i don't fucking know what this is

Imagine your OTP kissing for the first time after holding it back for so...

Mon, 22 Oct 2012 02:40:28 -0400

Imagine your OTP kissing for the first time after holding it back for so long.

“Matty,” she whispered under her breath, the warning tone of her voice almost lost in the three centimeters between them. She couldn’t do this, she shouldn’t do this — she had Nate, she had a life with Nate. Not Matty. But she and Matty? Christ, they were undeniable. There was nothing like Matty and Delly. They were meant to be, written in the stars.

Not that she’d ever admit it. No, she left all that believing in true love crap to Matty. She was straightforward, she was realistic. She didn’t have her head stuck up in the clouds. There was no way that she and Matty would work. They were too different, there was too much history between them. She needed a fresh start, and she could only pray that she wasn’t making a huge mistake by pushing him away.

But here, with thunder and lightning booming around them, her back pressed against the wall, with Matty’s lips so close to hers? It didn’t seem like it mattered. He pushed his lips against hers, fingers lacing between hers as he deepened the kiss.

He tasted just like she remembered — like vanilla and lust, like earth and familiarity, like warmth and love.

Just like she remembered.

she closes her eyes, and gladly lets the darkness overtake her. she wants to sleep, she wills her...

Mon, 05 Sep 2011 02:02:08 -0400

she closes her eyes, and gladly lets the darkness overtake her. she wants to sleep, she wills her body to succumb to the mounting need to let her subconscious float away slowly. she doesn’t want to be unable to fall asleep. the mattress feels soft, molding to her limbs, and the sheets silky against her legs. and yet, she finds herself unable to sleep. it seems so useless to sleep, yet her entire body is melting into the mattress. she wants to sleep.

her eyes flutter open slowly, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips. she has everything that a woman in russia could ask for. she had money and stature. she was one of them. but why would anyone want to be one of them. she would never understand the envy that she saw in women’s eyes as she passed by them on the streets. their eyes would hungrily examine her clothing, the way her skirts flowed smoothly over her legs, the way her kohl would smudge just right. they look fascinated by her, and she doesn’t like it. she is not an object in a museum to be ogled. she is a woman, and a proud one at that.

proud and compassionate, just as her father raised her. but recently, it felt as if the compassion had been sucked out of her - along with her ability to sleep. she passed through life day by day, her thin figure growing thinner and thinner. maybe one day, if she’s lucky, she’ll disappear altogether. what girl - no, what woman as blessed as aleksandra is wants to disappear?

the bad ones, she’s convinced herself. she’s not like the other women her age. the others want a man, they want to be the perfect wife. and somewhere, however deep down it may be, she wants that too. she’s been made to want it for so long. she was born to be a wife. nothing else - simply a wife. she’s not content with that. she wants more. she craves more. she wants to be so much more than just another one of them.

them.

you are born one of them - you are not allowed to move up the social hierarchy. this is russia - you stay where you are born. and what you are born into becomes the one thing that differentiates you from other people. it is the only thing. if it weren’t for class distinctions, you’d be the same as everyone else. just another face in the crowd, a smudge on the photograph of russia. and you come to a realization: no one would care about you - no one would look twice at you in the street.

your heart drops to your stomach and you finally admit it to yourself: you want to be a smudge.

it’s your third year, and the first year you’ve opted to stay at hogwarts over the...

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 16:29:03 -0400

it’s your third year, and the first year you’ve opted to stay at hogwarts over the holidays. it’s because of teddy. you won’t ever admit to anyone anymore, but he’s your best friend. no matter how much he manages to piss you off: snide comments about you and the boys you hang around with, the moments you catch him looking at you and he makes you feel like you’ve got something all over your face. but he’s your best friend, even if sometimes he does push you away when he’s talking to fit girls. that bothers you the most. the girls that he hangs around with aren’t anything special. they’re not too pretty, and usually spectacularly dumb. you can’t fathom how the girls he’s with can get dumber, and dumber, but each one surprises you. he always manages to find a brand new level of stupid. you haven’t hung out with him for a while, and that’s because you’re honestly terrified that their stupidity is contagious. another thing you notice, is that he’ll go for any girl in the world if they’re not blonde. he avoids blondes like the plague. you don’t know why, and that’s another thing that he does that bothers you. nevertheless, you’re excited to finally spend some time alone with him. you have so much to tell him. you have a boyfriend! you’re going out with a fourth year named adam, and you’re quite infatuated with him. you haven’t kissed him. you’ve never kissed anyone, contrary to the rumors. it just hasn’t been right with anyone yet. you can tell adam’s getting antsy. you want to tell teddy, you really do. you want to ask him for advice, you just know he’s going to be a complete wanker about it. you keep psyching yourself to man up and tell him, but you always find a reason on not to. things like “oh, i don’t want to ruin his mood,” or “he’s so tired, hoe won’t understand me anyways.” but you’re out here in the freezing cold with him, and you suddenly can’t find a reason not to. you’re lost in your thoughts until the end of his sentence pierces your thoughts.

