the lump of anxiety in her throat, she heard herself say, "Yes. Yes, I'd like that, Harry. Thank you."

Relief washed over his face, quickly replaced by that familiar, radiant warmth. "Great! How about… seven? My place isn't fancy, but it's comfortable. And I promise, the spaghetti is even better fresh."

Dinner at Harry's apartment was everything she hadn't realized she was starving for, emotionally if not physically. His place was cozy, filled with cookbooks and art that spoke of his passion and free spirit. The aroma of garlic and tomato filled the air, warm and inviting. He put on some quiet jazz, poured them both glasses of red wine, and the conversation flowed easily.

He talked about his day at the restaurant, funny anecdotes about customers, his plans for new dishes. He asked about her classes, her writing. He didn't probe about her personal life, didn't mention her paleness or the food she hadn’t eaten earlier. He simply created a space where she felt seen, heard, and accepted.

She ate. Not a lot by normal standards, but more than she had in days, maybe weeks. The spaghetti, perfectly al dente, coated in that magnificent sauce, was truly glorious. The wine, a smooth, berry-forward red, warmed her from the inside out, dulling the sharp edges of her anxiety just enough. She felt herself relaxing, laughing, connecting with him on a level that felt profoundly real and deeply comforting.

The evening deepened. The jazz played on. They talked about dreams, fears, silly things, serious things. Harry listened with that intense, gentle focus that made her feel like the only person in the world. His hand rested lightly on hers across the table, his touch sending a ripple of warmth through her. The atmosphere grew softer, more intimate.

The quiet hum of the city outside Harry's apartment window was a gentle backdrop to the jazz that still played softly. Yn’s head rested on his shoulder, the fabric of his worn t-shirt soft against her cheek. His arm around her felt solid, a comforting weight that grounded her in the present moment, away from the swirling anxieties that usually occupied her mind.

“So,” Harry murmured, his voice low and warm, a vibration she felt through his chest. “We talked about spaghetti and restaurant woes. What about the big stuff? Dreams? Fears?”

Yn’s breath hitched slightly. The big stuff. Her dreams felt fragile, her fears immense. She’d poured so much of herself into her writing, into the intense demands of her college courses, partly as a distraction, partly as a desperate attempt to prove her worth in a world that had often made her feel inadequate.

“Dreams,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. “Honestly? Sometimes my biggest dream is just to finish this novel. And maybe... maybe have someone actually read it. And like it.” She could feel the slight tension in her own body, the vulnerability of admitting such a core ambition.

Harry chuckled softly, the sound rumbling beneath her ear. “Just finish it? Just have someone read it? Yn, from what you told me about your courses, you’re tackling heavyweight stuff. Finishing your novel isn't 'just' anything. It's building a world, creating life on a page. It’s huge.” His arm tightened gently around her. “And someone will read it. And they will love it. I already know I will.”

His simple confidence in her was startling, a balm to the persistent self-doubt that often plagued her. She smiled into his shoulder. “Okay, maybe it’s a slightly bigger dream than ‘just’ finishing it. What about you? More restaurants? A Michelin star?”

“Oh, definitely more restaurants,” he said, his voice lighting up. “Maybe one day, a little place by the coast. Fresh seafood, local produce. Super casual, sun-drenched tables. And definitely not chasing stars. Just good food, happy people.” He paused. “But the real dream, I think, is simpler. It’s about connection. Food does that, you know? It brings people together. Feeding people, really feeding them, in body and spirit… that’s the dream.”

Feeding people. The words resonated differently for Yn. She thought about the plate of spaghetti she’d eaten, the quiet relief it had offered, the way Harry had simply placed it before her, no comment, no pressure, just pure, simple nourishment offered with warmth.

“Fears?” she prompted, a tremor in her voice she hoped he wouldn’t notice. It was easier to talk about his fears than her own.

He was silent for a moment, considering. “Hmm. Burning down the kitchen on a Friday night is a recurring low-level fear,” he joked, then grew serious. “Honestly? My biggest fear is probably… losing the joy in it. Letting the stress, the business side, squash the passion. Or… failing the people who work for me. Knowing they rely on me. That’s a heavy thought sometimes.”

His fears felt solid, external, rooted in responsibility and creation. Hers felt internal, insidious, tied to her own body and worth. She hesitated, the comfortable silence stretching slightly.

