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astraystayyh · 6 months

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Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33.

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear.

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory.

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse.

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance.

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you.

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago.

Day 17.

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade.

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores.

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes.

He knows you better than you know yourself.

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands.

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from.

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you.

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.”

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head.

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again.

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you.

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you.

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19.

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement.

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.”

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask.

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently.

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?”

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.”

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment.

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé.

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out.

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms.

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope.

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto.

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating.

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in.

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back.

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night.

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you.

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?”

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure.

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles.

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door.

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place.

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up?

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you.

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-”

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.”

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you.

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach.

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls.

Day 22.

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart.

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.”

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.”

“I can try.”

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles.

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him.

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle.

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago.

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?”

“Of course. I promise you.”

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear.

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers.

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm.

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road.

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart.

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light.

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify.

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.”

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words.

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face.

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression.

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running.

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again.

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content.

“You did.”

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands.

“Of course.”

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to.

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.”

Day 26.

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads.

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more.

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin.

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest.

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought.

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.”

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within.

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals.

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door.

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for.

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you.

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.”

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more?

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were.

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks.

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart.

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words.

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle.

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words.

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side.

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder.

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second.

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing.

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips.

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly.

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends.

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?”

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.”

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out.

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along.

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle.

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs.

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks.

“N-nothing,” you stammer.

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you.

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you?

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out.

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.

And he loves you.

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for?

How many more days do you have to love him back?

Day 30.

Minho is sick.

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face.

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind.

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented.

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow.

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on.

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers.

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering.

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you.

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?”

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet.

“Anything.”

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly.

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to.

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm.

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you.

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows.

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted.

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds.

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days.

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again.

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean?

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep.

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name.

He prayed you’d call his too soon.

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean?

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips.

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of.

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways.

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh.

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!”

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?”

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him.

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh.

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card.

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify.

“Hey, yn!”

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them.

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run.

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey.

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat.

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by?

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be.

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both.

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all.

Day 33.

“Did I keep you waiting?”

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?”

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him.

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table.

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here.

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines.

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger.

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.”

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you.

“But how does that make you feel?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.”

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.”

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?”

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.”

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yn, he brought you back to life.”

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?”

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core.

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table.

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder.

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around.

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it.

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart.

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room.

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind.

“Minho?”

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to.

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again.

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho.

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one.

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?”

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.”

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saint--claire · 4 months

Text

When I was a little child, there was a particular library book I checked out week after week, endlessly renewing it as much as I was able. The book, How to Raise and Keep a Dragon by John Topsell was a quasi-nonfiction guide to, as you guessed, rearing different species of dragons. I loved it. Tiny-me had plans.

As an adult, I tried to buy it a few times. No dice. The book was so old that no mainstream bookseller stocked it. Even when I tried niche websites recommended by various booksellers and librarians, I still couldn't find it. It was sadly lost to time, apparently not popular enough to make it into the archives.

But.

My best friend had a copy of that book. We're going to call her G, for several reasons not relevant at the moment. I was discussing my search with G one day, for some reason I can't remember now. She got a funny look on her face, asked me a few questions about the cover, listened to me do a very poor job of explaining with my hands how the hardcover copy had included a real gemstone in the dragon's forehead, and then went off to fish it out of her bookcase.

I was Gobsmacked.

I should not have been, given that the history of shared childhood books between us both would have made a circle with ragged edges, more so than a venn diagram, but I digress. The book came home to live in my house for a few months, and I was delighted by the chance to read it again.

Do people remember those type of books? Dragonology, Egyptology, The Stone Age - a way of introducing children to non fiction. They very earnestly spoke about the responsibilities needed to raise dragons, the practicalities involved. There was a record of registration you could fill out, if you had carefully considered the information to your self and felt you were responsible enough to to go through with adopting a dragon.

I vaguely remember filling out some of the riddle and puzzle questions in the Dragonology books. I would never have written in John Topsell's book, it was a library book.

But.

When I re-read G's copy at home, smiling over the familiar artwork, I was surprised to turn the page and find the painstaking, somewhat-wonky handwriting staring back at at me. Baby G, with her name spelled out in freshly-joined but still-not-quite-got-the-hang-of-this-yet cursive lettering. Baby G had filled the registration out in her best handwriting, in glittery green gel pen to denote the importance of the document. This was compared to the earlier, less important checklists done in plain black ink.

I read the registration certificate. Smiled. Smiled some more at the names listed for G's dragon, her dam, and her sire - Eragon was also a great book. Go off, Christopher Paolini.

Breed; standard Western Dragon. The box 'miniture' was ticked, to show that G's dragon was of the minature specic variety, rather than a full size dragon. This was, as she would later explain to me, chosen on the basis that baby-G felt it was the more financially responsible choice. Also so she could keep her dragon in her house with her, but we're not there yet.

I looked at that certificate. Looked at it again. Looked at the calendar, and then looked at the sewing machine I had just been given for Christmas.

G celebrates her birthday in January.

The template came first. I studied the different images of the standard western dragon through the book, picked my favourite, and re-drew it to a significantly larger scale.

Inking the design to the fabric, four times over probably took the longest.

I very subtly asked G the next time she was over (after hurling all dragon-related materials in a panic into the depths of my wardrobe) what type of colour dragon she would have, should it come up. As G later said, that type of question from me truly did not register as anything other than a question asked from theoretical interest. I transitioned the topic as discreetly as I could after she answered, and delightfully, my sneakiness went in one ear, out the other, and she forgot I had ever asked until several weeks later.

I enjoyed painting them.

Don't ask me how many mistakes I made through this process. So many. I do already know how to sew, but it's been a long time. I'd been meaning to get back into it for a while.

Given that various aunts and grandmothers and my mother had a knack for calling when I was up to my elbows in either paint or pins, it became a family affair. Each of them peered at the project through face time and offered their advice.

Some of the advice I took, some I didn't. No regrets about sewing it in pink thread. Considerable regrets about accidentally slicing one of the feet in half and having to fix that.

In the end though, she was finished.

I carefully pinned on her name tag, with the name baby-G had chosen with a little blue ribbon. A collar was unacceptable, this is a dragon, people, come on. Dragon's don't wear collars.

I put the book in the box, open to the registration certificate, and put the dragon on top. Wrapped the whole thing up with a bow and then refused to touch it before I sent myself mad trying to fix details that didn't really need to be fixed.

A bit late for her birthday, sure, but there we are. We'd gone for a trip off to nowhere for a weekend, to go try wine made out of blueberries and hike up a waterfall. (And climb on it. And swim in it. It was a very good waterfall).

I gave her the box, informed her she wasn't allowed to keep the box, just the contents (it was the only thing I had that was big enough for me to keep all of my A3 portfolios in, it had only been temporarily-repurposed as dragon housing), and then left the next bit up to the gods.

A surprise, sitting un-awaited for some 15 years in amber, to catch up to baby G and adult G together.

Happy Birthday, baby and adult G.

#StClaire speaks #How to Raise & Keep A Dragon #John Topsell #Joe Nigg #the thing about problems hammers and nails #except in this case it was childhood wishes and sewing machines #and as someone said #you were relearning to sew and you started with THAT?#well no #I started with a scrub hat #which kept the hair out of my face while I painted this #and then also that apron my aunt gave me the pieces to years ago that I refused point blank to do by hand #but yeah #101 mistakes later #and one re-attached foot #pretty happy with her #dragons

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non-stop-imagines · 10 months

Text

Girl Almighty

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Black Driver!Reader

Summary: In which Oscar is his girlfriend's number one fan and advocate for getting onto the Formula 1 grid.

Word Count: ~3.3k words and a lot of smau

Warning: Twitter environment, mentions of food, crying, parents (it's happy though 😁), goofy friendship fun with various other drivers, Logan being an Oscar and reader stan lowkey

A/N: Like all the other requests, this one was just the best to make. I had to do such a deep dive into Oscar Piastri history because I wanted this idea to really work. This is actually the first of the "drabble" requests I have received so this is the first time you guys are seeing how I'm gonna approach those requests. So if you do ever just request a general "drabble", no specific prompt, I'm gonna put the story to a song that I think fits, unless you want to suggest a song. I do have an 83 hour playlist on Spotify, so if you don't have a song in mind that's fine by me 😁😁😁 Anyway, I hope you all enjoy, especially after Oscar's DNF today, I think this little bit of joy is needed. Love you all! 💖💛💖💛

A/N 2: All of the pictures used for the smau portions are all from pinterest and are not my own product.

Masterlist

__________________~♥★♥~_________________

2020; Start of the FIA Formula 3 Season

“Okay, breath, Oscar. You can do this.” The pep talk is whispered from Oscar’s mouth as he mentally encourages himself to walk over to you, chatting away with other drivers as you guys wait for the driver meeting to begin. He starts to take a step, watching his feet and taking another deep breath, but when he looks back up again he's stopped in his tracks. It was like a spotlight shone on just you, teeth visible and accompanying the exuberant laugh coming from you, smiling glossy lips and hair half up in 2 fluffy ponytails. Everything around you came back into view when he watched you reach a hand out to push the shoulder of your teammate, Theo, after something he said. Oscar could only watch, waiting until the audience you had around you tapered off one by one.

“That’s her, right?” Oscar jumps at Logan’s arm finding its way around his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s her.” Oscar practically sighs, cursing Theo who seems to linger around you a little longer.

“She looks different. A really good different.” Logan keeps his attention on you as he speaks, so he’s caught off guard by the elbow Oscar throws into his side. “Alright, man. She’s yours.” He removes his arm from his friend so he could rub his hurting side.

"No, that's not-" Oscar's hands run through his hair to express the conflict in his mind. How, yes he wanted you to be his because he has had a crush on you since you both were 10, but also that he was trying real hard to not make a fool of himself because you've only met twice, once when you guys were 10 and once when you were 14. But both of your rises up the karting ranks, champions in your own rights, all the way up to your F3 debut has been public. So it wouldn't be crazy for him to tell you he remembers you, right?

"Well, whatever it is, now's your chance. She's alone." Logan briefly points your direction and sure enough, there you were, tapping and scrolling on your phone, beautiful face in a neutral position that made your lips pout.

"You know what? Maybe I don't-" Oscar starts to back track, stunned by you, but Logan turns him back around and starts to push him over there.

"No, you've been talking about this for a week straight. If you guys aren't sucking face by the end of the month, I'm writing a formal complaint." Once considered to be within earshot, Logan starts talking about something random, something that goes in one of Oscar's ears and out the other, his heartbeat pounding in his head as he gets close. "Oh hey, I'll be right back I, uh, there's something over there…" Logan gives Oscar one last pat on the back and walks off. For Oscar, the world went silent when you looked up at him, enticing brown eyes putting a shame to his own, lips starting to curl into a polite grin until you get a good look at him, and tilt your head as you visibly began thinking about where you've seen him before. Oscar clears his throat.

"Hi, uh, I don't- I'm, uh, I'm Oscar." He holds out his hand for you to shake. Your hand is nice in his, soft despite calluses that have developed from years of driving, but fit like a puzzle piece. He forced himself to keep his eyes on yours, though it was hard for him to look at you, an angel among men, without doing something drastic.

"Y/n." Your hands linger in each others for a moment after the greeting, but once you pull back your hand you cross your arms and bring an amused smile to your face.

"I don't know if you remember me. We've, um, raced each other a couple times before…" Oscar had no idea what to do with his hands. He wanted to touch you, so bad. Wrap his arms around your waist and push the bit of curly hair that escaped to your shoulder back to its place and wait for it to happen again just so he can be as close as possible to you. Instead he settles with rubbing the nape of neck with one hand and the other waving mildly as he spoke.

"Oh, I remember you. But a couple times…I only remember when we were 10. Karting in Australia. I remember because I lost badly to you." You smile and he melts, and your laugh almost makes him miss what you said.

"Wait, when we were 10, you finished second." He copies you and crosses his arms, that being his best bet of keeping his hands to himself.

"Okay, yeah. By like 4 seconds. That's quite the gap." You look down to pick at your nails, but then jerk your head back up as Oscar's words come back to you. "Okay, so 10, but when was the second time?"

