Pink Love Potions - George Weasley

Prompt: Fred and George ask the reader to smell a love potion and when she can only associate the scent with George she refuses to tell them. 

Words: 3,259

Warning: None, fluff. 

“Y/n, our dearest darling friend, we’re in need of your assistance.” Peeking out from over your essay you found a set of two feet standing in front of you. There was no need to look up, your accusation was confirmed by the mismatched socks. The Weasley twins hardly sorted out their clothes and snagged the closest, cleanest smelling, item they could find and threw them on. Also over half their socks had holes in them causing their big toes to break free from the rest of their friends.

There was also the towering shadow that casted over you that gave away their identity as well. The boys beat you in height by a mile- or rather so at least a foot. If you walked by their side travailing to and from classes, you were jogging half the time and out of breath when reaching your destination. Not to say this was out of the ordinary or loathed, you enjoyed working overtime to keep up with the boys. Besides by the end of the day you had reached two days’ worth of cardio and were all set.

“Oh no. What have you two gotten yourself into now?” You rose an eyebrow at the pair. On look at them and there was no question about it, they were up to no good. George had his hands behind his back and look slightly bothered. You set your homework down on the table in front of you and went to ask him if he was alright but Fred started in instead.

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November 2005

He woke to Sam’s startled, strangled cry, and he was on his feet with his Colt cool in his hand before he realized that his brother had been dreaming.

‘Sammy, Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, thumbing the safety back on before he put a bullet through the goddamned lampshade. Sam looked up at him from the other bed, sweaty-faced, wet-eyed, and then kicked free from the tangle he’d made of his sheets and ran for the bathroom; the light went on and the door slammed shut and a heartbeat later Dean heard him throwing up the little he’d eaten at supper—a shitty apple and half an egg-salad sandwich from the Kwik Stop on the highway, and a candy bar Dean had practically forced down his gullet, ‘cause his kid clearly needed protein, and Snickers had, y’know, peanuts. 

Damn it.

He tucked the gun back beneath his pillow, scrubbed a hand across his hair and stood irresolute for a moment in the center of their room, then padded quietly over to the bathroom door.  Rested his forehead and one hand against the thin cheap wood, didn’t open it. ‘Sam,’ he said. ‘You all right, man?’

One breath, two. ‘M fine,’ his brother managed, which Dean would have believed, sure, no problem, if only the kid hadn’t sounded like he’d been flayed open and left for dead on the side of the fucking road. 


They worked a few cases, saved a few people, hunted a few things. Sam lost ten pounds and stopped sleeping anywhere save for the cradle of the front seat, with the road humming beneath Baby’s tires and his head tipped against the window, a pained furrow between his brows. 

He still woke, always, from a nightmare.

He was, always, fine.


They were in western Indiana, one state line and 250 miles from a room full of shattered mirrors, when Dean opened his eyes, a little after midnight, to find Sam sitting on the edge of the other bed, head in his hands, sheets and blankets a messy tumble at his back. 

‘Hey,’ he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. ‘You all right?’

I’m fine, he expected, but Sam said nothing, and he came all the way awake.


In nothing but his boxers, shoulders hunched, feet bare, his little brother looked small, somehow, and painfully vulnerable. ‘ … I can’t sleep,’ he admitted, soft and young and lost. ‘I just … ‘ His fingers tightened in his hair. ‘Dean, I’m so tired, and I can’t—I can’t sleep.’

Dean’s heart clenched up, hard, behind his ribs, because he knew that voice, even though he hadn’t heard it in a dozen years: Dean, help, his baby brother had said, at seven, bringing him a dying bird with a broken wing; and But Dean I want to stay, he’d cried, at ten in West Virginia; and Dean and Dean and Dean, Sammy always so certain that he could fix it, that he could help, no matter how many times he failed him.

‘… I know,’ he said, quietly, because there wasn’t anything the fuck else to say, no matter how much he wished otherwise. ‘Sammy, man, the nightmares about Jess, they’re—they’re gonna get better, okay?’ he said. ‘They always do; it’s—’

Sam was shaking his head, slow and weary. ‘I’m not dreaming about Jess,’ he said, and Dean blinked at him, because what the hell? ‘I mean, I am, but not … not all the time.’ He pushed a hand back through his hair. ‘It’s always the fire,’ he said, softly. ‘But sometimes it’s … it’s Dad, on the ceiling, dying.’ A shuddery breath. ‘Most of the time it’s you.’

Dean’s throat closed up, hard. ‘Sammy,’ he managed, but the kid just shook his head again, looked up at him with desperate, pleading eyes. 

‘I can’t—I can’t keep watching you die, man; not after … you’re all I got, and I can’t …’ His voice cracked, took something in Dean’s chest with it. They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the rumble of a semi passing by outside on the highway, and the low murmur of the TV from the manager’s office on the other side of the wall.

‘C’mere,’ Dean finally said. He scooted over in the narrow double bed. ‘Just … grab your pillow, all right? You ain’t gonna get any sleep over there.’

He could have sworn he saw his little brother flushing in the dark. ‘D-Dean, I … I don’t–’

He smacked the mattress, once. ‘Shut up and lie your bony ass down, Sasquatch. I ain’t gonna tell you again.’

It took a minute, but four years’ distance apparently hadn’t sapped all of his Big Brother mojo, because Sam finally crawled in beside him, hesitantly, mattress lurching briefly beneath his weight.

They lay quietly for awhile, both of them on their backs, shoulders close but not touching in the dark.

‘Hey, you remember that awesome diner in Georgia from when you were a kid?’ Dean asked. ‘With the waffles and the peanut butter pie?’

He didn’t think it was going to work for a moment, but then, softly: ‘The one with the big peach on the sign? Outside Savannah?’

