#shitwriting

The last place you expect to find him is like this, on the stairs of his throne room. Those white marble steps, made of nothing but fiction, the same stairs he had chased you on on very very good days, the same ones he kissed you at the top of and the same ones he first told you he loved you on.

And there he is again. Back, after years upon years.

And as you enter the throne room you freeze.

Despite the fact you have been his lover for centennials, his beauty takes you aback. He just looks so at home with the way the stained glass reflects upon his skin, the way his cloak is spread out behind him, the way those dark unforgiving eyes scan what used to be his kingdom.

His beautiful, beautiful, kingdom. And now all that is left is a pile of grey rubble, his lover and a librarian and where he used to stick out like a sore thumb in his own kingdom...he doesn't anymore. He looks just as broken as his surroundings.

Morpheus sees you when he hears the great doors close, and his head shoots up. His eyes go so wide and his jaw falls slack as he stands. And when you know it's okay for you to move you break down into tears, a grin on your face as you run into his arms and topple him back down to the stairs.

You're sure that must've hurt but it doesn't look like he cares so much. Because he has you and that's all that matters. And his arms go up to your face to brush away your hair so he can see your eyes and kiss your forehead and cheeks. And when he kisses you properly you're sure your dreaming.

"I missed you, I missed you." You're repeating as if saying it means he won't ever leave again.

"It's alright my love, I'm here now." He says and your head falls into his lap, arms splayed across him as he gently plays with your hair and smiles.

They arrive at Grimmauld Place six weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, funerals behind them, chased by ghosts. Ron and Hermione are in Australia.

Harry and Ginny, the both of them, are war heroes, but in the Muggle world, they aren’t adults yet. their shoulders sagging with grief and their nights haunted by battle cries, they might as well be eighty-year-old war veterans, Harry thinks

Grimmauld Place is cool and ancient, like the inside of a cave. It is dusty and dark, and standing in the foyer, the dirty carpet beneath her neon sandals, Ginny looks so out of place. Her inherent brightness, her shiny red hair and her sheer brilliance isn’t bedimmed by the gloominess of the place where his dead godfather lived.

Lots of work to do here, Harry. sure you don’t want to empty your vault and find a fancy apartment in say, London or Cornwall or someplace else? she asks, hands on her hips, brown eyes assessing the place, Molly Weasley’s daughter through and through.

Harry just shrugs and says, I own a wand, so do you. plus, your Mum agreed to lend me her copy of 26 Household Charms.

*

We need more color in here, Ginny declares on evening. With Kreacher’s help and occasional aid from Mrs. Weasley, they have managed to clean and dust the place. Currently, they’re seated on the same side of the dining table, eating Chinese noodles from plastic tubs.

You think so? he asks. Harry reaches forward to wipe away gravy from the corner of her small mouth. Then, he sucks it off his thumb without thinking. It’s so natural, neither of them notices.

Don’t you? she asks. He shrugs.

You can’t shrug every time you have to make a decision Harry, she complains. This your house for..well, for the foreseeable future.

Haven’t I made enough decisions for a lifetime? Pretty tough ones, too, he mutters irritably.

Stop being dramatic Harry, she rolls her eyes.

Fuck you, he sighs.

Sure, after dinner though, she agrees nonchalantly. Her smirk is mischievous around a spoon of wet noodles.

*

They decide to paint his bedroom first. It’s the same one he shared with Ron in their fifth year. They choose to cover the walls in sage green Muggle paint that smells like ammonia. Ginny reads the instruction on the back of the bucket sitting on her toes, and Harry admires her backside from the door. Then, she ties a piece of old cotton over her fiery hair like a scarf, paintbrush in hand, and turns to him.

Well? she raises an auburn eyebrow. His dark ones arch in reply.

Get busy, Potter. She throws the paintbrush at him. Like a true seeker, he snatches it easily.

Good reflexes, Ginny says, already dipping her paintbrush in the color bucket.