"We were 14. Australia again." He uncrosses his arms and brings his hands to his hips when he sees the confusion on your face. "You won! You beat my ass, actually. By nearly 8 seconds. Logan got third." You thought about it for a moment, eyebrows scrunching as memories moved through your brain, but it was obvious the moment you remembered because a large grin that revealed a dimple in your left cheek spread across your face.

"Okay I remember that. I also remember you doing, like, everything you could for me after. I asked you why and you simply said 'Because you won.' and I asked no more questions after that." You chuckle, bringing a hand to your forehead. "It didn't help that I had a major crush on you, too. I was on cloud nine that entire weekend."

"Oh, you had a crush on me?" The snarkiness of his inquiry far from matched the speed of his heart and the drop in temperature of his hands.

"Don't make fun of me, okay? I was 14, and apparently had a thing for Australians with floofy hair." You motioned at his hair, then replaced your hand on your hip. "I've since gotten over it, but I guess you'll be delighted, and me thoroughly embarrassed, to hear that you and Ashton Irwin from 5 Seconds of Summer took turns being my hand when I used to practice kissing." Something got into you in that moment, where it was more important for you to let it be known to Oscar the intensity of your old crush on him, like it would have any influence on your current curiosity.

"Oh. Ha. Well, the feeling was mutual. But, I mean, what boy wouldn't have a crush on the girl who beat them at karting?" Oscar shrugs with his arms still crossed, head tilting toward his left shoulder with the movement.

"It's only natural." You both giggle at the interaction, the words and the timing.

"Well, I think Logan, Frederik and I are trying to figure out something to do tonight, you know after all of the media festivities. Would you want to come? And Theo, too. I don't know what you usually do pre-race weekend, but…" Oscar trails off as he uncrosses his arms and places them in his pocket, looking everywhere but you, subconsciously looking for Logan so he knows what direction to go if he needs to make a quick getaway.

"I think I can find some time to hang out with a couple of old fans." Your smile nearly knocks Oscar off his feet, literally, because after you accepted his invitation, he heard Logan calling for him, to which he automatically started moving in that direction making him stumble over his own feet, but luckily he catches himself.

"Okay, good-uh, cool. I'll, um…I'll text you the plans once we figure them out." He starts to jog away, confident in what had just taken place.

"You'll need my number for that." You stayed in place, arms crossed, smiling when Oscar turns around to jog back to you.

"You are correct." Oscar gives you a beaming smile as he reaches for your phone while pulling out his.

drivetimeyn

Liked by oscarpiastri and 34,012 others

drivetimeyn Seasons Greetings 😌🎄 (you know, cause it's the end of the season and it's also Christmas and-) Oh yeah, congrats, Oscar 😚

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oscarpiastri You took a lot of pictures of me eating > drivetimeyn It was the only time you were sitting still 🧍‍♂️ swisssauber Who else is gonna miss this group? 🥲 theopouchaire21 See you next year, teammate 😎 > drivetimeyn Hope everyone is prepared for more shenanigans 😼

> swisssauber HAHA JK premaprincess Yn is the best thing to come into these boys lives. Convince me otherwise > oscarpiastri We agree 🌞

2021; FIA Formula 2 Season

drivetimeyn

Liked by oscarpiastri and 39,279 others

drivetimeyn Happy Birthday to my Pretty Podium Pal ❤️ Hope you have a wonderful day, my love

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oscarpiastri I get to see you later, that alone makes this a great birthday 🥰 Love you, baby 😘 > drivetimeyn Love you too, honey cake ☺️ > oscarpiastri That's new robertshwartzman Thank you again for those cookies! Keep an eye out for a request around my birthday 🤩 f2freak ...my love? Who- when... lecooleclerc And everyone thought I was crazy 😔 prettypiastri These two are too freaking cute, I can't take it 😵‍💫😫

drivetimeyn

Liked by artgp_official and 40,093 others

drivetimeyn Thank you for inviting your biggest fan. So proud of you! Have fun up in the big leagues next year 💙🩷

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oscarpiastri My stunning forever +1 💗 😍 You should be moving up with me but at least now I can watch you be great 🤩 naomischiff I feel like I'm always instastalking you but you're always stunning and this is no different. LOVE! 💗🤎💗 oscarnyngoals The way these two can step out, EAT, and leave no crumbs is impeccable✨ > oscarpiastri It's all Yn, I'm just an accessory > drivetimeyn You're usually more than an accessory, but when you are an accessory, you're the best one😘 ferrariyn I don't know what I'll do with these two not on the same grid

2022; Your 2nd Formula 2 Season, Oscar's Alpine Reserve Season

"Hey, baby. Did you just get home?" You wave to one last person as you leave the Alfa Romeo facility in Zurich, harshly inhaling as you step out into the nippy mid-October Swiss air.

"Yes, after a long day in the sim. I see you're just leaving, too. It's, like, 7pm there, right?" Oscar props his phone on the bottle of cooking oil next to him at enough of a distance so you can see most of him while he's cooking his dinner.

"If it 6pm in Enstone, theennn…." You flash a bright cheeky smile at your sarcasm as you spot your car and head over to it.

"I am not afraid to hang up." Oscar chuckles, briefly looking at the phone while his hands are occupied saut��ing vegetables.

"Yes you are, you love me too much." You unlock your car and quickly get in, recoiling from the slight relief that you got from the cold temperature outside. "You also know I could beat you in a fight." You start up your car and allow it to warm up, placing your phone in the holder on the dashboard and removing your coat to toss it in the seat next to you.

"Correct on both points." He pushes his phone back slightly to open up the counter so he had somewhere to place the package of sausages. "You had a couple of workouts today?"

"And a quick sim session and, uh, a meeting. With Fred." You put your car in drive and pull out of the parking spot that you had backed into.

"You were going to talk to him today weren't you? How did that go?" Oscar was fully invested in what you had to say, to the point where he turned off the burners on his stove and sat down on a stool at the counter.

"Well," You chuckle sarcastically thinking about the interaction, trying to bring yourself to talk about it. "It wasn't bad, just…disappointing." You sigh, looking left and right before leaving the Alfa Romeo campus and entering the main road.

"Oh no," One thing Oscar has always done was sympathize with you whenever you felt a strong emotion. You were happy, he was ecstatic. You were mad, he was furious. So when he heard the annoyance and sadness in your chuckle and sigh, he wished he could jump through the screen to comfort you and ring the neck of whoever made you feel that way, which seems to be Fred Vassuer at the moment.

"I asked about the possibility of being a reserve driver or something for Alfa next year. He wasn't rude or anything, I think he actually liked the idea, but in the end he just told me to keep my head down and focus on racing. He also said that while it is nice to be up with the F1 teams, it would be a waste of my driving talents to not be racing on a grid next year, so I think that was his way of telling me it's F2 again next season." You flick on your turn signal and move into a turn lane, slightly more irritated than usual at the slow driver that was in front of you.

"That's stupid." That was all Oscar could say as he set down the phone and ran his fingers through his hair.

"But it was weird because, the way Fred was talking, it was like he had no control over what happens once the season is done." When Oscar picks up his phone again he couldn't help but calm down slightly at your driving concentration face that occasionally turns towards him. "Also, he has never been so adamant about me doing something as much as he was about me staying in a position where I can drive, even if it is F2 again. So, I guess I'll go with it, but I'm not happy about it." You stop at a light and lean back into your seat. You both sat in tense silence, Oscar waiting to see if you had anything else, and you waiting to see if Oscar had any words of wisdom or mutual anger.

"Let's go to Paris." Oscar's words shocked you, even more than the honk behind you that signaled for you to go before anyone got too mad.

"What?" You were tempted to pull over so you could watch Oscar's face as he spoke, to see if he was just kidding you, but you kept on heading home.

"Next week. I'll be at the Viry HQ all week next week, but I'm off during the weekend, and I'm sure you are too. I'll fly you out there. You need to decompress from all of this." He stands up from the stool to head back to his stove, completely serious about his suggestion.

"Really? I love Paris." You start eyeing fast food restaurants the closer you got to home. Maybe it would be too bad to stop for food.

"I know, we'll go to that little café you like. Go to every park we can find. Go to the Louvre so you can look at the art and I can watch you look at the art." He smiles to himself as he cuts up a sausage to toss into another pan.

"Why not just look at the art?" Your stomach rumbles as the smell from a restaurant wafts into your car as you wait at another red light.

"Because, I think it's much more interesting to watch art look at art, and I think myself lucky to be able to do so." You knew this light was long, so you had enough time to stare at Oscar after his cheesy pick up line.

"That was terrible, but…I'll agree to the Paris weekend. As long as there are more jokes like that." You start to drive again as the light turns green.

"No promises. Bad jokes are my MO." Oscar pours the cooked vegetables onto a white plate. "On another note, I see your eyes looking that the restaurant while you drive. I was there when you were cooking your meal prep a couple of days ago. Get home and eat that so you can go to bed."

"Fine." You finally stop searching for a good restaurant and set your sights on home, which was your original plan, but you liked it when Oscar instructed you to take care of yourself. So, home you went, you and your boyfriend blabbing each other's ears off.

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri Had to help my baby ✨decompress ✨

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drivetimeyn Thank you, my love ❤️ Definitely recharged and ready to finish out the season 👊🏿 logansargeant Where was my invite? > theopouchaire21 Yeah me too? > drivetimeyn Please, children, mommy and daddy had to take some time to be alone 😚 > awaywego SEE IM NOT WEIRD FOR CALLING THEM MOM AND DAD theoandynbesties We all deserve someone that invests as much energy in us as Oscar does in Yn

2023; Your 3rd Formula 2 Season, Oscar's 1st Formula 1 Season ; Spa- Belgian GP

You park your car in front of the first place sign in parc ferme and quickly and somewhat clumsily remove the steering wheel, climb out your car and replace it, hands shaking from nerves and exhaustion after a hard fought race in the rain. You, first, place your hands on the halo, taking a few deep breaths and grounding yourself to the present, something necessary for you after each race because for you, racing is an out of body experience, something where you are a heightened version of yourself and at a certain point it feels like your watching from a third person view. Once back to the present, you go to get weighed and take note of the cheering. Loud cheering. Much louder than when you normally win. You turn and see your team excited for you and you’re startled when you feel Theo run up and hug you tight once he gets off the scale, yelling something that you didn’t quite catch because he still had his helmet on. You spot your boyfriend and head his direction, confused at the wide smile he had on his face.

“Do you know what you just did?” He had his hands on your shoulders, but you felt a third one touch your shoulder blade when Arthur, who got third in the Sprint, came up behind you.

“Congratulations. You deserve it after the drive you just had. P5 to P1.” You were looking at everyone wide eyed. Did you just do what you think you did? You knew you were ahead in the championship, only needing a few more points to be considered champion because no amount of points would allow anyone to surpass you.

“Did I do it? Drivers’ Championship?” Your voice was light and airy as your gaze switched between Oscar and Charles, who you just then realized was there.

“You did it baby! I knew you could!” You stood in shock, grateful Oscar’s hands were at your waist because you needed to stay steady. As soon as it sunk in you wrapped your arms around Oscar’s neck and started bawling. You worked so hard to get here, tiring yourself out mentally, physically and emotionally. You felt like you were going nowhere but now here you are, your name etched into the history books forever. Oscar consoled you, rubbing your back, and then sent you in the direction of your parents, to whom you continued to bawl on. Nearly every person you encountered received tears somewhere on their person, but luckily by podium time you had no more tears left, so you were able to enjoy your champagne celebration without the embarrassment of crying, Oscar watching happily below until he received a tap on his shoulder.

“I expected nothing less from Yn. She has been amazing since you guys were in F3.” Charles pats Oscar’s back as he turns his attention back to the podium where you and his brother were knocking champagne bottles before taking a swig.

“I know. I’m glad she got this chance but, I can’t help but be pissed because even with all of this,” Oscar waves his hand at the excitement. “She has yet to receive any offers. Even from her own driving academy.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll start rolling in now. You’ve just got to be patient.” Charles takes off after that to get one more chance to see his brother before getting ready for the Qualifying day, leaving Oscar to stew.

“To hell with patience.” Oscar says under his breath before pulling out his phone and walking to go meet you with your parents, taping something angrily out on his phone.

“So, Oscar, before we let you go we wanted to ask about the tweet you sent out after Yn’s Sprint Race win that secured the driver’s championship for her. What was going on in that moment as you were tweeting that out?” Oscar looked slowly, wide eyed toward his PR manager who shot daggers through him with her eyes, urging him to not speak which for him wasn’t an option. He was finally given the platform to truly speak on this, but he had to be careful.

