“Where is he?” you asked excited. Your whole body was trembling with excitement and you jumped up and down on your spot like a kid. Steve smiled softly and patted your shoulder. You tried to look around his shoulders in hope, he would be standing right behind the Captain.
Fresh laundry. Hot dogs for dinner. Cold pizza for breakfast. A really good haircut. A joke so funny that you cry. New shoes. The CRACK! of a baseball on a wooden bat. FOMO. Peppermint chewing gum. Runner's high. Your first crush.
Pine trees. Cold dew on a summer morning. MRE's that don't taste like paper pulp. Cornfields as far as the eye can see. Screaming at the sky late at night. Turkey with stuffing. White bread in a plastic sleeve. Getting gum on your shoes.
Scented candles and burnt popcorn. Fresh-cut daisies. Drawing with charcoal. Sun bleached bones. The smell of gasoline. Gel pens. Your favorite animated movie. The scapegoat. Not caring at all.
Butterscotch and sulfur. Rolling meadows of grass. Sand in your shoes. Fried fish in a greasy newspaper. Fireworks on a warm summer evening. Wool turtleneck sweaters. Being double-dog-dared to swim in the lake during winter. The best hole-in-the-wall pub in the world.
Dusty old books. Creaking floorboards. Fresh winter snow. A really good sandwich. Finding a new favorite novel. A handmade scarf. Getting a good grade on an assignment. First editions. Going to the natural history museum. Firmly believing why you were put on this earth.
Breakfast foods. Campfires. The satisfying clicking of clockwork machinery. Reading bedtime stories aloud. T-shirts with math jokes on them. Tuning a guitar. Petting zoos. Knowing your limits. Learning about something that makes you really happy. A cool looking rock.
Antiseptic. Down comforters. Really round fluffy birds. Bad puns. Doing things because you can. Hot tea. Waking up before the sun does. Whistling. Dry cleaning. Fun facts about animals. Really strange nonfiction books. Windy winter days.
Dirt and black coffee. Climbing a tree. People watching. Road trips. Going to bed and realizing you haven't spoken to anyone all day. Fairy bread. Getting caught in the rain. Really cool scars. Having a story for everything. Polarized lenses.
Vermouth and tobacco. Minimalist cuff links. Playing cards. Hair pomade. Silk ties. Your first love. A passing feeling of emptiness. Heels clicking on polished floors. Crusty dinner rolls with soft warm bread on the inside.
Lavender hand soap. Gunpowder. Lilac polo shirts. Worn black denim. Staying up late and watching the home shopping channel because you can't sleep. Beat-up firearms catalogs. Telling your mother to return your birthday gift because your workplace has strict dress codes regarding clothing colors, even though you desperately need that new skirt. Finding drawings from when you were a child. Soft wool cardigans. Shiny silver knives. Yogurt with fruit. Hating and loving your job at the same time.
Harry is fourteen, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.
She’s in a floaty, pastel colored dress—blush or mint or lavender, he doesn’t really notice—and she’s dancing with Nott, spinning around in a tight, gracefully calculated circle, her hair a gleaming wave of perfectly smooth, meticulously styled cornsilk; and she has freckles, maybe, and blue eyes, no green eyes, and she’s slender in a way that looks like it takes effort to maintain, her cheeks the slightest bit too sharp, her ankles the slightest bit too flimsy; and she’s giggling conspiratorially with Parkinson over by the punch bowl and she’s whispering encouragingly to Bulstrode out in the gardens and she’s smiling shyly, no, slyly at one of the older boys from Beauxbatons, letting him kiss her hand and tuck a winter white rose behind her ear, and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never even thought of speaking to Daphne Greengrass before, but—
But he thinks about it, then, fleetingly.
Just for a moment.
Harry is seventeen, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.