You bet, Weasley.

Later, they collapse on the floor, tired. She’s already falling asleep.

Hey Gin, wanna move to the bed?

We’re not sleeping here. The smell is disgusting. He carries her to the bedroom that she and Hermione shared. When he returns from the loo, she sleepy murmurs,

That summer, I was so horny for you, I’d finger myself several times a day.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he looks down at her face lit by the candlelight, looks through her pretense of being sleepy.

He gets into bed and spoons her from behind. His erection fits perfectly in the cleft of her cute little bum.

And now? Are you horny now? he whispers hoarsely into her ears.

What d’you think?

Only one way to find out, innit?

“Well there I was, a washed-out deadbeat investigative inspector with a heart of gold and a briefcase by my side facing down a lion-zebra hybrid. I took out my--”

“Okay, hold on William.”

“What is it?”

“You did not face down whatever a lion-zebra hybrid is and you have never been an investigative inspector! Is that even a real position?”

“Mary, the only real position is what you make of it.”

“My name is not Mary! This is the thirteenth time this week you've messed up my name and you have only said it thirteen times this week. Maybe this memory issue has something to do with your tall tales.”

“Nice, a solid 10/10 is always a good friend.”

“Oh so we are rhyming now?”

“Well technically, Martin, it's not a true rhyme.”

“My name. Is not. Martin.”

“Okay, I'm gonna be straight with you.”

“Please do, Will.”

“I have no idea who you are.”

“Will, we've been over this time and time again! I do not want to get to know you outside of work. It is unprofessional.”

“Marina, i do not care about being friends with you because i don't know who you are.”

“William?”

“I have no memories past this morning, Mikey.”

“Wait, so that story you were just telling me about your trip to the Congo…”

“All fake. I am so sorry, Mariasha.”

“Oh well obviously it was fake. I have known you your whole professional career and you have never left Old Pansilvina.”

“Old Pansilvina?”

“You know, the state we are in?”

“Uh…”

“Okay anyways, yes your story was very fake but you have a wonderful imaginative mind.”

“I do?”

“We could definitely put you to work in the writer’s room, don't worry about your memories or anything, they'll come back with time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely! You'll fit right in.”

“What exactly is it that we do here?”

“Cover up anomalous weather patterns and traces of Galaxinacta B.”

“Galaxy what now? And why do we care about weather?”

One of the ones about Joe Alwyn

I’m blissfully happy for the first time in my life

The way you look at me

It’s the first time I’ve felt seen

Until

You make me feel like a Taylor Swift song

One of the old ones about her exes

How you won’t speak to me

I feel so distant

Can we go back

title by @wholockviantime. 1.6 k of ??? epiphanies ??? and some in french too. also posted on ao3.

bitty:

the closet in jack’s bedroom is big -- cavernous, almost -- and new, and clean, and mostly empty. overwhelmingly empty, maybe. bitty can picture it, though, with its shelves and hangers full of clothes that belong to him too and shoes and jerseys and extra sheets, but the image is not for right now. jack doesn’t say anything but bitty knows he’d like to buy bitty new things to fill his closet with, make it theirs, but. for now, he’s content with his one drawer. 

and the thing is, it really is big. so big bitty doesn’t mind going in there to put the laundry away while jack’s at practice. there’s a storm picking up outside but it’s warm in here, and jack’s got a big truck so he’s not too worried about him driving in the snow. he folds it all neatly, precisely, which he sure as hell doesn’t do for his own clothes. the closet even has a light, which turns on from the outside, so bitty doesn’t have to spend any time in the dark. it’s warm and comfortable and bright and

Dear Diary,

Ako ay ka defresshon. Soafer and hormonal, chemical, eklavoo, soafer enet ang fanahon, soafer! soafer!

SOAFER!

Gusto ko nang maging boldstar!

Kubra drones

Orgasmic in his artistry

Fingers the guitar obscenely

These stupid rgb lights