“Um, I’ll just answer this briefly because I do have to get going, but…Yn has proved herself time and time again how great of a driver she is. Today was the ultimate testament to that. So it’s up to the teams now, seeing who’s gonna take that leap. Thank you.” Oscar is quickly ushered away, quickly heading back to the McLaren motorhome to recoup before qualifying.

“You just had to, huh?” His PR manager taps her foot and she scrolls and types something out quickly.

“Yes. And it felt amazing.” Oscar lays his head on the tall counter next to him, smiling like a clown down toward the floor before turning to the woman next to him, who lets a satisfied grin flash briefly on her face.

“Fine. I guess it was for a good cause. But please, warn me next time.” The exhausted woman pleads with the smiling boy, twisting her phone in her hand as she waits for the greatly needed confirmation.

“Yes ma’am.” He wraps an arm around her and hugs her close, to which she pulls back since he was still sweaty from the third practice session.

“Now go to the debriefing meeting before you get in trouble for being late, too.” Oscar does as he is told, jogging off to the computer filled room to first be scolded before the important pre-qualifying meeting got underway.

drivetimeyn

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drivetimeyn I love my hot boyfriend. That's it. That's the post. ❤️

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oscarpiastri It's an honor to be called hot by someone as lovely as you, gorgeous 😉 > drivetimeyn Sorry, I'm taken by the loser in the crazy colored helmet ✋🏿💅🏿 landonorris We all have our own opinion 😐 > oscarpiastri It's okay, Lando. Everyone knows you have a thing for me 😗 > landonorris Yn, come get ur mans rn ynonthegrid They act like a middle aged couple that been married for years but still act like horny teenagers and I truly wouldn't have it any other way

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f1 Yn Yln, recently crowned FIA F2 Drivers' Champion, to drive alongside Zhou Guanyu at Alfa Romeo in 2024

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alfaromeostake Welcome to the team! > drivetimeyn Excited to keep rising with Sauber ❤️🖤 zhouguanyu24 Couldn't be more excited to have you as a teammate > drivetimeyn Next season, we're going feral 🤪 futurechampyn We all know Yn's driving got her here, but can we give an honorable mention to the leg work Oscar did? Boy put his rep on the line and would gladly do it again oscarpiastri See you on the grid, Love ♥️ > drivetimeyn Let me know how my rear wing looks, okay babe? > oscarpiastri Won't need to, it always looks great 🤩

#Spotify #black reader #request #f1 x black!reader #formula 1 #formula 1 x black!reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x black!reader #f1 fake text #f1 smau #f1 imagines

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avenitacaliente · 2 years

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Tenoch Huerta and the racism in Mexico that he wants to be known about: a little bit of "Orgullo Prieto"

Photo taken for EL PAÍS, 09.07.22

For a few weeks Tenoch Huerta has been a trend on different social networks (which makes me proud, certainly. Hollywood finally makes the right people famous 👏) thanks to his portrayal of Namor in "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever" (I already read all your fics, they're amazing by the way).

But today I want to talk about something else, beyond his sexy back, his great performance as Namor and his countless and exotic sexual fetishes: his first book, in which he exposes, without stuttering, racism in Mexico: "Orgullo Prieto".

For those who don't know, Tenoch is an actor who for some time has turned his privileged speaker into a continuous platform against racism in Mexico.

This year, a few months before the premiere of his most recent film, Tenoch gave us this beauty, where, based on reflections, anecdotes, questions, concepts and ideas, he covers this topic, in an attempt to answer the question: of what we talk when we talk about...?

I had the opportunity to read a little of this book, which from the first page captivated me. You may not believe me, but throughout the entire reading I was smiling. Not because Tenoch was telling a story that made me happy or saying something funny, but because every word this man wrote, every word from which I learned something new. It left me floored. As part of Mexican society, reading this book (even if it was only a small part of it) made me realize the impact that racism had and has on my life and those around me. It made me question the origin of every decision I've made in the past and many of them come from the same root: racism, which without realizing it, was instilled in me since I was a child.

Leaving my sentimental speech behind, I would like to share with you small parts of—what I read from—this book, phrases and stories that made me think, get out of my comfort zone and say: "Verga, estamos bien jodidotes".

—

"racism exists in everything: in every governmental, social, private, cultural institution and even in language. If we are part of this society and participate in all of the above, without needing to be violent or actively aggressor , whether we want to realize it or not, we are all racists. You and me too. Why? Because we were trained in it and it conditioned us, and because we ignore it for centuries so as not to speak openly and on a daily basis about the subject."

"It was too tired and painful. (He was talking about his attempt to belong to the whiteness) That attempt to assimilate me, to mix myself, cost me a lot. Little by little I came back to myself, but there is something I still can not recover from: I lost my linguistic identity, and I think forever. I stopped sounding like myself, like I sounded all my life. I stopped sounding like my childhood, like my friends, like my family. Years after having lost or forgotten this part of my identity, I took a voice workshop where the teacher said: "The eyes are the mirror of the soul, but the voice is the mirror of intimacy". I had lost it: I had lost myself. I was adrift for a few years and made a number of stupid things that separated me from my true and original being."

"I remember when, as a child, a teacher asked me if my parents weren't ashamed for giving me a dog's name. She was Mexican, brown like me, and part of the same population group. Without knowing it, with that question, she was denying our roots, our identity. She did it because she surely grew up hearing (also at school, the same from monographs or history books full of Europhile biases) that our ancestors were savages and that Europeans were an "advanced" civilization, just because they were cool, because they were splendid, They came to save us from an almost animal life. We must thank them for our "humanization" or something like that. Was it really like that? Were the Mesoamerican peoples the true savages?"

"I remember one of my girlfriends, brown girl, who always sought shade or avoided sunbathing at all costs because "it burned her face". She didn't say it because she was worried about getting skin cancer, but because she didn't want it to darken. She even told me that it was to avoid stains. She searched for all possible euphemisms to turn around the real reason: not to get "more dark". It is clear to me that she, like others, surely grew up hearing that the ideal way to be beautiful was to aspire to be white and that if you are dark, you have to avoid being even more so. They are aggressions that mark us."

"What happens then with those who deny racism in their country? Being racist is a "bad" thing. So, first: no one comes off as racist because no one wants to be the bad guy. Second: since they do not see themselves in that situation, riding a horse burning crosses, it means that they are not racist. It would be like saying that men who commit gender violence are only those who have reached the point of beating or murdering a woman. Seen like this, if I don't wear the cone, I'm not a racist. Mistake."

—

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loveume · 1 year

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# plant girl 🌿

the first time nagi revealed to you that he had a cactus you were over the moon. you didn't think this boy could get any more endearing than he already was.

he holds the cactus up to you so you can see it.

"this is choki," he had said, with a small smile. "he doesn't need much, which is why we get along so well."

since then you and nagi have come a long way. in your relationship and in the amount of plants that you own. they canopy your living area, and bring a lot of light and love into your home.

due to each plant being different and having different needs, they each have their own watering schedule. which is why nagi is crouching by the windowsill with his little black spray bottle in hand.

the windowsill is where choki and the succulents live. you remember when you first got all the small succulents that line your window. it was in the first few months of you moving in with nagi, running errands with him on one of his free days.

"oh! we're almost done, just a few more things and we can go home." you'd said as you crossed another item off your list. when you didn't get a reply you looked up from the paper in your hand to find your boyfriend.

he was distracted by a small display of succulents just across from where you stood with your cart. his fingers carefully poking at each plant's leaves.

"succulents! how cute," you'd said once you made it to his side, "should we get some?"

the rest was history.

you think besides choki, those little succulents are nagi's favorite plants in the house. well besides the orchids that sit near your desk. he'd bought the orchid plant for you after you offhandedly mentioned that orchids were one of your favorite flowers.

he'd brought it home a few days after that and set it relatively close to your workspace so that when you looked away from whatever occupied you, it would be the first thing you would see.

nagi finishes spraying the succulents, moving to stand as he says; "grow well."

he turns to find you and his eyes narrow as he sees you making your way to the orchids, your own little spray bottle in hand. yours is emerald green as opposed to his black one.

you nearly jump out of your skin when a hand unexpectedly grabs your wrist.

"what're you doin'?"

you look up to meet the eyes of your boyfriend, his brows pinched together and a small pout forming on his lips.

"watering venus?" you answer, your head tilted in confusion.

"i'll do it." he insists, pulling you to him by the wrist he holds and practically crushing you against him.

"sei! why can't i water venus?" you ask, looking up at him with your chin resting against his chest.

"cuz it's my job," he replies without taking his eyes off the plant, "your's is to just look at it and think of me."

you stare at him mouth agape, heat flushing your face. you didn't expect a reply like this, it makes you curl your fingers into nagi's shirt and bury your face in his chest lest you melt into a puddle at his feet.

"you're so unfair seishiro," you murmur into his shirt.

nagi just smiles, rubbing your back with his free hand. he loves his plant girl.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro #had an epiphany and realized that in the spinning wheel of aesthetics i was a plant girl #btw nagi named the orchid plant venus because venus is the goddess of love and beauty which is what his girl is to him 🥰🫦#hope you enjoyed reading!#love.notes 💌

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that-was-a-bit-stupid-of-you · 2 months

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I don't understand, what's going on with Taylor and Matt trash being a couple? Could you explain to me?

nothing is really going on at the moment tbh, cuz they broke up a pretty long while ago, but the issue is the album (if that's what you're referring to) and taylor swift herself.

[will add sources and more stuff when I find the links and if I realise I missed something out, cuz this is a general thing based off of memory]

Context: dating history

Basically she and matty had been friends for a few years (there are rumors of them hooking up ig in 1989 era maybe, but I don't really care enough to believe shit like that). Apparently he had also been pining for her (according to stuff he said in interviews and tweets) for years, but again, you can still chalk it up to rumors if you wanna.

The thing is that post her breakup with joe alwyn, she started dating him (in like april I think) [there had been dating rumors of them since 2014 tho, and again in March 2023] and the fandom kinda got divided.

Here is the link to their entire timeline

Context: what matty healy did

Matty healy (you prolly know this) is basically racist, sexist, antisemitic, homophobic and God knows what else I have missed out or not been aware of. He did shit like doing the nazi gesture on stage, mocking asian accents, tastelessly making fun of ice spice on her race and bodyshaming her, laughing and basically confirming that he watches violent rape porn of black women on a site that is known to be highly problematic and force their actors (gender neutral) to do things they dont consent to (there was also an actress who was assaulted or something but im not informed on it). Even when he was called out on stuff like this, he accused people (who were poc, btw) of overreacting.

Context: taylor and activism

Taylor had also, in the past (lover era, and miss Americana the doc) had talked about how she had been too quiet about political issues and politics itself for too long, that she understands her influence and power in society, and that she "needs to be on the right side of history" and even specifics such as that she thinks it's spineless to go on stage and say "happy pride month" and not acknowledge the political oppression that queers in USA were facing (something about a bill or the republican party idk man I'm not american, i dont remember but i did research when i watched the doc tho). She has claimed she was gonna be clear about where she stands (many republicans had considered her to be one, and many thought she's conservative or something, but she was always quiet about it, until the lover era). However, she just stopped that activism after the lover era, and went back to being quiet on where she stands (I've seen many swifties refer to the lover era as the activism era) and hasn't spoken about anything substantial really. She did some things like post a black square with 13 hearts during blm, and stuff that every celeb who wasn't openly a pos did, but that's kinda it. Even as a self proclaimed feminist, she didn't speak up on issues such as roe v wade, or about an issue regarding drag queens despite having them in yntcd, or talking about trans/queer rights until she was in a blue state (im not an American, I just like to keep up a little with stuff in usa cuz it's always up in my face sadly, and thus i cant be specific, but anyways, correct me if I'm wrong, or if I missed something).

So even after saying she'll be vocal, she was just... not. And that's basically her on politics or giving a shit about minority communities.

Context: Fandom's reaction

Swifties were extremely disappointed that taylor CHOSE to associate with a man like this, and there were fans calling her out, and she received backlash, too.