“What about you, Yn?” he asked gently, sensing her stillness. “Fears?”

She swallowed, the dryness in her throat making her voice scratchy. “Mine are… maybe less dramatic. More… personal.” She shifted slightly, pulling her knees up onto the sofa cushion, drawing herself in. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m not strong enough. For… for life. For the things I want.”

He didn’t press, just waited. It was a different kind of waiting than she was used to. Not the impatient, expectant silence of someone waiting for an explanation or a confession, but the patient, open quiet of someone simply offering space.

“Fear of not being strong enough?” he murmured. “Yn, you are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

His sincerity was disarming. She wanted to believe him, to trust the warmth glowing in his eyes.

He smiled, a soft, comforting smile that reached his eyes. “Hey,” he said, lightly bumping his forehead against hers. “Silly things now. What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever done?”

The abrupt shift caught her off guard, pulling her out of the heavy thoughts. She blinked, a watery chuckle escaping her lips. “Silly things?”

“Yep. Balance is important,” he said, winking. “Come on. Spill. Did you ever accidentally dye your hair green in high school? Or try to bake a cake without flour?”

She thought for a moment, the tension slowly easing from her shoulders. “Okay… well, in my first year of college, I signed up for a modern dance class thinking it would be an easy credit. I have absolutely zero rhythm. The final performance… I basically just flailed around in the wrong direction for five minutes. It was mortifying. And hilarious.”

Harry burst out laughing, a rich, joyful sound that filled the room better than the jazz. “Oh my god, I wish I could have seen that! Mine was trying to make a soufflé for a date when I was eighteen. Opened the oven, it promptly collapsed into a sad little puddle. We ended up eating cereal.”

The conversation shifted easily then, flowing between shared embarrassing moments, silly hypotheticals (what animal would you be? what superpower would you choose?), and lighter dreams. They talked about books they loved, places they wanted to visit, the simple pleasure of a perfect cup of coffee.

Even as they talked about silly things, the undercurrent of the earlier, more serious conversation remained, a quiet acknowledgement of the vulnerability they had shared. Harry’s hand never left her, his touch a constant, reassuring anchor.

After dinner, they moved to the sofa. He put his arm around her, pulling her gently into his side. She leaned her head on his shoulder, tired but content in a way she hadn't been in a long time. The illness was still a whisper at the back of her mind, but for now, the comfort of his presence, the lingering taste of the food, the warmth of the wine, was louder.

His fingers tangled in her dark brown hair, stroking softly. He kissed the top of her head, then tilted her chin up gently. His green eyes, warm and searching, met hers. "Yn," he murmured, "you're amazing."

And then he kissed her. It wasn't a passionate, demanding kiss, but soft, tender, full of the same care and warmth he poured into his food and his interactions. She kissed him back, letting herself feel the connection, the longing, the simple rightness of it in that moment.

Leading her hand-in-hand to his bedroom felt like the most natural thing in the world. His bedroom was simple, dominated by a large, comfortable bed. In the soft lamplight, surrounded by the lingering scent of their dinner and the comforting weight of his presence, the anxieties receded further. Harry was gentle, attentive, protective even in their intimacy.

He moved with a tenderness that made her feel cherished, desired without feeling judged. It was beautiful and comforting and deeply human. She allowed herself, for a few precious hours, to just be. To feel pleasure, connection, warmth, safety. She stayed that night, curled up in his arms, the soft murmur of his breathing a lullaby against the quiet roar of her internal battles.

Waking up was like a splash of cold water. The morning light filtering through the blinds illuminated the stark reality. She was in Harry's bed. She had eaten a real meal. She had drunk wine. She had been intimate. The initial flush of warmth and contentment from the night quickly evaporated, replaced by a tidal wave of shame, guilt, and fear. The illness roared back, louder than ever, a furious siren screaming about lost control, about weakness, about impending disaster.

She slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, needing to escape before the full weight of it crushed her, before Harry woke up and saw the panic she knew was etched on her face. She fumbled into her clothes, grabbed her bag, a desperate need to get away propelling her. She scribbled a hasty, flimsy note – Had to run, thank you for everything, call you soon – and placed it on his bedside table.