“like rudolph.” he says, laughing at you.

you wrinkle your nose, casting him a death glare. if looks could kill, he’d be dead and gone.

you don’t like it. you know full well who rudolph is, thanks to uncle harry quite often drunkenly recounting muggle stories about christmas. you don’t like being called rudolph. you are so much cuter than some reindeer with a light up nose. you are not pleased, and teddy knows it. “wanker.” you mutter under your breath. you lean down and pack snow together between your two hands. hurtling a snowball at him seems like a fantastic idea, so you do it. and you hit him square in the chest. you’re furious, and you’re cold, which is truly a volatile combination for him. teddy best be careful - what he does in the next few moments will decide whether he’s getting punched in the face or begrudgingly forgive. you turn on your heel, trudging slowly back to the castle, and soon, you figure ‘hey, why not tell him about adam and piss him off?’ you turn around, not expecting him to be so close to you. “by the way, teddy,” you spit his name like it’s venom. “i have - oh.” your sentence is cut off by his lips crashing against yours. you don’t want to push him off, you don’t want to fight back. you should, but you don’t. you just sigh softly into the kiss, slipping your arms around his neck, and moving your body closer to his.

this is definitely not how you imagined getting warmer.

it ends all too fast for your liking, and you stumble back, confused and torn between slapping him and kissing him again. instead, you stand there, shock overtaking your system. “what’d you do that for?” you want to ask, but your voice is stuck in your throat. so you follow your instincts: your heart is pounding and you know you’re blushing way too hard for it to be considered cute anymore, but you slowly inch closer to him. his eyes - they look like yours. exactly like yours, actually. you raise an eyebrow at him, looking at him suspiciously. “i should really hit you right now.” you mutter, slipping your arms around his neck once more. instead, you move your body closer to his, standing on your tiptoes, and you press your lips against his once more.

suddenly all you want is more of him. just teddy, you want him to wrap you in his arms and carry you back to the castle and kiss you all day.

but wait - a small voice in your head utters - what about your boyfriend?

you pull back for a moment to catch your breath, and collect your thoughts. the moment doesn’t last long: his lips are against yours once more, his hand guiding your body closer to his. suddenly, all thoughts of adam are gone: teddy is the only name you want to hear.

the color red has always been your favorite. you can’t explain why - maybe it’s the...

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 15:27:12 -0400

the color red has always been your favorite. you can’t explain why - maybe it’s the countless hours you spent as a little girl, watching your maman carefully apply lipstick to her lips, blotting them on a napkin daintily afterwards. or maybe it’s because it’s the color of most of your cousins’ hair: the weasley gene is truly a hard one to shake. but red is, and always has been your favorite color. it makes you feel warm and cozy, like you’re meant to be wherever you’ve ended up. and that’s partly why you’re glad you were sorted into gryffindor. you love the house colors: a striking goldenrod, and a burning, deep red. hogwarts, you come to discover, is everything that you’ve ever imagine and more. you couldn’t possibly have imagined every single detail. you couldn’t even begin to fathom the complete beauty that is the way the lake looks frozen over at christmas as the sun sets on yet another beautiful day.

before you left for hogwarts, everyone warned you about the work load. especially aunt hermione. you kindly remind her that you’ll be just fine as she shakes her head worriedly and flits away to bother another cousin about school: usually teddy. teddy and you are the two oldest, just two years apart. you’re close. you can’t imagine doing anything without him. you’re best friends, thick as thieves. you’re the peanut butter to his jelly. you’re so simpatico that it almost hurts.