Most of these swifties were poc (myself included) and they felt hurt that an artist that they not just supported and developed such a deep connection with, but also financially supported for years, would have such disregard for them. Not just was she dating him, but she kept saying things such as "I have never been happier in all aspects of my life" or saying "I love you" or "uk who you are" in romantic songs on the tour, which was just adding insult to injury. She also did a collab with ice spice (which was completely out of nowhere, and the collab itself seemed badly made and rushed), which fans and others speculated to be a pr cover up for the fact that matty healy had mocked her (many ppl also believed that it was too quick for it to be a pr cover tho).

Now, in the fandom, when poc swifties were calling her out on dating mh, (mostly) white swifties started harassing poc swifties for doing so, or saying that they are hindering with her happiness or some bs about it being "just a fling" (again, myself included). They said it's the same as seeing a friend get out of a long-term relationship and make bad dating choices, and poc swifties should let it go (as if taylor is our close personal friend). In a mostly white fandom, poc swifties felt alienated and sidelined.

Ofc, taylor never addressed any of this backlash, and after she broke up with him, there were articles saying that sources say (which mostly means her pr team atp) that her breakup had nothing to do with his controversies or behavior.

The album release (lyrics, references and reaction)

Now, with the release of ttpd, contrary to what most of the fandom believed, most of the songs on both the albums are believed to be (and heavily hinted on) about matty healy. These include 4 songs- "ttpd", "but daddy I love him", "I can fix him (no really I can)", and "guilty as sin?"

Ttpd, the title track, talks about mh being "a tattooed golden retriever" (wtf) and about him love-bombing her, and her pining after him, thinking about marriage and shit. But daddy I love him and I can fix him, are basically that no one supported her dating decision and she's claiming that she loves him oh so goddamn much, but more importantly, her talking about her fans' reactions. Specifically, describing her poc fans to be "vipers" and "judgemental creeps" who hate her and them being hurt as "bitching and moaning", and basically took the side of the (white) fans who defended her, indirectly. She described his racist bs as "crazy" and said shit like she could "handle a dangerous man." She also has another song, "Guilty as sin?" and while I genuinely don't give a fuck about what she chooses to do in her private life, unless it is problematic, it is about her fantasizing about being with that racist man while being in a long term relationship with joe alwyn. She sings about how she wants him and wants to be with him... in multiple ways, iykyk. Again, out of context, I love this song so much, but that doesn't erase the context, right?

She also has a song "I hate it here" where she says the following lines:

"My friends used to play a game where

We would pick a decade

We wished we could live in instead of this

I'd say the 1830s but without all the racists and getting married off for the highest bid"

And while there are many reasons why this line by itself is racist (romantisization of a time that was extremely shitty to many communities, most of which she is not a part of, showing herself to be "oh look I'm so woke I still remember the bad things even when I romanticize bad eras in history" which is something you expect from an ignorant white high schooler maybe, not a 34 y/o billionaire who claims to be well-read, etc.) but taylor swift herself saying these is adding insult to injury cuz she has shown time and time again she has no problem with racism (she kept quiet when antonia gentry, a black actress, received hate and racist threats by swifties because of a line BY NETFLIX that taylor didn't like, and she shouldn't ofc, but it wasn't the actress' fault), or associating herself with them (matty healy, for example). It is hypocritical to write something like that after writing an album about pining after a man and his "dangerousness," which is just bigotry. Way to romanticise racism, sexism, and antisemitism, taylor.

Even now, after listening to the album, she clearly doesn't like mh anymore, NOT because of his actions, but because he broke her heart, showing that she still enables and is okay with everything he did.

And that's kind of it (ig) about her and matty healy. I'm not really sure exactly which part you wanted to know, so this is just a gist of it all. Hope it helps :)

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feluka · 2 months

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Hi, I don’t rlly know how to explain this but I’ll try haha.

I recently found out I have Egyptian and specifically Coptic ancestry, through family tree making, matching with cousins, gedmatch, dna testing, etc and now personal confirmation from family/ancestors.

The problem is idrk who was the Coptic ones in my family as my dad died when I was four and I’ve had no contact with his family at all since. I know it came from his mother, but I can’t even give you her name let alone where she was from, or anything. Although I want to learn more and reconnect and eventually find out who they were exactly. It’s just hard because my dad’s living family has no contact w us and since he’s dead, it’s been hard to get records as well.

I would like to learn more about Coptic culture and Egypt in general but I am worried about people considering me a ‘culture thief’ since I only recently. found this out a few months ago but didn’t really have 100% confirmation until like 2 weeks ago. And even though I can prove genetically I have ancestry Coptic I can’t really say who my ancestors were which would probably make some skeptical.

Especially because I am African American and there already exists a rift between Egyptians and AAs bc of hoteps who claim Egyptian culture/claim Egyptians are just Arabs who ‘stole’ Egyptian culture. I want to be respectful but I’m unsure how to navigate this.

I guess I’m asking if you have any idea how I should move forward, or if you know of any resources to learn more? I want to be respectful, but I would also love to start to reconnect even if I don’t know where my ancestors were exactly from other than ‘Egypt’.

Hello! First of all, this is both a very respectful and a very personal ask, so I want to thank you for trusting me with that. I hope my answer can help you find peace with the matter a little.

Instead of trying to figure out if the overall sentiment of trying to reconnect is harmful or not, because there's really no answer to that in and of itself, and instead stop at every individual action taken to reconnect and asking: could this be harming anybody?

For example, if you'd like to pick up Coptic language lessons, could this action possibly be harmful to anyone? Not really. Is reading about Coptic culture and engaging with what survived of it in modern day harmful? I don't think so.

The only possible thing that I can think of that might be harmful is, I have awful experiences with certain diaspora Copts who have never really engaged with the community nor know much of it, who suddenly butt in conversations about Coptic politics in Egypt like they're an expert on it despite never having been or known anything about it themselves, but from the way you've written this ask I doubt you're the kind of person to do that anyway, seeing as you're being very respectful and that you recognize that there's some dissonance in your experience (which there's no shame in, but the self awareness is helpful as a guide of when to participate and when not to!)

I don't know if I said this before on this blog but, to my knowledge, the matter of the hotep subculture entails far more than just questioning the Egyptian identity, and seeing as I'm neither African American nor Black at all, I don't think it's my place to comment on it. I invite any of my Black followers to contribue to intra-community discussion in the reblogs/comments for you to read, though!

All I can promise you is that even if the notion that the population of Egypt was displaced rather than converted during the Arab conquest of Egypt is false, there still are Black Egyptians and there always have been. Sadly I'm sure there will always be people who try to make you feel like a pretender, but that is true of so many things and regardless of what you do, so always remember thay Black people have always been part of Egypt's history, and that nobody is entitled to know your personal details or family history and you don't need to disclose anything you're not comfortable with to prove anything to them.

As for resources, there's always a lot on Egyptology in general, so the specific topics that would be helpful to be aware of are: modern history of Copts (or Copts post the Arab Conquest of Egypt), the persecution of Copts, the decline of the Coptic language and the efforts to revive the language. The last two are especially pertinent nowadays.

Lastly you can always ask other Copts! I may not have all the answers but I'm sure between me and my followers we can find something helpful for you if you're trying to find a specific resource of have more questions. (The scarcity of resources is something we *all* have to deal with, even us here in Egypt, I'm afraid, but it's not a lost cause! You'd be surprised how much is out there on internet archives.)

I hope you have a lovely day. ♥️

#asks

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i-drop-level-one-loot · 8 months

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You watch slasher movies? I haven't done so in years (much to my disappointment), got any recommendations, classics, popular, underrated, anything really?

I knew I hadn't watched them in a long time, but it wasn't till I had to try and write something based on classic slashers, that I realized how long its been since I consumed that kind of content.

My only plan so far is that I need to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Alright, Pandora, it depends on your tastes, and what you look for in a "slasher" ❤️

As you may remember, I fucking love the OG the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and when I got pretty bad last month emotionally I watched it on repeat for two weeks straight. However, if you go in for a regular slasher film you will be disappointed. The first movie is incredible, focusing on amazing shots and atmosphere for nearly the entire first half. It's less of a slasher as we would come to know the genre, and more of an artistic film centered around the horrors of humanity. The series is a wonderful mess of multiple timelines and little continuity, but the sequels better fit the slasher archetype. The best sequel (imo) is the one directly after the first, and it's a black comedy slasher, focusing more on the kills.

Now, slashers ❤️

If you're a nerd and want to experience the slasher history, then before Halloween (which still holds up) there was Black Christmas, and before that the Town that Dreaded Sundown.

The Town that Dreaded Sundown is based off a true serial killer, and unlike TCM which is loosely inspired by Ed Gein, a lot of the kills (except the trombone scene) are based on actual murders, with his mask accurate to the only real world survivor's testimony of her assault. It's very slow pace, and with how desensitized we are as a society you might find it boring, but if you ever get a phonecall from Ghostface, then you have to know the Town that Dreaded Sundown. Fun fact, his mask also inspired Jason's mask from Friday the 13th part 2!

Black Christmas is awesome! I'd recommend it more than Sundown, because of pacing, characters, acting, and overall atmosphere. I love my second wave feminism horror (Stepford Wives (mwah)), and it did a lot better with it's feminist themes than the loose remake from 2019 that tried to be intentionally feminist (ignore the 2006 remake entirely, so bad, so lame, so gross). It did the first person perspective of the killer nearly four years before Halloween's iconic opening. It introduced the idea of the final girl, but she wouldn't become a sexually repressed younger woman until Halloween solidified the trope. It has some great kills that still hold up, and Billy is iconic. I really feel the only reason why he isn't more well known in non-horror spaces is because he doesn't have a mask or outfit that can be replicated and sold in Spirit.

After that we have our most well known slashers, and they're popular for good reason ❤️

A Nightmare on Elm St, Friday the 13th, and Halloween spawned sequels that spiraled off into varying degrees of madness, but still have fun moments.

After the success of Friday the 13th (and the realization of the franchise-ability of slashers) there were a lot of slashers that tried to capture the money magic of the first few success stories. Not all of them were great, but a few notable slashers imo are My Bloody Valentine and the Dentist.

Although Candyman is often lumped in with slashers, like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the first movie is more than a traditional slasher. I recommend the first one as a beautiful love story about the horrors of American racism. It's score is still incredible, the behind the scenes are so interesting, and Tony Todd is absolutely beautiful. Such an amazing actor. (Not so) Fun fact: Tony Todd said in the behind the scenes that there originally was a romantic scene where Helen proclaimed her love for Candyman, but they were forced to cut it, because "they were okay with a tall, black man covered in bees.. but, mm, when it came to a kiss, or something like that, it was a little bit too risque..." ( :/ )

(Please please please watch Candyman)

Then the best, or worst (depending on your views), thing happened to the genre; Scream.

One of the best slashers there is, it isn't the first self referential, meta horror (see Wes Craven's New Nightmare), but it did change the slasher genre for a very long time. It was a revival for the genre, since it was declining in popularity by the early 90s. However, post Scream horror was very meta. See Chucky's personality changing from the occasional funny quip, to Bride of Chucky levels of silly (still love him tho). Of the terrible horror trying to copy Scream, I'd recommend Urban Legend over I Know What You Did Last Summer. It was a shame, just how silly a lot of scary movies got back then, trying to be as smart and self aware as Scream was.

But my favorite (outside of Scream) meta horror slasher film is Behind the Mask: the Rise of Leslie Vernon ❤️ took meta to a whole new level, mockumentary style, a camera crew follows a wannabe slasher killer explaining how to be a slasher icon.

I've watched too many slashers to remember all of them right now, but if you want really meta black comedies, Tucker and Dale vs Evil isn't a slasher but a loving joke on the genre, and the Final Girls made me laugh and cry like a little bitch.

A lot of slashers since the late 90s have drifted closer to the black comedy sub genre. Killers that kill for the sake of killing are often B-rated blood fests, that can be great for mindless fun but not so great for box office gains, especially in our current horror renaissance. Slashers don't fit in to the current horror culture. Serial killers aren't scary for desensitized audiences, and the mindless gore expectations set by older slasher films have created a pretty specific genre setup and pay off (dumb people who only exist to die get brutally murdered). It either has to be B-rated mindless fun (Laid to Rest 1 and 2 had terrible camera work and directing, making even incredible actors like Lena Headey feel lackluster, but the practical effects are so impressive I'd recommend it just for the blood and guts (and bewbs)), or comedic (the Hatchet series has great cameos, genuine laughs, and more impressive practical effects, but with good cinematography and directing (still bewbs)). Slashers that don't lean in to how ridiculous the concept of slashers are and try to take themselves seriously often end up falling short, either creating boring killers with no personality or trying to force a plot into a generic slasher shaped hole.