‘Yeah. Dad and I ended up back there about four months ago, after we cleaned up a haunting in the city. They still got the pie. I was worried, you know? That they’d be sellin’, like, tofu cheesecake or somethin’ by now, but they still got it. Same dumb curtains, same dumb tablecloths, same awesome pie. Sweet potato fries are still good, too.’ He shifted a little, settling himself more comfortably. ‘What were you, twelve, when you polished off that basket of ‘em? The owner came out to take a picture.’ He didn’t mention that he’d found it in August, a Polaroid tacked up on the wall with three hundred others, Sammy sweet-faced and floppy-haired and shyly smiling, or that it was tucked safely now in the glove box, with the few other precious things Dean owned.

He could hear Sam’s smile, even if he couldn’t see it; could feel the tension starting to drain a little from his brother’s long body. ‘Yeah,’ he said. And then: ‘You got the recipe from the cook, remember? Tried to make them for me the next time we were at Bobby’s.’

‘Yeah, well. Not all of my plans are genius, Sammy,’ he said, and his brother snorted out a soft little laugh in the dark. 

Dean talked on, softly, about nothing important: a diner he and Dad had found in Nebraska one Christmas Eve; a ski cabin in Maine they’d slept warm and safe in for a week; the massive, moss-covered oak he’d spend a night under on Jekyll Island, waiting for the ghosts of a slaver and his son. After awhile Sam rolled onto his side, curling up bit by bit in the space between them until his forehead was touching Dean’s arm and one bony knee bumping against Dean’s leg; a little while longer and there were long, hesitant fingertips settling soft against his ribs, like his little brother just wanted to make sure he was real, that he was there. Dean was reminiscing fondly about a burger called the Mac Attack he’d found in Boston when he heard the kid’s breath finally settle into the slow, easy rhythm of sleep.

He lay quietly for a long while beside his brother in the dark, and never knew when he tumbled headlong into dreaming.


He woke a little after 7:00, their room still dark, December rain coming down steady and cold outside. Sam was still sound asleep, sprawled across Dean’s chest the same way he’d slept as a kid, tucked in under Dean’s arm with his face hidden in the crook of Dean’s neck and one arm and leg thrown over him in a haphazard tangle of limbs. Warm to his bones, Dean shifted just a little to ease the cramping in his lower back; Sam snuffled and kicked and wound himself more tightly around him in reply. ‘D’n,’ he mumbled.

Dean settled a hand in his brother’s hair, and closed his eyes against the coming day.

Accidents Happen PART 2

Originally posted by nellaey


A/N: i’m sorry for the dreadful ending. I have rewrote this several times and this is the best I have been able to write it. I will not be writing a part three because of the way this turned out, there would not be much to include. <3

Requested by: @witch-lights @paperrplaness @dontstopxx 

Neither party had any conception on how the events turned out. Shortly after his brief conversation with Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy had received an anonymous letter which noted that the author, to whomst he did not know, had deep feelings for him. It also stated that he should meet them at the herbology greenhouses that very night at one a.m. He was very misguided; Draco was completely unbeknownst to who had sent it to him and anticipation riled through his veins until the time was twelve-fifty, when he decided to step foot outside of the Slytherin Common Room and make his way to the greenhouse. His heart was throbbing in his chest and his palms were undoubtedly sweaty - he was so nervous to be meeting a stranger, to which he assured that his wand was at easy access in his pocket, and to be out after curfew. He was never one to break the rules because his father, Lucius, assured that he would know if he did, and the consequences of Draco doing something wrong was always severe.

When Draco had reached the door to greenhouse three, hesitation came over him. Was he really considering meeting this strange person behind the door? Why did they not just tell him who they were? Why did they not tell hm face to face? Was this person ever going to be good enough for his parents standards, if anything between the two of them ever happened? Questions fought through Draco’s mind, making him hold his head between his hands. He placed his hand on the rusted handle, opening the door wide. His eyes widened, grabbing his wand his pocket and holding it up towards the girl.

“Y/N! What are you doing here?” he seethed, extending his arm and readying himself to hex the girl if needed. Her small head looked up to him, a gasp left her lips when she saw his wand. This faultered Draco’s actions; he did not want to cause any harm to her, yet he needed to focus on holding up the act of hating her. Her eyes softened and she sat down on the greenhouse floor, wiping small parts of soil from her trousers. She opened her mouth to speak, and when she did her voice seemed strained and tired.

“Are you disappointed that it was me? I completely understand if you do, I mean I’d be disappointed if it was me too, but I just needed you to know that I do have feelings for you.. If you do not feel the same way, would you kindly leave me alone please? I would not want to come into conflict with you because it would hurt me far too much, and I know that somewhere inside of you, you have a good heart and would not want that for anybody. So, please, I’m begging you. Just leave me alone..” her gaze did not escape the floor. The silver of the moonlight was shining on her from the glass roof and once again, Draco observed her in a completely discrepant way. Irresolutely, Draco slid his want back into his pocket and seated himself directly in front of the Ravenclaw, making her gaze rise six inches. Draco took her dainty hands in his own large, pale ones and locked his grey eyes onto hers.

“W-what are you-”

“I am most definitely not disappointed that you were here, Y/N. You are correct, I do not want to hurt anybody, especially you. I came here tonight in hope of finding you sat here waiting for me, and knowing that you truly feel the same way about me that I do you, I cannot express my inner happiness. I wish not leave you alone, for I may lose you. May I ask, Y/N, would you like to do something together sometime soon? To spend some time fully getting to know each other in a way that is beneficial to both of us? In a kind way?”

The Ravenclaw was taken aback by Draco’s use of words. Never before had she seen him so well spoken and kind, and appreciative of her company. Just a week ago, she would have never even dreamt that the two would be this close, especially in the middle of the night. She noticed his slight shaking and the thin layer of sweat that was gathered in his hands and she beamed lightly at him.

“I would love to spend time getting to know you, Draco. Absolutely nothing would make me happier.”