She’s in an anonymous lineup of dusty, mud-spattered Slytherins, tie loose and blouse shredded and skirt singed all along the hem, the holes in her tights ranging in size from pebbles to sickles to fists; and her is cut in short, bluntly messy chunks, right under ears, and there’s a delicate, heart-shaped locket hanging from a silver chain around her neck, and her lips are dry and cracked and trembling as her gaze flicks frantically from one corner of the Great Hall to the other, bypassing the tear-stained Malfoys and the grief-stricken Weasleys and the curse-scarred, still-warm bodies piled high between them; and she’s clutching a navy wool cardigan that looks too clean to be hers, the fragments of a long, willowy wand bunched in her opposite hand, and she’s not crying, no, she’s not screaming or gasping for air or staring listlessly up at the rafters—she’s searching, Harry realizes, she’s waiting, and eventually, a younger Ravenclaw girl with lopsided blonde pigtails come tearing through the crowd, a sob stuck like wet cement in her throat, and Daphne positively crumples, her face and her posture and the narrow, porcelain-fragile arch of her spine, and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never even truly been tempted to, but—
But he thinks about it, then, fleetingly.
Just for a moment.
Harry is twenty-two, and Daphne Greengrass is nobody.
She’s sitting by herself at the very end of the polished, cedar plank bar, a cut-crystal tumbler of vodka or gin or possibly just plain tap water resting on a cocktail napkin in front of her, and she’s wearing a tiny black dress and blood-red stilettos and has her hair dyed a dark, rich auburn, more red than brown in the dim, smoke-shrouded lamplight; and there are diamonds in her ears and wrapped around her wrists and studded through her nose, the dip of her waist less pronounced than he remembers it being, her hips rounder and her breasts fuller, an undeniable softness to her demeanor, to her features, that’s mimicked in the gentle curve of her mouth and the rosy pink of her cheeks; and Harry’s never spoken to Daphne Greengrass before, has never actually, seriously entertained the idea of doing so, but—
“Oh,” she says, suddenly, catching his eye with a curious, somewhat bemused tilt of her chin. Her voice is slower and quieter and higher-pitched than he’d expected it to be. “Harry Potter. Did you need something?”
Harry is still twenty-two, and Daphne Greengrass is—
The word strikes him as inadequate, almost offensively underwhelming, but he isn’t sure if there is a word for how carefully—hesitantly—radiantly she fits beside him; because there’s the blurry, strawberry-pink line of a pillow crease on her face, already beginning to fade, and long, curling tendrils of hair escaping the sloppy, oddly complicated looking braid she has hooked over her shoulder, and the sunny yellow polish on her nails is flaky around the edges, peeling off in haphazard little slivers, and she’s licking pastry icing off her lips, the tip of her tongue delving in and out of the microscopic, crescent moon chip in her front tooth, and Harry’s fallen in love before, and he’s fallen out of love before, and he’s lived through what he assumes is a fairly average number of breakups and regrets and one-night stands and relationships that were fundamentally impermanent, always, easy enough to ignore, if he wanted to, easy enough to erase, if he needed to, but—
genre: fluff/romance and a lil bit of the steamy steam ;)
word count: 8495
characters: Hansol Vernon Chwe/Original Female, bff!Jeonghan + various
prompts: seven(teen) minutes in heaven, university!AU with fraternity!Seventeen, one night stand(?), friends-to-lovers
*this references to traditional American University Greek life, referring to members as “brothers”, if you’re confused please message me! feelin hella clever that SVT/
was managed to be made in the greek alphabet
Hansol Vernon Chwe, she tried to unsuccessfully convince herself, meant nothing to her.
Not when he walked into 18th Century Children’s Literature every Monday and Wednesday, looking like the dead bird her pet cat dragged in when she was three. His ebony strands would stick out like dead twigs, usually muffled by a worn navy baseball cap with the lid twirled behind his neck. He never made a fuss when he entered a minute before the class would start, rushing to the nearest empty desk with his head down, lost in thought. Even though it was an afternoon class, he still managed to look like he walked right out of bed and into lecture.
He meant nothing to her, when he seldom spoke in their seminar, tucked away in the back scribbling notes. Especially not when he’d pipe up for class participation every other blue moon, speaking with sudden austerity about how the English language is so convoluted, his voice strangely comparable to the thickness of raw honey.
So many projects on my needles, it’s difficult to choose which one to finish first! This one is a strong candidate though, can’t wait for it to be done - it’s the first cardigan I’ve made up from the top of my head! Yarn is Álafosslopi, very thick and warm Icelandic wool, surely to be nice to wrap myself into during the winter :)