This does include most remakes of slasher movies, as a lot of slashers were remade in the early 2000's with less interesting characters to be killed off by the slashers. The remake of Candyman was an exception, because even though it wasn't as good as the original, it did go back to it's non slasher roots, learning from the mistake that was the third Candyman.

TLDR:

Non slashers that are considered slashers because of the slasher sequels/iconic murderers:

the Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Candyman

Child's Play

Best Precursor to the genre:

Black Christmas

Popular Classics:

Halloween

Friday the 13th

a Nightmare on Elm St

Pre 90's Slashers that I recommend:

The Dentist

Sleepaway Camp (it's divided on whether it's problematic or interesting representation)

Alice, Sweet Alice

My Bloody Valentine

Post 90's meta commentary/black comedy:

Scream

Behind the Mask: the Rise of Leslie Vernon

Hatchet

The Final Girls

Tucker and Dale vs Evil

There are obviously a lot more, but these are a few off the top of my head ❤️

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hollowed-theory-hall · 4 months

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The Riddle of Tom Riddle: Part 3/7

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7)

Wool's Orphanage

This is actually one of my favorite theories I ever made. The full psychoanalysis of Voldemort's character took some time to figure out, but I think I cracked it. I know why Tom did everything he did.

As it's a little long, I've broken it down into multiple posts. And I think there are gonna be 4 more besides this one. So, let's go make sense of Voldemort and prove he is reasonable, he just has some unexpected goals.

I want to preface all of this (and future posts) that the point isn't to excuse Voldemort and his various atrocities. But it bothers me when I don't understand why characters do the things they do. This is about understanding Tom Riddle and Voldemort.

Without farther adu:

So, we'll start our analysis from the beginning. Voldemort, or, more correctly — Tom Marvolo Riddle was born on December 31st, 1926, in a rundown orphanage in London:

“And Merope? She . . . she died, didn’t she? Wasn’t Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?” “Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.” “But she did have his baby.” “But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.”

(Half-Blood Prince, page, 214)

So, one important little disclaimer:

A lot of the information we have about Tom comes from Dumbledore's guesswork. As Dumbledore has an agenda in all his "lessons" with Harry and that I have a whole series of posts dedicated to my strong feelings regarding Dumbledore's machinations, we need to approach everything he says with a grain of salt.

This part is pretty true though. Merope does enchant or dose Tom Riddle Sr with a love potion or some other spell and gets pregnant. We also know that for some reason, she stopped with the enchantments/potions at some point and wound up alone in London, with no family, no money, and on death's door.

“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?” “That’s right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”

(Half-Blood Prince, page 266)

This is from Dumbledore's memory, but it seems factual enough. Dumbledore also has no reason to lie about this.

So, Tom was raised all his childhood in a London orphanage in the late 1920s and 1930s. These orphanages were dreary, lonely places:

The children are fed and clothed but there is a dreary uniformity to the picture, emphasised by the black and white image. Boys eat in regimental lines, seated on hard benches, and those waiting to sit down are also assembled in a strict line. The attendants you can glimpse are dressed in black and white uniforms, a stark echo of the grey and black of the boys’ clothes. A few pictures adorn the walls – one looks as though it’s about to fall to the ground – but there are no curtains, no floor covering, no comfort.

(Source)

This was not a pleasant place to be raised in. And considering Mrs. Cole's words: "Well, she wasn’t the first", the orphanage was probably crowded. This was after World War One, and Britain and Europe as a whole were still licking their wounds. Poverty is high, food is low, and the inflation rate is insane.

And this is the world Tom grows up in. A dreary, lonely existence, where if he didn't fight for his food, he probably didn't get left any.

And when the Second World War started in 1939 (his second year at Hogwarts), things just got worse, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Then she said, “He’s a funny boy.” “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.” “He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was . . . odd.”

...

because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.” “You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore. “I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, “but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents. . . . Nasty things . . .” Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still. “Billy Stubbs’s rabbit . . . well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?” “I shouldn’t think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then” — Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time — “on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside — well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they’d just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. . . .”

(Half-Blood Prince, pages 267-268)

We learn some interesting things here, quite a few of them actually. That Tom doesn't have any friends. That the other orphans and the caretakers in the orphanage all think he's weird. They thought he was odd since he was a baby... and this is starting to get familiar. there's a reason Tom mentioned he and Hary are similar:

Because there are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike. . . .

(Chamber of Secrets, page 292)

Because they are.

From Mrs. Cole's words, it seems Tom wasn't liked by the kids and staff and he fought back in the only way he could. His magic. It isn't that much different than Harry's apparating away from Dudley's gang or setting the boa constrictor on his cousin. The situations are awfully similar.

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand. The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor. “I am Professor Dumbledore.” “ ‘Professor’?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?” He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. “No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I don’t believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!” He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. “Who are you?” “I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school — your new school, if you would like to come.” Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious. “You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!” “I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —” “I’d like to see them try,” sneered Riddle.

(Half-Blood Prince, pages 269-270)

Now, I marked a few sections in this scene because there are some interesting things to talk about when it comes to Tom's psychology.

First, I'd like to talk about Tom's assumptions here. The first thing Tom assumes the moment Dumbledore introduces himself as a "professor" is that he is here to take a look at Tom — to take him away to the Asylum. Considering how quickly Tom came to that conclusion one has to assume it's something he heard before.

It means the people around him, probably both the caretakers at the orphanage and the other children repeatedly told him he was insane and would be better off at the Asylum. He spent his childhood being told he belonged in a madhouse.

I don't think I need to explain what kind of damage that does to a child. Tom grows up completely isolated from his peers and caretakers, everyone hates him because he is different. So Tom latched on to the idea that he was better. Because if he was different, and he was, and he wasn't better, it meant he was worse than them — it meant they were right about him. Tom thinking overly highly of himself is a coping mechanism and a lie (to himself most of all).

The thing is, while he is aware he is smart and capable, we'll see later in his life how he continuously seeks out validation and connection since he didn't get either until he was eleven. And like any child, he wants these things, he wants praise, attention, and connection. Telling himself he is better, and therefore above such needs, is a way to try and convince himself everything is fine.

The second thing from the above quote is his trust issues. Dumbledore tries to tell him he isn't taking him to the Asylum and Tom doesn't believe him. He immediately goes on the defensive.

As of Mrs. Cole's previous words, it's clear she blames Tom for things she has no evidence he did. And if we look at Harry's cases of accidental magic that harmed Dudley, a lot of them were out of his control. It's possible Tom wasn't completely intentional in everything he did, but took credit anyway if it meant the other kids left him alone and didn't bother him.

"|'d like to see them try," Tom said, he is already using fear. That is just as much a coping mechanism as his trust issues and air of superiority. When kids fear you, they don't bother you. If Amy and Dannis feared him they'd stop calling him a nut-case — If they feared him, they wouldn't bother him.

And Tom is used to his magic allowing him to get his way, forcing people to tell him the truth in an accidental version of the Imperious. It's important to remember he is a young child on the defensive. He has been on the defensive probably since he could comprehend language. As such, I'm not surprised to see him use his magic to make people treat him better — or at the bare minimum, not lie to him.

All I see from the above interaction is a scared, lonely child who never had anyone so he's on the defensive. He guards his heart and interests with all the weapons he has at his disposal because he has no one else who will. This is a child that needs help.

“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper. “That’s right,” said Dumbledore. “It’s . . . it’s magic, what I can do?” “What is it that you can do?” “All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.” His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. “I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”

(Half-Blood Prince, page 271)

What we see here is actually really cute. Okay.

So, Tom Riddle, lonely and mistreated finally gets the confirmation that yes, he is special, not insane, he is better like he always tried to convince himself he was. So he immediately gets excited and starts gushing — boasting — about all the magic he can do. He's flushed and fevered and happy.

He is so excited to share this with someone else, to have someone like him, who understands him. He was elated at Dumbledore's existence at that moment.

This is a lonely 11-year-old child who never had a friend or kind caregiver in his life, trying to connect to the first adult to not call him insane. The first adult to tell him he was special, that he wasn't wrong.

And then Dumbledore speaks down to him and pretends to set all his (very few) belongings on fire.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts —” “Of course I am!” “Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ” Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me — ?”

(Half-Blood Prince, pages 271-272)

This is the moment Dumbledore made his greatest mistake when it came to Tom Riddle. Instead of trying to direct him and help him like an educator, he showed his dislike for Tom. He thought Tom to close up his heart, that even among wizards he would not find this connection he seeks.

So Tom hardens his expression and goes to the cold, polite, distant mask we'll see him wear for the rest of his Hogwarts years.

#harry potter #harry potter thoughts #harry potter theory #hollowedtheory #hp theory #wizarding world #overthinking #lord voldemort #voldemort #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort analysis #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wools orphanage #albus dumbledore #hp #hp thoughts

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nalyra-dreaming · 3 months

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There is a reason why black fans/poc fans moan about Lestat or DM and it has a lot to do with the fandom. There was this whole blowout over the idea that Louis is the Gothic heorine in this story. That he was the mother to Claudia. It is one thing to debate, it is another to deliberately write revenge fan fiction where Lestat gets pregnant or plays out a kink of being pregnant. So why wouldn't fans be wary of inclusion of Lestat (or DM) in considerable amount in this season, that they were looking forward to. I don't remember the last time I saw a passionate black/brown romance play out on screen on main television and yeah Vampire Chronicles or not, the whole of the series or not, one major excitement for fans has been the Loumand romance. Black or Brown bodies have rarely been portrayed as desireable without the inclusion of a white character. And we are building towards such intense, passionate, romance between loumand- so it is understandable that with the fandom history, the fans would be wary/disappointed about lestat or DM.

Okay, so, I get you. You are on my blog so you likely know that I get you.

I get why.

However, this show (and I am repeating myself here) is cast color-consciously. NOT color-blind.

And that is the world of difference here.

Louis could be re-imagined (and brilliantly so) because the show shifted the time, while also keeping his history, and character intact.

Armand could be re-imagined (and also quite brilliantly so from the little we have seen^^) because the area he is from was contested at the time - it's possible to apply "more" to him without changing the character.

This is the Vampire Chronicles.

There is history between these characters. There are also "endgame" relationships (as Jacob called it).

The show has always said Loustat were the basis they're building on, Rolin Jones said at the SDCC 22 panel (before the show aired) that we shouldn't fear for Devil's Minion.

Yes, Loumand will be passionate at first. I hope they fuck nasty. I mean it when I say I want to see all the facets, how it changes over time. Because of what happens. There is love between them in the end, despite everything.

But saying the show is shoehorning Lestat or Daniel in the VC for "white" fans is ludicrous. Can I redirect you to @cbrownjc's reply here for that?

Lestat is one of the main characters of the VC. Daniel is Armand's big love. His only fledgling.

I get why it's disappointing that the main couple won't be Loumand. I get that.

But it never was supposed to be that.

They love each other. Fall for each other. In Paris. Truly love each other. Later. In Dubai. That is indisputable. But there is a reason why Rolin Jones was explaining the ending with "The Graduate". BACK THEN. (Here is a good post on that.)

After what certain people threw at me again, and again, and again for pointing out canon facts and discrepancies in the tale I won't sugarcoat my responses anymore, and I find the whining about what we said was to come for fucking 18 months indeed quite hilarious. Tbh, it's the only thing left I can find it. The only emotion left I have for that. This doesn't go specifically against any fans btw(!) (and definitely not against you), there were plenty of people who I know are not black who jumped the bandwagon just to make sure to be on the "right side, just in case", while knowing better. While knowing what would happen in the upcoming seasons.

While having experienced similar shit.

And re the debates, and revenge fanfics, or whatever: You don't need to point out the ugliness of fandom to me.

I have plenty of experience with that.

Since you're here you should know that.