Every time that the Ravenclaw and the Slytherin met up, they would become much more infatuated with one another. They endured their free time with one another, meeting in a different courtyard everytime and talking anout utter nothingness for hours. Other students were confused; how did the two go from despising each other a week ago to now acting like they were the only two people in the entire world? It left room for many different theories to be created, and they had soon cirlced around the school, leaving many people unhappy.

“Malfoy?! It’s utterly irrational!” Cho cried, folding her arms as she paced in front of Y/N in front of Charms. She had heard the rumours about Draco and her friend, and came to her rescue as quick as possible.

“It is not, Cho. I think I love him, I think I have done for a while.” The Ravenclaw whispered, looking with desperation to her friend. Cho shook her head, failing to see eye to eye with her friend. They had used to be so close, however ever since Y/N started conflicting with Draco, Cho had become quite distant.

“Love?” she scoffed humourously, shaking her head at the girl in front of her. “Let me tell you what love does. Last time I loved somebody, he died Y/N! You-Know-Who came and murdered him. And do I need to remind you about who Draco’s parents are and what they are?” A gasp left the Ravenclaw’s lips as she rose to her feet, confronting Cho. Her fists were balled at her side as she stared in anger at the girl in the front of her. She had the nerve to speak about Draco that way even though he had managed to cheer her up and had been a better friend to her recently than Cho had.

“How dare you! What I do and who I associate with is absolutely nothing to do with you! And yes, his parents may be Death Eaters, but he is not. You do not know him like I, Cho. He is a kind-hearted boy-”


“Yes, ‘kind-hearted’! I have come to realise that he cares so little about himself and a lot about other people. You would not have noticed, with your nose so far up Harry’s arse! You’re ridiculous! As if you spoke about him that way. We are supposed to be friends, Cho. Does that mean nothing to you anymore? Whether you like him or not you should support he and I, as we are very close now.” The Ravenclaw grabbed her bag, glaring at Cho before setting off. “Have fun doing whatever. I don’t want to speak to you any further if you are unable to think about my feelings and what I want for a change.”

Once again, the Ravenclaw had spiralled a crowd around her and her friend and had left people talking again. One of the people who heard all about it was Draco Malfoy. He noticed how the girl defended him, in front of her friend and did not back down through it all. He felt an unfamiliar thumping in his chest as he watched the Ravenclaw run off. He chased after her quickly, grabbing her hand and spinning her around on the staircase and wiping the tear marks from her cheeks. He pushed her against the wall gently and pressed his pale lips against hers. It was weird, this unusual feeling coursed through him. He knew in that very moment - he knew that he was genuinely happy. He had not felt it in a long time, but he knew that the girl he held against his body was the only person who had the power to change all the evil and sadness that was embedded into him.

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave….. Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
—  Patrick Henry (1736-1799 ) American statesman and  revolutionary

anonymous asked:

Funny, I saw the anon about ship Jimin/Everyone and makes me realize that I started shippin Kookmin and Vmin, but I don't know what happened in the middle that now I only see Vmin like really good friends, like a beautiful friendship, but with Jungkook it's a different story, like I see/feel that is more than just a friendship, but also when I see some post about some Jikook moments too elaborate I'm just like " Nah, even for me that's too much ". So, concluding I totally understand u! hahaha

I’m really glad to see all these outbursts of “WAIT I ONLY SHIP JIKOOK TOO” lol

As much as I’m firmly aware that the human mind can probably convince itself of anything given enough effort and lack of concrete, irresolute evidence (…well, in many cases it still can despite cold hard facts but I don’t want to get into politics yet), there are just some things about Jikook that fit together really nicely. Almost like puzzle pieces. Something that I think the other ships may lack in comparison, if only mildly.

To diverge, a lot of us are enraptured by this “soulmates” theory when it comes to jikook (myself included), because they have so much in common and a lot of times, it really does seem they’re a “match made in heaven”. And it didn’t really help when we recently discovered that Jungkook himself is kind of a romantic, and wishes for a “destined love” himself as mentioned in that recent show they were on. It really gets you thinking…is he really, truly unaware of the uncanny “coincidences” between himself and Jimin?

And their actions kind of imply it too. Kookmin World recently posted a video in regards to their last Puma fansigning, where Jungkook was wearing matching bandaids with Jimin for no particular reason, in reference to a music video about soulmates and such. And again we have this example where the puzzle pieces fit.

Which is why I think some of us have gone nuts over jikook recently. More than I have ever seen since I officially joined this fandom last summer. The “evidence” is just stacking up for some reason, and more and more people seem to be convinced of the possibility that a romantic love could exist between them…? I think it’s gotten a lot more heated recently because of this, I’ve even heard of someone getting blocked for merely questioning evidence, which is beyond ridiculous to me (what some of us have to realize is that: we’re not reporters. Or journalists. Not even close.)

That being said, I still think this should just be fun, and I think most of us are just intrigued by the idea of two undoubtedly attractive men uh catering to each other. Which is nice. Realistic? Well, what are the chances?

What about me then? Someone who has a blog centred around the idea of them being romantically involved and only them? Well again, it’s a nice idea, and their dynamics make for a lot of good stories. And that’s all it is for now, until further proven. That being said, there’s nothing wrong with compiling all this “evidence” in your mind, simply because it exists.

And I say this again and again but, no matter what, they’d probably end up together. Perhaps not in this life but maybe the next one ;)

Blackpink| Their s/o being a mafia leader

Requested by Anon.

In the beginning I was very irresolute since I’ve never written or read AU’s related to Blackpink, but I’ve tried my very best. 

And sorry that it’s short since I wasn’t sure if I should write it with them having a AU opinion or what they think as real persons. I hope you understand what I mean.

Requests are open. Click here for more information.


Jisoo would be worried to no end about your safety. She would have been irresolute about what she should do and would ask you if you could get out off the whole thing, but after you told her that this would have heavy consequences for you and your families, she would try to accept your “job”.

“I’ll try it for you. But please be careful.”