She practically ran the few blocks back to her apartment, the cool morning air doing nothing to calm the frantic beating of her heart or settle the roiling in her stomach. She burst through her front door, shedding her bag as she went, heading straight for the bathroom.

Leaning over the toilet, body shaking with a mixture of physical distress and emotional turmoil, she purged the warmth, the comfort, the connection, the food – everything she had allowed herself to feel and experience the night before.

Tears streamed down her face, silent and hot, as she emptied herself, trying desperately to regain the sense of control the night had stolen. The messiness Professor Weaver spoke of wasn't just in her writing; it was inside her, raw and terrifying, and for one beautiful, fleeting night, she had dared to let someone see a glimpse of it, only to retreat into the familiar, hollow despair of the aftermath.

[shrimpalbuspotter]

Severitus fic where little Harry, around 7 or 8, is an avid reader of fairytale books because he can imagine himself in another world. He loves all the ones about Knights saving Princesses from tall towers, and although he'd never call himself a princess, it was always his favourite scenario to imagine getting saved by a Knight in Shining Armour. One day he writes his own fairytale, where a Knight saves the young Prince from a troupe of evil monsters who had kidnapped him as a baby, and slaughtered his family. The Knight is everything Harry wants in a Dad personality wise, but he also had to look badass, so Harry drew him like the illustrations in his book, sharp boned men with long blonde locks and beautiful blue eyes, but instead gave him black hair and black eyes, so he could scare off all the bad guys. You know, all that good stuff. Harry adores the story so much, and he begins imagining his Knight whenever he's scared.

Upon a series of events which could cause Severus Snape to be sent for a Welfare check, because Dumbledore insisted a friendly face would help ease Petunias mind, Harry is met face to face with a man who has a shocking resemblance to his Knight(a little more grouchy looking than expected, and he'd imagined more luxurius hair, oh, and the nose was a tad big, but Harry had just been drawing dots so he couldnt complain), and coincidentally shows up at a time where he was getting seriously reprimanded by a red faced Vernon, who had a folded over belt in hand.

Harry is convinced Snape was actually his Knight, and from some unknown force he'd imagined him into existence. Meanwhile we have Vernon now screaming at Snape, who was ignoring him to focus on his conversation with a Sour faced Petunia, detailing why exactly he was here.

But anyway. More shit happens and basically Harry is taken away from the Dursleys by Snape and the whole fic is him following Severus around and calling him "Sir Snape", accepting everything about magic because it just further explains how he magicked his character into reality. He's also truly convinced he's a Prince, because Snape takes him directly to Hogwarts, a humongous castle, and everyone is treating him with utter importance. It's just meant to be fluffy okay but I think it'd be interesting if the POVS switched and with Severus it's alot darker, because at the point where he does care for Harry he's going through a whole "I can't look after him and work with the Dark Lord its too dangerous" thing, and it's just crazy whiplash jumping between the povs with Harry being filled with joyous fairytale whimsy and Snape going through the horrors. He's basically acting like a Knight through pov, because he's taking all the hits and Harry is allowed to just have some fun for most of it.

For endgame it'd be rather normal adoption or blood adoption so the wards stayed up. Thats probably my favourite route for a Severitus fic to go. It would be self indulgent as hell if I decided to write it.

OK thanks for my coming to my presentation

[cj-the-human-disaster]

I felt like I’ve waited for this moment for SO LONG!

The Gilded Age || 2x08 || ... in which Marian gets her [italicized] "Oh." moment.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

In the end won’t Meghan and Harry just fade out eventually regardless of anything they do? Harry’s relevance is kinda gone. He’s not the heir just the second son that has been put out pasture. The Diana troupe he puts out when he wants sympathy or to justify his security cases is waning. Yes there’s the diana sympathy but that’s waning too. Is he going to 40 still touting the same story? Meghan tries to reinvent herself as the next the goop but continually falls flat because she can’t read the room. They’ve deduced themselves to D list celebrities that get trotted out when people want to profit off of the dying royal connection.

If the royal family mostly Will and Kate continues to move forward, ignores them and the antics of the other family members and completely pour into this “family” brand they won’t have to worry about the Sussex’s by time William becomes King.

ask from January 9th

Yep, that's what should happen. Except Meghan and Harry both have haters who give them relevance, which is why it's taking them so long to fade out into obscurity.