#Anonymous #asks #ask nalyra #amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #iwtv 2022 #interview with the vampire #louis de pointe du lac #armand #loumand #lestat de lioncourt #loustat #the devil's minion #daniel molloy #devil's minion

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igncrxntripley · 1 year

Text

sworn enemies (damian priest spy!au)

synopsis: the man you hate more than anything in the world pays you a visit...but you’re surprised by his intentions.

a/n: heard this man’s evil laugh and it immediately made me spiral so enjoy this

mentions: NSFW 18+, fem!reader, dom!damian, top!damian, spy!au, light choking/breathplay, kissing, semi-public, slight degradation, slight manipulation, overstimulation, oral, multiple orgasms, cumshots, hair pulling

taglist: @thesithdiaries @cassiesgreta @roseheartsworld @theworldofotps @babybatlover @ripleyswhore @auburnwrites @obl1vionblackhart @emogoblin-666 @hereliespumpkin @embertargaryen @neptune-lover @bunnysmyname @i-have-issues-lol @ares-athena @thatonepansexual2000 @witcherfromwallachia @infamousvampcx @christinabae

“priest,” the sight of the man standing in front of you was enough to make your blood boil. damian priest, single-handedly your biggest competition when it came to your roles as secret agents, apparently decided he had nothing better to do than come visit you at work. his name rolled off of your tongue laced with acid, and the sight of him in his signature black suit made your stomach flip. “pretty sure you’re on the wrong side of the city, aren’t you?” you spat, your arms crossed over your chest as he closed the door to your office.

you and damian had history; that history was mostly defined by the way you two competed with one another to be the best at your jobs as secret agents, often having the same missions and often being the target of each other’s attacks.

while that was a large piece of your relationship with mr. priest, there was more to it than that. damian had a way with his words, and he knew exactly how to get what he wanted. you were ashamed to admit it but even though he pissed you off, damian often left you with butterflies in your stomach. he was charming, that was for sure; but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t done the same to him.

this time, you were unsure why damian stopped by to see you. it had been a minute since you two ran into one another, and your mind had already started thinking the worst when you saw him. the sly smirk on his face was only adding to your confusion and anxiety. “i was actually stopping by to talk to you, y/n.” he said as he adjusted the cuffs on his suit jacket. “it’s been a minute since i’ve been able to bother you.”

his words made you roll your eyes. you weren’t backing down to damian just yet, because you were fairly certain there was more to his agenda than just wanting to make a little visit. but in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but remember the last time you and damian were in each other’s presence.

his hand gently squeezing your throat. your lips pressed to his in a desperate kiss as he thrusted in and out of you. your hands tangled in his braids, tugging them desperately as you got closer and closer to your climax.

you managed to hide the shiver that ran down your spine at the thought; this wasn’t the only time you and damian had experienced one another this way either, and every time you refused to allow him to get the best of you the next time you met. clearly, that wasn’t going well.

“you don’t just stop by to talk to me.” you mumbled, watching him carefully as he stopped in front of you. “whatever you want from me, just spit it out.”

that same dark chuckle that never failed to make your blood boil left his throat. “oh princesa,” he shook his head. “you never fail to immediately think of the worst case scenario.” damian hummed as he stood tall and confident in front of you, your own body doing its best to mimic that confidence. “how long has it been since we last saw one another, y/n? two weeks? a month?” he asked softly.

“you’re mine, mi mariposa.” he mumbled against your skin, his body pressing yours against the wall of the closet he’d tugged you in. damian’s strong arms had lifted you up, your legs wrapped around his waist as you panted in need and desire.

once again, that same shiver rattled your body. “why do you care to know, priest?” you asked, leaning back against your desk. you knew that whenever it came to damian, you needed to precede with caution. he was a dangerous man with dangerous intentions, yet one of the most passionate people that you’d ever known in bed; to sum it up, he was unpredictable.

damian looked down at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. if you had to name it, it was a mixture of intensity with a hint of lust. this isn’t going to be good. “i haven’t stopped thinking about you, y/n.” he said, clear as day with all seriousness - a seriousness you had only heard from damian every time he threatened to end your life during the missions you’d crossed paths on. “and it makes me sick to say that, but it’s the truth.”

your eyes widened at his words, your face flush and your mind racing with every thought possible. needless to say, his words had you absolutely shocked and speechless.

“don’t say you haven’t felt the same.” damian mumbled, moving closer until your bodies were practically touching. “every time i see you, no matter what we’re doing, i have to stop myself from crawling back to you for more, princesa.” his finger gently dragged itself from your cheek to your chin, and no matter how badly your mind wanted you to move away from him, your heart convinced you to stay still. “you have no clue what you do to me, y/n. but you can’t pretend like you don’t feel the same.”

the worst part of this? you agreed; damian was right, and you did feel exactly the same way. but you couldn’t admit that. “damian, i-”

“don’t try to lie to me.” he said, his hand grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at him. “i’m not an idiot. you think too low of me, y/n. it’s like you don’t even know me.” he smirked, his face moving closer to yours until his lips practically brushed against yours. “have you forgotten about all of the times you’ve been in my arms, begging me for more as i showed you how good i could make you feel?”

your eyes closed, drawing in a sharp breath and your own hand reaching for his side. “no.” you admitted in a whisper; it almost pained you to admit that - key word, almost - but you couldn’t lie to him. not when he knew what buttons to push.

“that’s what i thought.” damian mumbled, pressing his lips to yours in the most gentle kiss this man had ever managed to give. he was usually anything but gentle, but you brought out something inside of him that rarely anyone had seen. “let me in, baby. let me show you why i came back.” he whispered, moving his hand down to toy with the buttons on your top.

damian’s words made your mind go absolutely numb. you two were the only things that mattered, and you could only manage a gentle nod of your head in response to his words. a quiet gasp left your lips as he used one hand to slowly undo the first button to your blouse, and it quickly registered in your brain where you and damian were. “not here.” you whispered softly, pressing yourself just a little closer to him. “someone could hear us, damian.”

“and what if i want them to hear us?” he smirked softly, undoing one more button as he pulled you into another kiss. it almost scared you just how much of an effect his words had on you, because if anyone else had said those words you’d be furious; with damian though? you responded with a smirk of your own and grabbed his hips to get closer together. “hope nothing on this desk is that important.” damian used one of his hands to swipe the stacks of papers and the mess of writing utensils, his lips still pressing to your skin because there was no way he was breaking this contact anytime soon.

damian lifted you onto the desk and stood between your legs. “let me show you what i’ve been thinking about.” he whispered softly. his voice, while soft, was still so incredibly husky and desperate as he touched you and made his marks on your skin.

your own hands had worked his jacket off of his body before your fingers began working on the buttons of his own shirt. damian, on the other hand, slid yours down your arms to expose the plain undergarments you wore, but that sight still made him growl with desperation. “hey…” you whispered softly, holding his cheeks so he could look at you. your legs wrapped around his waist, and the unmistakable feeling of his hard cock poked your thigh through his trousers. “take a deep breath before you hurt yourself.” a smirk graced your lips as you teased him, one hand moving up to twirl his hair between your fingers.

one thing about damian - he was always going to take what he wanted, and he was going to do it in his own personal style. he may not have always been the most gentle or romantic, but that only drew you even closer to him.

his hands moved down to the buttons of your trousers and made quick work of them, easily pulling the fabric down your legs to expose the plain underwear you’d chosen - and had cursed yourself for doing so - before he got onto his knees. “don’t think i forgot just how good you taste.” damian softly mumbled against the skin of your thighs. he breathed in your scent and left gentle kisses across the smooth bottom half of your body, his large hands keeping your thighs open so you couldn’t dare hide from him. “the taste of you keeps me up at night, amor. i can’t help but think about it every time i see you.”

your hand tangled in his ponytail, watching as damian breathed in your scent against your core that was still covered by the underwear. that alone sent a jolt of electricity through your body, but the way he drug the undergarments off of your body using his teeth only intensified that feeling of desire. “oh my god, damian...”

he chuckled, tossing your underwear aside as he left gentle kisses against your clit. “shh, doll. let me take care of you.” he said. damian wasted no time in wrapping his lips around you and finally feeding into the hunger and desire that was resting deep in your body.

“oh my god-” you gasped, looking down at him as his own eyes locked with yours. damian knew how to keep someone wrapped around his finger and how to get what he wanted; this was no different. damian was one who would give you all the pleasure in the world, make you feel absolutely amazing, but then he wouldn’t hesitate to threaten your life minutes afterwards because that’s what your work revolved around. that didn’t mean the two of you never craved one another any less at the end of the day.

damian fed off of the desperation and pleasure on your face. as he watched you moan and felt your hips slowly grind against his face, it only encouraged him to go even harder. his tongue moved faster against you and his long fingers dug into your thighs, every move and flick bringing you closer to the edge of your climax.

“cum for me, princesa.”

his words gave you permission to finally cross over into euphoria. your thighs trembled, closing around his head, and you gripped the edge of your desk for dear life as a loud moan ripped from your throat. “damian-” you whimpered, one hand coming up to tug at his ponytail again.

damian pulled away after working you through it and didn’t waste any time in bringing you in for a kiss. you moaned, tasting yourself and your arousal against his lips, and his strong hands held you tighter against his body. “i hope you realize i’m not done with you.” he teased, pulling you to your feet and quickly turning you so your back was to his chest.

a gasp left your lips, but you were so deep in your desire and need for damian that all you could do was bend over the desk and slowly grind against him. you knew what got damian going, and you were going to have just as much fun with this as he was. his fingers worked his pants and boxers down his legs, and the feeling of his bare cock pressed against your backside drove you mad.

“fuck, please?” you begged him, his own hand tangling in your hair to keep your head up. “damian, i need you. need you...” your words turned into a mantra of sorts, begging him as your hips slowly moved against him.

you could tell damian was enjoying this; watching you beg for him, almost putting on a show as a way of proving to him you were worthy of a second round of pleasure. he tugged your hair again while his free hand held your hip. “you like this.” he teased softly. “me, fucking you in your office...making you beg for me to give you what you want.” he took that moment to finally tease at your entrance with the tip of his cock, but damian wouldn’t given in that easily.

“you’re not as bad and tough as you make yourself out to be.” damian mumbled, not moving his hips as he watched you buck your hips, hoping he would slip inside of you and give you that relief you so desperately wanted. “i’ve got you in the palm of my hand, doll. you’re mine.”

“damian, please.” you begged again as your hips moved in slow circles against him, hoping it could convince damian to give you what you’d been begging for. “all yours. i’m all yours. please, baby?”

a groan left his lips, and damian gave you just a little bit as his cock slipped inside of you - but only the tip. he wasn’t done just yet. “aww, poor baby.” he chuckled, watching your legs tremble and listening to your whines at the way he continued to torture and tease you. “show me how bad you want it.”

your hands formed themselves into fists, letting out a small moan as your hips thrusted themselves against damian’s cock. he told you to show him, so you were going to do exactly that. “need you...damian...” you whimpered. having damian in the first place felt amazing, but you needed all of him. you needed more. but he knew just how to tease you and get the reactions he wanted.

as you fucked yourself against damian, ragged breaths and moans leaving your lips, you could hear damian’s own moans behind you. his eyes never once left your body as you moved, and the hand that had tangled in your hair released itself to slowly run fingers down your spine.

“give it all to me, hermosa.” he mumbled, the sounds coming from both of you starting to mix and become somewhat synchronous. not only had the movements of your thrusts gotten faster, but the rhythm of his own hips matched yours and damian was torturing your body with gentle touches. “cum for me. you know you want it, princesa.”

that was all it took; with one sentence, a simple warning, you let loose under his touch and your thighs shook. euphoria wracked your body, unable to help the sob that left your lips. “fuck!” you gasped. you rested your cheek against your desk and tried to catch your breathe. before you even realized it, after damian worked you through your own high, he slowly pulled out and the shots of warm liquid across the backs of your thighs made you smirk. say what you want about the man, but he loved seeing his own arousal painting your skin like a badge of honor.

“mine.” damian mumbled, tugging your hair to pull you into another kiss. “all mine, baby. you hear me?” a hand slowly snaked down to gently wrap around your throat as you both caught your breath, and you could practically feel damian smirking against your lips.

“if you continue being a good girl and stay out of my side of the city, maybe i’ll come back and reward you.” damian whispered. “the less you piss me off, the more i visit and make you cum.”

#wwe x reader #wwe imagine #wwe smut #www damian priest #damian preist imagine #damian priest #damian priest smut #damian priest x reader #damian priest headcanons #{:damian priest:}

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inqorporeal · 2 years

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There was something odd about the bookshop. Well, specifically its owner, but the shop was weird, too.