Originally posted by aiyuji


I think Jennie would be someone who sees how dangerous if is for you, her and your families. She would give you a ultimatum to leave the mafia or she would leave you. And she wouldn’t wait long for an answer.

“Decide. I wont endanger my life or the life of my family and I won’t wait for you to get killed.”

Originally posted by jenniekimblackpink


She wouldn’t know what to do. She was afraid about your safety and all the bad things which could happen but she also loves you deeply. She would retreat for some time and ask you about everything. Than she would make a decision.

“Jagi…I love you, but I’m not sure…..about….all that.”

Originally posted by epikcry


I think she would be the only one to thank that this is kind of funny. Of course she would be worried, but when you assert her that you’re able to protect you and your families, she would tease you about your “job”.

“Y’all better treat my good or I’ll tell my jagi about that.”

Originally posted by lalisamanobanblackpink

feel you | jhs

overview: one-shot – hoseok makes a request that sends a boulder rocketing right toward your stomach. 

gif credit

word-count: 1894

genre: (sensual) fluff, slightly nsfw (mild stripping) – something sweet for a change. 

pairing: hoseok jung x reader

a/n: guess who’s restless again at two a.m. :))))))

mood-music: “yeah, now i’m feeling you breathing slow.

You always love sleeping with Hoseok.

Maybe the word “love” is an exaggeration. Maybe it’s the stressing of something that can, with given enough time and caution, be described with a more suitable and tame phrase, such as adoration, cherishing, or treasuring: holding something dear to one’s heart because they find consolation and solace in its existence is what many define as “love”. The term shouldn’t be thrown around lightly. Yet there it is. It’s in the atmosphere, wafting in gusts and breezes that tangle through urban cities and weave between waning countrysides. It wades in soothing oceans during hours bathed in caressing, orange hues that mingle freely with baby violets, and even has the mind to wander above the clouds like gravity-defying aircrafts.

“To love” is an expression that is like a present: love is the wrapping that contains the gift, and gifts are often distributed as formalities. They can even be tokens of mild appreciation. But underneath the concealed offerings, the package can differ in value and sentiment. With that philosophy kept in mind, that’s why you take care in using the fickle word. Does a person really love something if they’re willing to accept its repercussions and consequences, and in a sense, be shameless with their affiliation? It applies to objects as well, and not just people.

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#161 - For Em & anonymous x2

Filling the prompts “Van worships you?” and “the girl and van are good friends and she has feelings for him but is too insecure to think he’d like her back so when van tells her he loves her she gets mad bc she thinks he’s playing her and he has to convince her that he isn’t lying” and “van really falling for the reader because he doesn’t usually meet girls who love wrestling as much as him” from Em

The world was filled with good and bad things you could not comprehend. Black holes. The spooky accuracy of horoscopes. How Foo Fights got so popular. Lupita Nyong’o’s ethereal otherworldly beauty. Complicated, logic-defying, confusing things that only served to freak you out and unsettle you entirely. Van was adding himself to the list. 

“Why… are you not sayin’ anything?” he asked. Because you didn’t believe him, that’s why. You didn’t understand him. What he was saying was impossible. 

“I… No… This can’t…” Fragmented sentences trying to communicate fragmented thoughts. You stood up and began to pace. Then, you walked away. Van followed you around the side of his house and out to your car. 

“Y/N,” he said, holding your door open when you went to close it after climbing in the front seat. “Where are you going?" 

"Home.” You could answer that. 

“You are home. That’s what I’m saying. You belong here, with me.” Your thoughts were too many in number and combined they made a loud white noise in your head. Static. You couldn’t think. Van crouched down on the road, between you and the door. “Y/N, look at me.” You held the steering wheel, knuckles going white. Staring straight ahead, you begged yourself to not be like this, not to freak out. You would finally have what you always wanted if you could just manage to not freak out. “I know you like me. Why are you… What are you doing?" 

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I am heavy with hungers,

irresolute. I have seen

many winters, yet have not

learned the lessons

they brought to my door -

in the ice cold

in the blue snow

in the death

of the animals,

in the blood.

All things touch me -

I flinch at thought.

Flinch once at the blood,

at my stone, pale expression.

I flinch, again, at your touch.

Nihilism no longer wears the dark, Wagnerian, Spenglerian, fuliginous colors of the end of the century. It no longer comes from a Weltanschauung of decadence nor from a metaphysical radicality born of the death of God and of all the consequences that must be taken from this death. Today’s nihilism is one of transparency, and it is in some sense more radical, more crucial than in its prior and historical forms, because this transparency, this irresolution is indissolubly that of the system, and that of all the theory that still pretends to analyze it. When God died, there was still Nietzsche to say so – the great nihilist before the Eternal and the cadaver of the Eternal. But before the simulated transparency of all things, before the simulacrum of the materialist or idealist realization of the world in hyperreality (God is not dead, he has become hyper-real), there is no longer a theoretical or critical God to recognize his own.
—  Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation

Somos também oriundos dessa irresoluta matéria do que não logramos ser:

dos fragmentos de tempo que deixamos por cumprir;
da alba anunciada que não veio ao nosso encontro no caminho não tomado;
do olhar que não soube corresponder ao apelo do horizonte;
da palavra ambicionada mas reiteradamente não dita;
da memória que descobriu refúgio derradeiro no lugar nunca encontrado.


We also come from that irresolute substance of what we could not be:

from the fragments of time left unfulfilled;
from the announced dawn that did not come to meet us on the way not taken;
from the gaze that did not know how to coincide with the appeal of the horizon;
from the  desired word though repeatedly not spoken;
from the memory which discovered a ultimate refuge in the place never found.