Hence the reminders: don't go to her social media, don't go to their websites, don't click on their articles, and don't comment about it on social media or the articles.

[kyriathanatos]

I can’t stop thinking of a moment from my disco playthrough. A confirmed bug in the dialogue, and yet it meant so much to me…

that morning I had decided I was going to belt out my soul in karoke that night, and through the events of the day, I ended up having to send Kim away that night with the body from the fridge. So, after he was gone, I dressed like a man possessed by a gay theatre troupe and let out the perfect rendition of the saddest song in the whole world. “The smallest church in saint saëns” And I dedicated it to my partner, “Kim Kitsuragi, who isn’t here right now”

Later on, at the end of the story, as my previous partner grilled me on the case, Kim remarked that I sung very well that night… much to his own dismay

And I can’t stop thinking about that. Maybe he hadn’t left yet. Maybe he was having his nightly smoke by his kineema before he left with the body. Maybe he heard the music kick on as he was leaving, and watched from the door. Or from the window,

But he listened. He heard my song. He decided to stop and hear it. He listened to Harry belt out his soul. And that really sticks with me, bug or not.

[girl-loves-travel45]

Okay, so this came to me as a daydream but anyone can chime in/adopt the idea:

Some time after the Battle of Hogwarts, after Harry has defeated Moldy Voldy and announced Snape’s true allegiance, McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick somehow all end up back in time in the late 1960s. Together, they decide that they will do better by Snape this time around. They’ll help him find acceptance, cultivate his talents/intellect, crack down on the bullying, etc.

Only, when 1971 rolls around, Snape isn’t with the 1st years. And Lily Evans has no idea about any Snape boy, she’s never heard of magic before her McGonagall visited her home to tell her parents she had been accepted to Hogwarts.

So the Teacher Squad starts trying to find out where Snape is as the years go by and he never appears. His name is in the Book of names, but his Acceptance Letter keeps coming back. We’re talking a full “Where’s Waldo/Wally” hunt gearing up. They want their spiteful little bat back in the castle where he belongs.

Meanwhile, Snape found himself alive in his childhood home, just days before he was supposed to introduce himself to Lily and Petunia for the first time. And he decides that he’d rather play leapfrog with unicorns blindfolded than go back to Hogwarts and face all of that (vague hand wave at Trauma) again. So he finds a way to leg it out of Cokesworth and get to Diagon Alley.

He starts as a shop boy in Knockturn before scraping up enough coins to either 1) get out of Britain and go to a different magical school; 2) catch they eye of a wealthy patron/master who essentially has him in an apprenticeship/serfdom; or 3) manages a deal to work with the goblins. He is NEVER going to be trapped at Hogwarts again, he swears it!

But Hogwarts, magical castle that can choose a headmaster, ALSO wants her spiteful little bat back where he belongs. And every now and then, she can almost feel him enough to give the Teacher Squad a new lead.

Do they catch him and return him to Hogwarts? Does Snape say “fuck your chicken strips” and live out his life without ever setting sights on the castle ever again? Who knows?

Bonus points if the Marauders/Lily/any combo of students/ teachers finds out about the Teacher Squad’s obsession with finding this “dungeon bat (with affection)” and slowly become enthralled in finding him as well. Did they maybe see him in Diagon Alley? Was he in Paris over the summer? The hunt is on! (Dumbledore is unaware & not made aware of this little time travel adventure or their decision to *ahem* adopt *cough* the future Head of Slytherin until Severus is at least 15/16.)

——————————

ADDITIONALLY!!!!

If this does get picked up, please note the following for this universe:

This idea came from a desire that our favorite bat be able to heal and live a better life while adding a humorous twist to the time travel/fix it fic troupe. Romance should really not be a focus.

To that end, absolutely NO mutual Marauder/Snape shipping or Lily/Severus shipping. None. Nada. Zip.

The whole premise of why Severus doesn’t want to go to Hogwarts is related in MANY ways to the fact that he never wants to deal with the above people and what they did/will do/may do, ever again.

Seriously, Severus would rather flay off his skin with a dull bread knife before being boiled in sea salt and lemon juice than have any sort of relationship with James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, or Lily Evans. For a multitude of reasons including aforementioned Trauma and the fact that he is mentally almost 40 at the start of the story while they are not even 11.

Just. No.