"I dunno, I just get the oddest feeling every time I go in," Mona said through a mouthful of croissant. "Like it's just a piece of set dressing. Like on stage, you know?"

"The books are there to be seen and occasionally looked through, but not actually claimed," Stuart agreed.

Nicola folded her arms on the slightly sticky coffee-shop table. "You know what I think--"

"Not your MI-6 theory, again," Mona groaned.

"Look, all I'm saying is that the owner knows a disturbing amount about history and especially contemporary warfare and politics. He totally helped me with that one paper I had to do last year, and I swear he didn't look anything up, but somehow just pulled books off the shelf that had exactly what I needed. And--"

"Aw, here we go," Stu muttered, amd poured another cup of tea for himself feom the shared pot.

"Shut it," Nicola growled. "He somehow had a newspaper from the start of World War I, in absolutely pristine condition, that had an article about the death of--"

"He's a history nerd, so what?" Stu said. "He inherited the place from his Da, who was also a complete nerd. My Ma swears they're the spitting image of each other, it's a whole schtick they have goong on. Welcome to London, we have weirdos, if you look to your left you can see a skyscraper that looks like a cock and we call it the Gherkin."

"I'm telling you, he's like some sort of secret agent," Nicola insisted. "There's that one skinny guy all in black who's always around, never takes off his shades even indoors. And remember last month, Old George swore up and down the shop burnt to the ground and then reappeared as good as new?"

"Old George is ancient and forgets you're not his little sister's best friend from church," Mona said. She drained off her ridiculous coffee drink and wiped foam from her upper lip. "The building probably burnt down when he was a kid and he's getting confused because back then they tried to rebuild things as they used to be rather than ploughing them up."

"Besides, even the best secret agency can't just rebuild an entire building stone by stone overnight. He's definitely suffering something." Stu held up a hand in the face of Nicola's poisonous glare. "Okay, okay, Old George's faulty memory aside, what makes you think the proprietor works for bleedin' MI-6?"

"I was in not too long before that, working on that nightmare essay, remember?" She waited until the other two nodded, although Mona now had her mobile out and was rexting someone. "These two creepy guys in absolutely pristine suits came in and loudly asked after pornography. Just like that, really kind of stilted, and loud. You know the place as well as I do, there's no porn there."

"I dunno, some of the classics are pretty spicy," Stu joked.

"That's different. He doesn't exactly stock Playboys you know? And the owner got real uncomfortable-looking, like he didn't want to be anywhere near them, and then took them into the back room."

Mona's head came up. "No ody goes in the back room except--"

"And the skinny bloke, aye. And when they came out, they were thanking him for 'the pornography'." Nicola pulled out the scare quotes this time. "Nobody ever buys anything from A.Z. Fell's. It's a fucking library without the legal permits. I think they were foreign agents--"

"You can't expect us to believe that Mr Fell is a secret agent," Stu insisted.

Nicola rolled her eyes. "No, I think he's the middle-man between the creepers and that skinny bloke. They can't be seen near someone like that, right? So Tall and Skinny--"

"Is way too obvious to be a spy," Mona said, shaking her head.

"But that's the brilliance of it! If he's an obvious eccentric, nobody thinks he's a spook!"

Nicola was on a roll now, and Mona and Stu exchanged a look.

"He's like a foreign agent, yeah? And 'pornography'--" scare quotes again-- "is just one of those code phrases they use, right?"

Someone stopped by their table, casting a long shadow against the light streaming through the dusty front window. "if you ask me," the stranger said, "it sounds like you watch too many spy films." He smiled thinly and the lenses of his round dark glasses seemed to flash for a moment.

"Right?" Mona said. "How many times did you see the last Bond film?"

"That has nothing to do with it--"

"What's more likely," the stranger continued, sipping at a monstrosity of a drink that could only tangentially be called 'coffee', "is that the gentlemen in question were local mob shaking our poor bookseller down. You should avoid them."

"See?" Stu agreed. "That makes a lot more sense. A Z. fell has a reputation to maintain. They were definitely threatening him."

Nicola grumped for a moment, slouching in her chair. "Alright, you have a point. He didn't act like they were friends."

"Exactly." The stranger smiled and left his empty, sugar-smeared mug in the middle of their table and left.

Mona opened her mouth to protest when someone else huffed a little sigh. Mr Fell himself picked up the mug, muttering, "Honestly, darling," under his breath, and returned it to the dish drop.

Nicola stared at her plate. "Wait. Who ordered danishes? Do they even sell danishes here?"

#good omens #look i don't go here but the idea stuck in my head so here you go #apologies for typos i was writing on my phone on the train

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liyawritesss · 4 months

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ᖴᒪOᗯEᖇᔕ Iᑎ ᗷᒪOOᗰ - ᐯᗩᒪEᑎTIᑎEᔕ ᗪᖇᗩᗷᗷᒪEᔕ

Ｄａｙ２３－ＱｕａｌｉｔｙＴｉｍｅ

－ A King's Wish - T'Challa Udaku - Marvel's Black Panther

－ In which during a tumultuous time during T'Challa's duties with the Avengers in America, he pays a visit to a certain someone ro calm his mind.

－ Check out more prompts and other activities on the Flowers In Bloom Event Masterlist!

A King should never get too comfortable in his position - and if he is, then he shouldn’t be king. It was one of the many morals instilled upon T’Challa as crowned prince to the Wakandan throne. He knows he’s got a lot to risk for himself, for his people, and unfortunately he doesn’t have the ability to allow himself to get too comfortable. Though, just because he’s King of arguably the most powerful nation on earth, doesn’t mean he’s absolved from having guilty pleasures.

And it just so happens that he’s on his way to visit said guilty pleasure right now.

He has to keep a low profile, though. More than raised eyebrows would occur if people saw a member of the Wakandan royal family casually strolling into a college campus, accompanied by brightly colored warrior women trained to kill. So he dawns much more casual, American clothing, and so do the two members of the KingsGuard accompanying him, because of course, he couldn’t come completely alone.

With so much happening the past few months, all T’Challa truly wants is to be in your arms. To remember how they feel around him, to cement your kisses into his skin so that they never disappear again. It’s wishful thinking, he knows it is; there’s only so much time the two of you will have together, but he doesn’t like to think about that. Instead, he chooses to relish in the present, and perhaps, speak on what future instances would look like.

He remembers the day the two of you first met. Being introduced to each other by his friend who taught the graduate level african history class you were enrolled in, the professor relayed your expressed interest in Wakanda and the desire to study the history of the nation on a deeper level. While he could not grant you access inside the tightly secured country for reasons, T’Challa was more than willing to oblige in your questions to assist in your research. Little did he know that the mere prospect of assisting you in your extended project would lead to something much more deeper.

It was a breath of fresh air for the royal, a change of pace from his constant need to save face. You didn’t treat him like a King - which, granted, he had to get used to - but rather an average scholar you were bouncing ideas off of. While most of his life he has been molded to be a pillar of sovereignty, with you, T’Challa was able to have some semblance of normalcy in his life. Something he didn’t know he craved so carnally until he met you.

He sighs as his fist raps at your door, his body already buzzing with excitement at the idea of seeing you again after a long time being apart. You open it, and T’Challa’s lips immediately crack into a smile.

“Now, I remember telling you to let me know when you’re coming by,” you say in a voice akin to disbelief, standing in the doorway of your apartment that resides close to campus, “y’know, instead of knocking on my door like you’re the police or somethin’?”

“Can you blame me?” T’Challa retorts, “I was in a rush.”

Well, there’s little you can do about the King who seemingly lost his manners, besides welcome him into your home - and your heart - for the night.

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gracexthoughts · 2 months

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of violent delights chapter 14

messrs moony, wormtail, padfoot, and prongs

9 june 1996

Euphemia’s POV

“You’re mad,” I can’t help but scoff at the accusation that Ron’s rat, a rat that has been in his family for years, is actually a wizard who is supposed to be dead.

“You’re mental,” Ron cries, cradling Scabbers closer.

“Ludicrous!” Hermione says softly.

“Peter Petirgrew is dead! You killed him!” Harry says, pointing his wand at Black.

“I meant to,” Black growls, glaring at the rat furiously. “Little Peter fooled me once but not this time!” Black lunges forward towards Ron and Scabbers but Lupin holds him back.

“Wait! Sirius, we have to explain why!”

“I’ll explain afterwards! I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for!”

“They have a right to know, Sirius! You owe it to Harry and Mia to explain it. Ron’s kept him as a pet, some of it even I don’t understand yet. Wait,” Lupin says, gripping Sirius’ face and making him look at him. The two men share and glance and even a blind person could tell their history runs deep, deeper than friendship or roommate. Black stops fighting Lupin and nods, turning to pace closer to the bed while stile glaring at the rat in Ron’s hands.

“There were witnesses to Petigrew’s death. A whole street of Muggles,” I say, remembering the conversation we overheard at the Three Broomsticks.

“They didn’t see what they thought they did,” Black says.

“Everyone believed, even I, that Sirius killed Peter but when I saw it on the map I knew,” Lupin explains.

“Then the map was lying-“ Harry starts

“The map never lies. Peter’s alive and he’s right there!” Sirius growls, pointing a bony finger at Ron.

“Listen, it’s quite a long story…” Lupin starts but all our heads turn towards the door as there’s a loud creak. Lupin looks out to the landing but seeing nothing, turns back to us. “No one there.”

“This place is haunted,” Ron says, sounding more scared at the thought of ghosts than confronting Black.

“It’s not. This whole story starts when I became a werewolf. I was very young when I was bitten. Now, the Wolfsbane potion, which Professor Snape brews for me every month, is rather a new discovery and it lets me keep my mind when I transform. It used to be every month, I became a full fledged monster. I never thought I could come to Hogwarts but Dumbledore became Headmaster and was sympathetic. He said he would set up precautions for me. The Whomping Willow was planted to hide the tunnel that they dug to this house. All of it was built for my use during the full moon.” Lupin sits on an ottoman near the door, looking weary. “Once a month, teachers brought me here to transform and keep me from anyone else.’’

We all listen carefully although I can’t see how any of this matters concerning our parents' deaths.

“It was horrible, the transformation, in those days. The screams the villagers heard were me. I was separated from humans to bite so I hurt myself instead. Dumbledore encouraged the rumors of violent sprites to keep suspicion off but other than the full moons, I was happier than ever at Hogwarts. For the first time in my life, I had friends; Sirius Black, Peter Petegrew and James Potter. I tried telling them all kinds of excuses to explain my disappearances but they were smarter than that. James and Sirius worked it out easily enough, just like you, Hermione. I thought they’d abandon me but they didn’t, not at all. Instead they became Animagi.”

“What?” I exclaim, bewildered. The Animagus process is said to be incredibly difficult and I find it hard to believe they managed it on their own without anyone finding out.

“Our dad too?” Harry asks.

“Took us the better part of three years but yes,” Sirius mumbles, watching Remus for a moment before turning his gaze back to Sacabbers and Ron.

“Sirius and James were the cleverest in our year, possibly the whole school, besides Lily. Peter needed Sirius and James’ help of course but during our fifth year they managed it.”

“But how would that help you?” Hermione asks, confused.

“A werewolf is only dangerous to humans. So they snuck out of the castle with James’ Invisibility Cloak. Peter, the smallest as a rat, could reach the knot on the tree to immobilize it and they slipped down the tunnel to join me. I became less dangerous in their company. My mind seemed to stay with me more under their influence.”

“Hurry up, Remus,” Sirius snarls.

“I’m getting there,” Lupin says impatiently. “Eventually, we started leaving the shack and roaming the grounds at night. Sirius and James transformed into such large animals that they were able to keep me in check. That’s how we discovered as much as we did about Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. The tunnels and such. That’s how we came to write the Marauder’s Map and signed it with our nicknames. Sirius is Padfoot, Peter is Wormtail, and James was Prongs.”

I open my mouth to ask what kind of animal warrants a nickname like Prongs but Hermione beats me to it. “What’s really dangerous! What if you’d given the others the slip and ended up hurting someone?” she cries indignantly.