If Manet or Degas depicted contemporary subjects in baroque outfits, it might look something like Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s paintings. The exquisite painterliness of her portraits is virtually unmatched; the images fully reveal the process of their making and yet somehow transcend it. In fact, Yiadom-Boakye’s works are not portraits, but rather depictions of composite figures born completely from her own imagination. Her version of painting revels in its complete subjectivity, something she equates loosely with jazz. “The fantasies, nonsenses and random associations in my head meld with the life I live and the things that happen around me,” she has said. “It is necessarily flawed, histrionic, emotional, intuitive, illogical, personal, and largely lost when translated into words.” This helps understand her poetic titles, too, which suggest narrative threads not immediately connected to the paintings but no doubt enhance our pleasure in consuming them. This embrace of irresolution and emotion is precisely what makes her figures so compelling, so alive—perhaps suggesting she has accessed some truth unavailable to those who pursue “realistic” transcription. Like several of the artists I’ve written about so far, Yiadom-Boakye is subjected to a constant barrage of racializing interpretations, which cast her works as radically political for the simple fact of setting their black subjects in a more classical idiom. Take one step back and you realize the absurdity of such a proposition, its unchecked assumption of a white gaze, and how far the canon has yet to come.

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, A Passion Like No Other, 2012

Glass drippin' honney (NCT). Episode 7. Interlude.

Pairing: NCT x Reader (giant mess with multiple options romance).

Characters: Reader, Ten, Yuta, Jaehyun, Winwin, Taeyong and Johnny.

Warnings: Cursing words, violence, death mention and sexual innuendos.

Modern angel/ Demon AU.

Word counting: 1.170

A/N: This is an interlude but it really matters for the story’s course so don’t skip it. Another thing: please mark a like on this if you read it so i can know if people are reading and if you guys like it because this is super long and i dont really want to spam too hard if people is not interested hahaha.

Summary: The summer break after your high school graduation is coming to an end but an unexpected occurrence makes your life turn 180º. You get immersed into a new sphere where you can trust no one and the good and bad guys can’t almost be told apart.

Ep.1- Ep.2- Ep.3- Ep.4- Ep.5- Ep.6- Ep.7- Ep.8- Ep.9- Ep.10- Ep.11- Ep.12- Ep.13- Ep.14

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You’re odd, like me: Ch 7

A bughead fanfic.

Read on

On tumblr: (Ch 1) (Ch 2) (Ch 3) (Ch 4) (Ch 5) (Ch 6)

Summary: Jughead is not interested in girls, ironically this seems to make a lot of them interested in him. Except for Betty, and it drives him crazy when she won’t show any interest in him after spending so many late nights together working on The Blue and Gold.

Authors note: THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER. Get ready to be comfortable with the word aptitudinal. I don’t know how it happened, but it was used a lot in this one for some reason.

Chapter 7

I’m standing right outside her house. Which, I know, sounds like the premise of a horror movie. It’s not all that creepy I swear! She did invite me after all.

She did invite me. I try to convince myself.

I tried to stay at the Twilight, I really did. But as I looked around the room all I could think of was the night when she had sat in that chair, and looked out of that window and had her feet on that stool. The room has been warmer in a non-heat related way since that night. I could visualize the exact look of concentration she had had and her tired eyes. When I tried to think of something else I eventually would slip back down the rampage toward her again. Much like graffiti I am permanently marked with her tag, or rather, essence.

Yet her essence is not enough, so here I am. Standing behind the tree outside her house. Again, not like a creep! She did invite me. The reason I’m behind the tree is because, even though I have made the whole journey over here, I am still not quite sure if I will take her up on her offer. Normally I wouldn’t come, merely out of not wanting to seem desperate, but facts faced: I am desperate. Truthfully I really don’t want to stay a second longer than I have to in that projector room. It feels like I am sleeping in someone else’s house; it’s a shelter, yet not quite comfortable enough. Although I guess Betty’s house would be someone else’s. But Betty isn’t someone. She’s Betty. And she actually really seemed like she wanted me to come. And also, I really want to come.

I would climb up to her window but I don’t want to be one of those so-called “romantic” creeps in movies who climb up a girl’s house uninvited and knock on a her window. Not cool. So I send her a text.

I’m outside your house. The text reads. I try to ignore the creepy undertones as I wait for her reply.

She did invite me. She did invite me. She did invite me.

Scared she’ll invite me in, scared she won’t I wait behind the tree. That’s when I hear it. Her voice. “Jughead!” She calls as silently as she can. After seriously contemplating staying behind this tree for the remainder of the night I step forward. It’s the thought of returning to the solidarity of the Twilight that forces me to emerge from the shadows.

I see her leaning out of her window, her room being the only source of light.

“You’re going to have to climb.” She says in a not so hushed anymore voice. It’s a challenge, I can sense, and I smile a smile that I’m not sure if she detects.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask while giving the rose trellis ahead of me a sceptic look.

“I don’t mind. I guess it’s up to you whether you think you have the aptitude.” Her tone is nonchalant, it’s teasing. She doesn’t think I can do it.

“I reckon it’s less about aptitude and more about whether the lattice will hold me.” I grab onto it to try and make out its stability. The fact that it’s made of wood doesn’t comfort me at all. “Here I come.” I say loudly enough for Betty to hear me but not to wake her family. As I make my way from one plank to the next, reaching for another something to grab hold of, I think of Betty’s room. I try to imagine it, but I find it kind of hard to. What’s harder to believe, is that I’m going to see it for myself as soon as I’ve managed to climb this thing.

“How’s it going?” Betty’s voice can be heard from the upside of the roof. There’s still that annoying challenge to it and I wonder if she’s even worried for me. Because I’m starting to worry for real and my heart is beating fast. The problem isn’t so much the climbing anymore and now it’s the fact that I’m presumably supposed to make my way over the edge of the roof, which doesn’t seem very likely in my head at the moment. But then, in my moment of despair, when I’m just about to seriously consider making my way down again and leaving this town for good, an angel appears. I look up to see Betty now sitting right above me on the edge. My eyes go wide at the sight of her.

“What are you doing?” I say a little too loudly.