Not to say that there cannot bit a sprinkle of one-sided crush on the Marauder/Evans side because of how unattainable/obsessively hunted Snape will be, but it does not develop into anything.

(Yes, this does include Lily. Maybe even especially since he still carries a lot of guilt but a little girl who knows nothing of magic or the mistakes he made cannot grant forgiveness. And he is still hurt that she had no issues marrying into a group that caused him great harm just because “they changed/grew up.” No romantic/lustful overtures toward Lily, please and thank you.)

And please, no SA attacks or forced relationships or non-consent/dubious consent involving Snape.

[innbetween]

Question more so for Hannah than Tessa but who knows, maybe podcasts exist in the dnd world.

wanted to know if you had any queer fantasy and/or sci-fi audio drama recommendations. I’ve listened to and loved Welcome To NightVale, Jar Of Rebuke, Absolutely No Adventures, Zoo, The Bright Sessions, and of course, Inn Between. Thanks regardless :]

DO I

Yeah I definitely do. I'm actually one of those cishets myself, so just to be absolutely clear, i'm going to include only shows with at least one main character who's not like. You know. One of me. I'm also looking at your selections and noting a sort of steady pacing, respect for exploration, and character focus, so I'll be leaning toward those.

FANTASY

Dragon's Rest is a sitcom in the vein of ANA and Inn Between--a fantasy inn, a grumpy owner, her hapless hero hopeful busboy, the local lush, a bard who, and I cannot stress this enough, is too dumb to read. It's delightful, honestly.

Eeler's Choice is a strange and beautiful oceanic adventure about magic, siblings, and giant eels. The music slaps also.

Electromancy: imagine if Harry Potter was a) not written by a freakin transphobe, and b) actually asked hard questions about imperialism. Like hey, should we be doing imperialism?

The Kingmaker Histories is hard to describe. I can say "steampunk," and "magic" and "magical politics" and "Collette's got a jewel stuck in her head that explodes people sometimes" but that's not even the half of it.

Sidequesting is like, best friends with ANA. Rion, a brave hero, is given a magic sword for an epic quest...and promptly goes and does literally everything else. It's so nice.

Starfall hey what's up Starfall I love you Starfall, Starfall's about a magic theater troupe and definitely not also about how imperialism is bad, actually. Fel and Leona own my whole heart. Friends.

Sci-Fi

Ask Your Father is one of those shows that hits you in the teeth. When an accident sends an astronaut and his AI bestie way off course, he finds himself lost in space, answering questions from his kids and husband that will absolutely break your heart. I cried. A lot.

Gastronaut is near-future sci-fi about a bougie foodie who goes on a journey to discover the food of the Asian diaspora throughout the solar system. And things go...very bad. This show loves food so much and it loves the characters even more.

Midnight Burger is...everything. How do you even describe it. It's hard sci-fi dressed up in a found family package and served with fries. Or maybe beans and rice, if Gloria's cooking. It is a deeply cynical show that nevertheless insists that the universe is worth fighting for, with everything you've got.

The Pasithea Powder is explicitly written for people who like a gritty, uncomfortable, messy romance. Like, did you like Stucky fanfic? So do the writers and it's amazing. The tagline is that a retired fighter pilot/war hero and a disgraced scientist/war criminal used to be best friends. They still might be, if the other one will pick up the phone.

Second Star to the Left is about colonization and xenobiology and the kinds of connections you can make light years away from each other. It's about rules and when it's okay to break them. It's beautiful.

Startripper!! is also very ANA and Inn Between--an accountant decides to ditch his day job, buy the far-future equivalent of a Millennium Falcon replica, and travel the universe for the rest of his life. It's so fun.

The Strange Case of the Starship Iris is like, if Firefly had real Asians in it. It's about a group of space smugglers turned galaxy heroes, and it's absolutely incredible.

Travelling Light is another travelogue, but this one features a person doing archival work for their community and meeting amazing people and hearing amazing stories while they do it. It's so gentle and wonderful.

World Gone Wrong is a chat podcast between two separated roommates who are trying to make sense of the end of the world. Like what do you do with that extra hour in the day now? Is my community going to lose its mind because some of the trees look like women? How can I throw a poetry jam that's inclusive for my werewolf friends? It's so well crafted and well acted. I think about it every day.

Wow this ended up long. There's a few to get you started!