“You’re right of course,” Lupin says heavily. “And there were plenty of near misses that we laughed about afterwards. We were young, foolhardy, carried away with our cleverness… But I forgot all the guilt as soon as we began planning the next adventure. And I haven’t changed…” Lupin's face hardens with self disgust, “All year, I’ve battled with myself at admitting it all to Dumbledore. Knowing Sirius being an Animagus meant he could slip in and out of the castle better than anyone…. But I couldn’t face it. You were right to call me a coward, Mia. I am one,” he says looking at me. Guilt weighs heavily in my chest as I recall the nasty insults I slung his way on my birthday but before I can apologize Lupin forges on. “Dumbledore’s trust means everything to me, everything I have I owe to him admitting me to Hogwarts when no one else would. So I convinced myself that Sirius was using dark magic he learned from Voldemort instead. Really, Snape had been right about me all along. He’s been telling Dumbledore I’ve been helping Sirius all year. He has a sound reason…” Lupin and Black share a heavy glance and Black nods subtly, shame creeping into his eyes for a moment. “Sirius played a trick on him while we were at school. Severus was very interested as to why I disappear every month- we were in the same year you see- and we didn’t get along well. He especially hated James, jealous I think.” Harry and I share a look, well aware of Snape’s dislike of our father. “Anyway, Sirius thought it would be… amusing to tell Snape how to bypass the Willow. James found out what Sirius had done and went after him, pulling Snape back at the last moment. He caught a glimpse of me though. Dumbledore swore him to secrecy but he still knew…”

“That’s right,” a cold voice sneers from the doorway and Snape appears, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, his wand pointed right at Lupin. Hermione yelps and Lupin jumps up from his seated position to face Snape. “Found this at the base of the Whomping Willow. Very helpful, Potter. Thank you. Well Lupin, I’ve just been to your office to bring you your potion and luckily there was a handy map lying open on your desk. One look told me everything I needed to know,” Snape sneers, looking more hateful than ever.

“Severus,” Black says darkly, glaring at the man.

“Oh vengeance is sweet, how I’d hoped to be the one to catch you,” Snape says, turning to Black. Lupin takes a step towards him but Snape points his wand back at him and he backs up to stand next to Sirius. “I told Dumbledore you were helping your old friend into the castle and now I have proof. Never thought you’d have the nerve to use this place as your hideout,” Snape sneers at the two men.

“Brilliant, Snivilous,” Black speaks up, “Again you’ve put your keen and penetrating mind to the problem and as usual come to the wrong conclusion. Now if you’ll excuse us, Remus and I have some unfinished busin-“ Black starts in, his voice mocking the Potions professor but Snape steps forward, holding his wand to Black throat causing Lupin to jump forward. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I press further back against the wall, wands still in our hands, and we share a look, knowing Snape will get in the way of us getting some real answers.

“I could do it, you know, but I’d rather watch the dementors. They’re so longing to see you, Sirius. And they’ll be so pleased to bring you along too, Remus,” Snape threatens.

“Severus don’t be a fool, we can explain everything,” Lupin says placatingly.

“He can’t help it. Habit by now,” Black says mockingly at Snape.

“Sirius, be quiet.”

“Be quiet yourself, Remus!”

“Look at you too, still quarreling like an old married couple,” Snape mocks.

“Just run along and play with your chemistry set!” Black snaps.

“Severus really, is a school boy grudge worth putting an innocent man back in Azkaban?” Lupin attempts to reason. It’s hard to tell whose face shows more hatred, Snape’s or Black’s, as they glare at each other, each daring the other to test them.

“Give me a reason,” Snape sneers, pressing his wand further into Black’s throat, ignoring Lupin.

“Severus, please,” Lupin pleads. Harry and I share a look, knowing we have to hear our father’s best friends out now. We’ve gone most of our lives with no real answers and now that they are in reach, we have to have them. Harry and I raise our wands at Snape simultaneously.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry casts.

“Stupify!” I cast myself and the combined force of our spells sends Snape flying backwards into the dusty four poster bed. Before anyone can react we turn our wands back to Black and Lupin.

“You attacked a teacher,” Hermione says quietly, her voice squeaky.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you should’ve left him to us,” Black says, looking at Harry.

“Yeah, you were doing a great job, weren’t you?” I snark.

“Thank you,” Lupin says, shooting a pointed look at Sirius.

“We’re not saying we believe you yet,” Harry says, his wand still raised towards Black.

“Tell us about Peter Petegrew. How do you reckon Scabbers is him?” I ask, the rat in question writhing wildly in Ron’s grip.

Black reaches into his robes and pulls out a very crumpled up piece of paper which he hands to Remus. “Fudge came to do an inspection last year. Gave me this and I knew… I’d recognize him anywhere,” Black explains and I step forward to see the paper. It’s the Daily Prophet picture and article of the Weasley’s in Egypt and on Ron’s shoulder sits Scabbers.

“He’s missing a toe… Godric,” Lupin says examining the picture and the rat in Ron’s hands.

“What about it?” Ron asks.

And then it hits me. “All they could find of Pettigrew was his fi-“

“His finger! The filthy coward cut it off so everyone would think he was dead and then he transformed into a rat!” Black spits. “Just as I caught up to him he yelled to the whole street that I’d betrayed Lily and James and before I could do anything he blew up the whole street with his wand behind his back. Next thing I knee, a rat was scurrying off down to the sewer.”

“He probably just got into a fight with another rat he’s been in my family for ages,” Ron counters, still not believing it.

“Fifteen years, yes? Curiously long life for a common garden rat,” Black points out.

“We take good care of him!” Ron argues.

“Well he doesn’t look too good now. I suspect he’s been looking sickly since he heard Sirius had escaped,” Lupin observes.

“No, he’s afraid of that crazy cat!” Ron exclaims pointing at Crookshanks.

“Ron, they’re right. He’d been looking ill before ‘Mione got the cat,” Harry reminds Ron.

“I told you, Ron!” Hermione says, seemingly relieved that her cat is innocent.

“This cat isn’t mad. It’s quite intelligent actually,” Sirius says, patting Crookshanks. “He recognized Peter for what he was immediately, same with me when we met. He knew I wasn’t really a dog and once I got him to trust me, we learned how to communicate. He’s been helping me, you see. Tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t so he took the passwords to the Tower. But Peter figured it out and ran for it. This cat- Crookshanks you called him?- told me there was blood on the sheets. Peter must have figured faking his death worked once well enough,” Black growls the last part.

“Yes but why did he fake his death?” Harry speaks up, looking furious again. “Because he knew you were about to murder him like you did our parents! And now you’ve come to finish him off!”

“No, Harry-“ Lupin starts but Black cuts him off.

“Yes, I have.”

“Then we should’ve let Snape take you!” I say angrily.

“No, don’t you see? All these years, we thought Sirius betrayed your parents and Peter tracked him down but it was the other way around-” Lupin says placatingly.

“No, he was their Secret Keeper. He admitted it before you turned up. He killed them!” Harry yells, angrily, his hand shaking as he points his wand at Black.

“I as good as killed them…” Black says quietly, grief making his voice heavy. “I convinced Lily and James to switch to Peter at the last moment, make him the Secret Keeper instead. I’m to blame, I know it… That… The night they died, I’d had plans to check in on Peter but when I arrived at his hideout he was gone. It didn’t feel right, there were no signs of a struggle. I was scared…. I went to check on your parents and I saw the house… their bodies… I realized what Peter had done. What I did…” Black looks up at Harry and I, grief overtaking his features as a tear rolls down his cheek. “You two were crying in Harry’s crib… screaming for your mum who-- who was dead on the floor in front of you, the roof blown off, both of you bleeding. I tried to take you, keep you safe but Hagrid wouldn’t let me. I figured I’d take care of Peter and then Remus and I would come back and take you home…” Black looks between Harry and I, his eyes pleading for us to believe him. I blink as tears flood my eyes, filled with grief not only over our parents but the life my brother and I might have lived. Two lives really; one with our parents alive and happy and one being raised by the two men in front of us. Both options far happier than the lot we ended up with.

“Enough of this,” Lupin says, a steely tone in his voice, one I haven’t heard from the man before. “There’s one way to prove all of this. Ron, give me the rat.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Ron asks, holding a squirming Scabbers close to his chest.

“Force him to show his true self, if he really is a rat then it won’t hurt him,” Lupin responds. Ron considers Lupin for a moment but eventually, he holds Scabbers out to Lupin. Scabbers starts squeaking and writhing more widely. “Ready, Sirius?” Lupin asks. Black has already picked up Snape’s wand from the bed and approaches Lupin and the squirming rat, hsi eyes burning.

“Together?” Black asks to which Lupin nods. They count to three, Lupin holding Scabbers aloft, and a flash of bright blue lights erupts from both wands and Scabbers falls to the floor- Ron crying out for his pet. But there was another flash of light and from the small rat on the floor, slowly grows a man. A very short, mousy looking man, with thin colorless hair. He stood sort of hunched over, his skin grungy looking and unwell. Peter Petigrew looks around at the rest of us in the room, his eyes darting between Harry, me and the door.

“Hello, Peter,” Lupin says with a faux pleasantness. “Long time no see.”

“S-S-Sirius, R-Remus, my old friends!” Cries Peter, his voice squeaky, as his eyes dart to the door and he tries to dart between the two men towards the door but is stopped by Lupin and Black. Peter turns to Harry and I, stepping closer to us and I push Harry behind me and Peter approaches, keeping my wand between me and the rat like man.

“Harry? Look at you, you look so much like your father, like James. And you Euphemia, just like Lily. We were the best of friends, we-”

“How dare you speak to them? How dare you talk about James and Lily in front of them!” Black shouts, pulling Peter away from us.

“You were the spy! You sold James and Lily to Voldemort, didn’t you?” Lupin chimes in, the two men pinning Peter against the piano.

“I-I didn’t mean to!” Peter squeaks. “The Dark Lord! You have no idea the power he possesses. What would you have done, Sirius?”

“I would’ve died! I would’ve died rather than betray my friends!” Black bellows. “You haven’t been hiding from me all these years, Peter. You’ve been hiding from Voldemort’s old supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter. They think the double crosser double crossed them. They think you gave Voldemort bad information knowing it would lead to his defeat!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You tried to kill me!” Peter yelps and tries again for the door but I beat him there first, preventing him from leaving.

“Mia, your parents wouldn’t have wanted me killed. Your dad, he would’ve shown me mercy!” He pleads, trying to grab at me but my raised wand keeps him at bay until Remus and Sirius manage to pull him back towards the piano.

“You should’ve realized that if Voldemort wouldn’t kill you then we would. Together!” Black says angrily, Lupin by his side as they both raise their wands at the rat like man who cowers from them.

“NO!” Harry and I yell simultaneously, stopping them.

Lupin turns to us, “This man-”

“We know what he is,” Harry snaps. “We’ll take him to the castle.”

“Bless you, boy,” he sighs, falling to the floor to claw at Harry’s feet.

“Get off him!” I snap, sending sparks to Peter’s hands causing him to back away. “He said we’d take you to the castle. Then the dementors can have you,” I sneer at the man cowering on the ground at the idea of the dementors.

“Thank you,” Peter squeaks from the floor.

“We’re not doing this for you,” I spit.

“You two are the only ones who have the right to decide… but why?” Lupin asks, eyeing Harry and I carefully. Harry and I share a glance, only needing that much to know we are on the same page.

“I don’t think our parents would want their two best friends to become killers,” Harry states simply.

“You believe us then? Believe me?” Black says, looking between us, hope in his eyes for the first time all night.

Harry and I nod and it's as if the weight of the world falls from Black’s shoulders, joy and hope making him look younger. Harry looks to Ron and Hermione who have watched the whole thing in shock and awe. And as I stand there, staring at my brother and our godfathers, I can’t help as hope starts to creep into my chest as well.

a/n; ahh again, most of this is taken from the book/movie. In the book there are like 3 chapters of them in just in the Shack so I hope I got the important parts at least. And Mattheo will be back soon, I promise. I meant for the Shack scene to be just one chapter but it got stupid long so I split it up. Also, I’m kind of using All the Young Dudes by MsKingBean89 as my source for the Marauders’ time at Hogwarts if you’re interested.

taglist; @purplegardenwhispers @somethingswiftandstyles @weasleyreidstyles @mayamonroem @girlbooklover555 @stxrszurzolo

#harry potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction #matteo riddle #hogwarts #hogwarts oc #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hp fanfic #wizarding world #hogwarts houses #prisoner of azkaban #of violent delights #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo riddle imagine #the maruaders #remus lupin #sirius black #peter pettigrew

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