“Shhh! Let’s not raise our voices Jug, I’m right here. Anyway, it’s okay, I’m out here all the time.” She whispers reassuringly.

“Oh, okay. It’s just with you being on the edge you are way too near the edge in my opinion.” I wonder if she can even detect the intended humour beneath my exasperation.

Betty laughs and hoists herself up to a standing position, only to squat down again. She reaches her hand out for me. “You’re going to need someone to pull you up.”

I look at her and to my astonishment her expression is dead serious. So I guess I’m just going to have to do this. I run the thought through my head once: that, although it may seem dangerous, this is now something that I will soon do.

“Seems a little dangerous.” I say with a shaking voice.

“To the untrained eye.” Betty smiles. “Honestly, me and my cousin would do this on a regular when we were little. It’s not a problem.” She extends her arm once again for me, it seems she is ready to go. And honestly right now, the thought of falling on my back from this height is more soothing than the thought of folding and trudging back home. So I take hold of her arm in an iron grasp, and she pulls me over the edge to the safe haven.

The threat is terminated, but my heart still pounds loudly in my chest. The only thing I’m thinking of as I lay panting on the hard roof tiles is that missions often seem less intimidating while one has yet to actually embark upon them. This was one of those cases. I also wonder whether or not Betty can hear my heartbeat.

“Congratulations, you have now reached the safe haven. Your 72 virgins are just around the corner.” Betty says while lying down next to me.

“You do know that haven in safe haven and heaven are two different words, right?” I ask her. “They’re not even homophones.”

“Still a funny joke.” She retorts. “And by the way Jughead. That was pretty aptitudinal what you did just now.”

A smile breaks out across my face as I stare upwards at the sky. “Oh, what? You’re making up words now? This has gone too far Betty.”

“First of all, aptitudinal is a word, look it up. Second of all, what happened to, and I quote, ‘I don’t subscribe to prescriptive grammar’ end quote.” She mocks me.

“Making up words is not really the same as not believing in prescriptive grammar.” I retort although I can’t seem to make my smile disappear.

Betty sits up and looks at me; thankfully her smile is still attached to her body as well. “Really? Because making up a word and ending a sentence with a preposition seems equally silly to me.” She starts making her way back toward her window and I follow.

“I do agree however, that it was most definitely very aptitudinal of me. I reckon it almost measures up to your legendary kick-flip.” I keep teasing as we climb.

“So we’re on board with aptitudinal being a word all of a sudden? And yes, although I feel strongly that your work was aptitudinal indeed, I believe my kick-flip reaches the highest height on the Richter scale of aptitude.”

When I get to the window she’s already sitting on her bed. She suddenly looks a little insecure while I step inside as quietly as I can. She’s in a t-shirt and a pair of soft shorts. Despite being the only source of light from the outside, her room is dark except for some fairy lights lighting the walls. Betty is quiet and I inspect her room without trying to make it seem like I am. The colours are dark, there are posters of bands I have no clue about and there are a lot of plants.

“You like plants?” I ask in a lack of other things to say.

She studies me for a second. “They clear the air … and I clear theirs.” She says and picks up her nearest plant on her nightstand and breathes barely audibly on to it.

I try to smile but it comes out irresolute and she rolls her eyes.

“I don’t name them or anything. It’s just nice to have a little bit of nature with me as I escape to a highly mechanic indoor world.” Betty still has that insecure tinge to her that erupted when we entered her own personal safe haven, so to speak. It’s fun to see her not be the girl who skates around Riverdale High in her own world. Even if that is the girl I’ve had an interest in from day one.

“Well if you’re not going to name them…” I tread cautiously toward one of the plants on her desk, eyeing her for permission.

“Go ahead.” She says.

Most of the plants are just green leafs, I suspect some sorts of herbs. But some of them are actual flowers bursting with colours like lilac or yellow, giving some shades to the otherwise achromatic feeling this room has. “What’s this plant?” I ask, smelling the leaf of a specifically odd looking one.

“I don’t know. I don’t usually bother learning about each plant, I just buy random seeds if I like their picture on the packaging.”

“I see. So you plant them yourself?”

Betty smiles. “I do. Or I try at least.”

I look around at the array of plants she has in her room, they are all placed randomly and there seems to be no thought whatsoever toward the layout. “Seems your attempts are paying off.” Betty remains quiet while I further inspect her plants. “This one I will name … Abel.”

Betty’s eyebrows are raised when I look at her. “Off to a good start.” She says.

I ignore the comment and move on to the next one. “You will be called Gabriel.” I am seemingly now talking to the plants.

I circle the room, mostly looking at her posters while occasionally naming the plants I pass by. “You will be called Josef … and you are definitely a Maria … does this look like an Abraham or an Isaac to you, Betty?” Until I am left with only one plant left to name. I hesitate before I take a seat next to Betty on the bed. The atmosphere changes, time seems to move slower. My eyes drift to the plant she’s holding on to tightly. It’s a cactus. I take my finger to poke gently one of the thorns. “I shall name you … Elisabeth.” This receives me a look from Betty.

“How come they’re all names from The Bible?”

“I just realised that as well and I’m not sure why.” I answer. Betty breaks out laughing. “It just sort of happened I guess.” I add while laughing with her. We are both cupping our mouths with the intention of not being too loud.

When the laughter dies out Betty falls into a hesitant manner of being, leaving her exterior intriguingly abstruse. She looks at me with eyes as curious as my own. I find myself not having the faintest idea how this night will lead on. If I had been at the Twilight I would have been asleep by now, waiting for the next day, which would proceed to look suspiciously similar to the last. Instead a pair of intriguingly abstruse eyes are staring at me and I’m dying to find out why they are so.

“We should probably sleep.” Betty says. She doesn’t move a muscle. I look at her, uncertain of what to do.

“Right.” This is the awkward part, the part I can’t play off by giving her plants Bible names. We now have to be real about the cold truth of the situation, the fact that I’m taking refuge in her room. The fact that she is saving me, she’s providing me a home in a way that the Twilight couldn’t even try to. But I am an intruder still, upon ground that doesn’t belong to me, ground that doesn’t really have a place for me.

“As you may have noticed, there is no extra bed. Putting one in would obviously be a dead giveaway to my parents.” Betty puts her cactus back on the nightstand. “So you can either sleep with me on my bed or on the floor. The bed is quite big so I really don’t mind.” She says without really looking at me.

I stand up, suddenly restless. “Yeah, but that’s alright I’ll just sleep on the floor. No worries.” I say while looking around, seizing her bedroom floor since it’s the place I’ll be spending my next few hours.

“Jug.” She interrupts my heedless scurrying, putting my motions to a halt. “You can sleep on the bed.” She states clearly, making sure to pronounce every syllable.

I debate in my head what’s best to do in this situation. Should I do what I want to, and sleep on the bed, or should I insist on sleeping on the floor? I don’t want to do the wrong thing and I want to be a good guy, whatever that even means. But I find myself agreeing to her proposition none the less.

Silently she moves over to one side of the bed and lies down. The silence remains while I remove my shoes and jacket, I don’t even bother removing my suspenders before I lie down on the opposite side. She turns the fairy lights off and it’s pitch dark for a while until I can see her outline, and then her eyes and then I gradually have a more detailed perspective of her features. I watch her as she studies intently the palm of her hand.

“Remember that time at the party?” She asks quietly, like she’s whispering to a small flower. “You took my hand in yours, but you never shook it. What was that?” Her eyes never once leave her palm.

“I wanted you to know that I was aware of your scars. Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it was fine.”

“My intention was only ever to be considerate, let you know that you are not neglected.” I tried my best to choose my words carefully, but in the end I still felt like said the wrong thing.

“Yes, I understand. It did make me feel …less alone.”

I keep staring at the back of her hand while she stares at the palm of it.

The night served to make our brains tired and thus it filtered less, leaving us with a pealed version of ourselves for the other to take part in. The darkness served to make our appearances less conspicuous, leaving a false sense of concealment for us to be relieved by. Possibly as a result of that, I found myself reciting Edgar Allan Poe, “And by strange alchemy of brain, her pleasures always turned to pain, her naiveté to wild desire, her wit to love, her wine to fire.”* I feel a little silly, but I plough through and afterward she finally looks at me.

When she doesn’t say anything, I proceed to tell her, “If you want to, you can try explaining how you feel. I am very interested.”

“It’s a mystery.” She says.

“I love mysteries.” I say.

She hesitates for a long time. But I know she will say something eventually, and it takes a little bit of will power to wait for her, yet I manage.

“I don’t have any friends, no one seems to like me.” To my surprise she doesn’t sound insecure, she sounds casual.

“Are you sure that no one likes you or if maybe sometimes… you shun away from them?” I think of all the times I’ve tried to make our relation move beyond that of a professional one and Betty has seemed oblivious to my attempts, in her own little world like always.

“Why would anyone be interested in me? Have you seen the way I dress and have you seen the people at Riverdale High?” She asks frustrated.

“Then why do you dress that way?” I ask curiously.

“Because! It doesn’t matter, I’m not like them either way.” Her eyes are wet but her exterior doesn’t falter, she’s still hard as a rock.

“And how are you different?” I realise that I’ve become some sort of bot, I’m not so much here anymore, she’s not even looking at me, she’s talking to herself and I’m just the catalyst keeping the conversation going.

“They drink, they party, I don't– I’ve never felt… sexually attracted to anyone.” She finishes, and suddenly I’m there again, in her room, right next to her. She looks directly at me for the first time since the conversation started, but I can tell she finds it hard to. “That’s why no guy would ever be interested in me.” She concludes. “That’s why I wear what is comfortable rather than what is pretty. Because it doesn’t matter, it won’t make a difference.” She stares at me and straight through me, if I moved her eyes wouldn’t follow. “This is what straight girls would look like it there existed no boys to please.”

I laugh at that. “I don’t think that’s true. Do you really believe they would go through all that trouble just to please boys? I think they do it for none other than themselves.”

“Are you saying girls are selfish?” She jokes and I laugh.

“You’re twisting my words.” I smile.

“I’m a writer, get used to it.”

“Right, forgot you’re a professional word twister.” I say sarcastically.

Betty manages a smile but I can see that she is somewhat emotionally drained. “You don’t seem surprised.” She says but realises subsequently that I have no idea what she’s referring to. “About me being asexual.” I can tell the words are new even to her when she says them and I can’t help but wonder how she can be so confident in talking about herself and expressing her feelings, how she can be comfortable with using such a strong label.

“Well… I will begin by saying that I don’t usually assume things about other people’s sexualities. Although the idea… it hasn’t not occurred to me.” I pause to look for her reaction, when it doesn’t come I continue on. “And now that I know it’s clear… It’s in everything you do. It’s you.” I finish, completely unhappy with my feeble phrasing.

“I’ve had these fantasies about getting drunk and doing it just to get it over with. I’ve thought I was gay and I’ve thought that it came from my insecurities and that if I would just learn to love myself then I would get comfortable with loving someone else intimately. But lately, very recently actually, I’ve learned to accept it. Not stopped wishing things were different, but accepted it.” She blurts out all at once like a song.

My heart beats fast. I felt a rush at her words, or more precisely, at how well I identified with them. I want to tell her how much the same we are, but I find I simply can’t. Stating something, which I have been supressing for so long, is too much for me in this instance. I am not prepared for this. I look at her, trying to telepathically mediate what I feel instead. But she is no mind reader. Of that I’m sure.

“But you.” She begins. “You have a lot of… fans. Yet you never seem interested, why is that?” She queries.

“I guess it comes down to feeling like I don’t have anything to offer them. This notion that I won’t be able to give them what they want.” I sigh.

“And what is it that they want, do you think?” She looks into my eyes, really looks for the first time, not letting go. I’m scared she will see through me and I don’t quite hold her stare like I wish I could.

“I’m not sure.” I finally mutter, but it’s useless, she has already seen it in my eyes.

“Are you asexual?” She asks.

“No.” I say before I have time to think.

The quiet paves an audial way to the wind outside.

“I just think that sex is stupid.” I say. In retrospect the statement seems a little childish, but Betty gives me a doting smile.

“Then don’t be asexual, just let us share that opinion an all be well.” She says.

I briefly wonder about the time, but I soon come to find that that’s not where my real queries are. Once I’ve mustered enough courage I ask, “Do you like kissing?”

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“You haven’t had sex either but you still know you don’t like that.”

“Fine.” She smiles. “I believe I do like kissing.” She covers her face in her hands fleetingly in an attempt to shelter herself from sheer awkwardness. The motion is small, but it sparks something inside me. The field of my vision slithers down to her lips.

“Would you like to try?” I ask in the darkness of her bedroom with a vulnerable tinge to my voice. I would be surprised by my own profoundness, but she isn’t this distant goal anymore. She’s a person, and we are on the same level.

“Okay.” She says, but she looks scared. “But I don’t know what to do.” She further explains.

“That’s okay.” I say impatiently. I move toward her, my breathing is slow. The truth is I don’t know either. I have no damn clue. But although missions often seem less intimidating while one has yet to embark upon them, only for you to find out they are a hell of a hassle, some of them are still worth pursuing and some of them you find out later to not be as intimidating as you thought.

When our lips meet I come to find that the latter is in this case true. What has for so long felt completely unobtainable, feels entirely natural with Betty. I take hold of her neck and she takes hold of mine and we pull each other closer. Her lips twitch into a smile, causing mine to do the same. We hold on to each other for as long as we can until we can hold our breaths no longer and fall back on our individual pillows, staring at the roof.

“That was good. But we have to try again.” Betty breathes.

I beam at her. “Again you say?”

“I’m sorry, but we have to use tongue I think. Otherwise it doesn’t count.” She says like it’s a matter of fact.

“Don’t apologize to me.” I say and lean in toward her again, there’s a newfound craving inside me to be close to her.

Right before our mouths meet she stops me. “Just be careful though.” She’s got her hand on my shoulder, which I like. “Don’t use too much tongue, it’s just supposed to skim the lips I think.”

I look at her lips while I whisper, “Fine.” I’ve found out recently that it’s my new favourite place of hers to look at.

She eventually releases her hold on my shoulder and I am free to lean in toward her, I do it as slowly as I can. I do believe that slow is key here. Sort of like a constructed pause in rhetoric’s. And just like tea it is not the way she tastes when I kiss her but the way she makes me feel inside. Sort of like everything is tingling. The only sounds that are heard come from the wind outside and out mouths moving together, figuring out along the way, how much of our tongues are needed.

“And so being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.”* I recite to her once we’ve drawn apart.

8 June 2017

* The poem is Romance by Edgar Allan Poe.

I’ve been sitting with this chapter for basically two days straight and would be very thankful for feedback even in the slightest form! Reblogs are also always nice.

Thanks to everyone who read along!

[#Kanji of the Day] Sunday May 21, 2017 (Heisei 29):逡巡

Japanese Romaji: shunjun
Japanese Meaning: hesitation / indecision / wavering / vacillation / irresolution / drag one’s feet / drag one’s heels / to stall / shilly-shally / dilly-dally / to waffle / to back and fill / to blow hot and cold / procrastinate

shun - to go back / saunter

jun(megu, mawa) - go around / make the rounds / make a round of inspection / patrol / tour around / visit / make a pilgrimage / circumference / counter for tours, cycles, rounds, circuits, etc.

Chinese Pinyin: qūnxún
Chinese Meaning: to hesitate to move forward / to waver / to shrink back / to hang back / to draw back / to move back and forth / in an instant

Chinese to Japanese Translation: 即座に (sokuza ni), 瞬時に (shunji ni), 刹那に (setsuna ni) for “in an instant”

qūn - to shrink back (from something) / to withdraw / to retreat / to move backward / fall back

xún - to patrol / inspect / to make one’s rounds / cruise / go on circuit / a policeman / a cop / counter for round (of drinks)

*Note: a variant of the second character is 廵

Kanji Count | Word Count: 2825 | 1767

Maurice Merleau-Ponty writes about painting as a practice that negotiates the material and the visual. For him, the body of the painter at work demonstrates the embodied nature of all viewership; the act transcends the simple transcription of reality by acknowledging that such a thing is in fact impossible—all seeing is contingent and situated, further mediated by its material representation. Painting lays bare these processes of negotiation, manifesting irresolution, compromise, and investigation on the canvas. Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s gorgeous paintings push this line of thinking to its logical extreme, in that her portraits do not even pretend to depict objective reality in a subjective manner, which has arguably been one of the projects of figurative painting since the birth of the modern. Instead, she paints figures who are purely imagined. This centers painting as an act not of depiction but of creation; it acknowledges the inseparability of representation—and art as one of its primary vehicles—from reality. Rather than a description of material conditions of the world, then, I like to think that Yiadom-Boakye’s paintings literally create new worlds or new ways of being in this one, by giving them material form.

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Willow Strip, 2017

this is going to be a rough couple weeks of kicking my own ass back into gear. i’ve let myself develop some bad mental habits over the last few months dealing with the fallout, so my head is full of weeds, passive, irresolute garbage like ‘well i can’t .. i feel really shitty/depressed/i had a panic attack/ back flare up/whatever the fuck … i should take care of myself … be kind to myself…” and that turns into weeks of insulating myself from existencem wrapped in blankets and disassociating in front of my computer for days. fuck that! it’s time to be stern. it’s time to be obstinate, i have a schedule, i have lists, i have goals and they’re within my reach. just gotta rip out those weeds.