three weeks later, as you nervously search the hogwarts express for a train compartment your first year, he slings a comforting arm around your shoulders confidently steering you towards the compartment where he and his friends are sitting.

that’s when they start talking about you. you’re not quite sure who “they” are, but they’re definitely talking. they want to know about you: who’s the first year teddy lupin seems to be so interested in? why does he care so much about a useless first year?

you notice, but you don’t care. they need something to do other than spend their time talking about you. they don’t understand the bond that you and teddy share. you’re closer than they’ll ever be to anyone, and you don’t mind it.

what you do mind, however, is the fact that he sat you down right next to him in the corner of the train compartment. you don’t talk much: you spend most of the train ride silently passing judgments on teddy’s friends: too short, much too arrogant, seems like a complete wanker.

the train comes to a halting stop, and you feel an overwhelming wave of relief crash over you as you’re ushered into boats with the other first years. you quickly make friends: when you want to be (and you almost always want to be) you’re quite vivacious. you learn their names quickly: in your boat, there’s a lillian, a david, an isabelle, and an albert. you offer them an easy smile as you calmly bring up which house you want to be sorted into.

“gryffindor.” you offer coolly, a smirk crossing your face.

lillian looks at you like you’re insane, and you resist the urge to smack her.

“ravenclaw, obviously.” she sneers. “i’m smarter than any of you lot.”

the urge to smack her grows.

you decide you don’t like lillian much.

david shrugs noncommittally, leaning back with an easy smile. “i don’t really care which.”

you nod slowly, not quite understanding how someone can’t care which house they’re sorted into, but you don’t care. you already like him quite a bit better than lillian. he doesn’t make you want to jump off a building. your gaze turns to isabelle, and a smile lights up your face. “gryffindor. i really hope i bet gryffindor.” a smile appears across your face to match hers, and you two share a laugh. you like her best.

you turn to albert last, who’s currently looking down at his lap, blushing. “i - i don’t know what the houses means.” he admits. ” me mum’s a doctor, an’ me dad’s a lawyer.” you laugh without meaning to. “it’s okay, albert. we’ll explain them to you.” you declare, smiling at him from across the boat. and you do - you explain them as best as you can. you reach the castle soon and your mind is filled with thoughts of gryffindor. your breath catches as you walk into the great hall, and try to fully absorb the beauty of it. you sit with the other first years, patient at first. as time wears on, you begin to curse having weasley as a last name. after what seems like an eternity, you hear your name called.

“weasley, victoire.”

you stand up, practically running to the stool. you nervously look out over the crowd, and teddy’s signature blue hair catches your eye. he offers you a reassuring smile, winking at you. the weight of the sorting hat crashes down on your head.

“another weasley?” it asks, bored. your fists clench immediately. you don’t like anyone or anything, in this case, insulting your family. you can’t help it - you’ve always been protective of them.

“feisty,” it comments with a dry laugh. “i think i know exactly where to put you.”

your eyes are set like daggers on the red and gold banners, and in your head, you’re chanting ‘gryffindor.’

“gryfindoooor!” the hat booms, and you walk slowly to the table, an accomplished grin across your face as you’re greeted by raucous cheers. you slide in next to isabelle and albert at the gryffindor table as lillian sulks on the other side of you. as you settle onto the wood bench, you can’t help but feeling like this is where you really belong.

not at home, not at the burrow, but right here, proudly wearing red and gold.

you can’t live without him. even breathing seems difficult. you can’t imagine a life...

Sun, 31 Jul 2011 01:58:00 -0400

you can’t live without him. even breathing seems difficult. you can’t imagine a life where you don’t know him, where you’re blissfully unaware of the passions that consume you. you don’t want to know a life without that. but he’s gone, and by the looks of it, he’s not coming back anytime soon. there’s not much you can do. it hurts, it hurts like hell. this isn’t the way things are supposed to be. they’re supposed to be better than this. you’re better than this, you’ve always been better than this. this isn’t you - you don’t get hurt, and especially not by a man. he shouldn’t even count as a man, you think to yourself. fucking coward. but you’re supposed to be stronger than this. you shouldn’t be curled up in your bed, your white sheets wrapped around you, tears streaming down your face because he left you. he shouldn’t have left you. he was yours, and he was supposed to always be yours. but there was a large difference what’s supposed to be, and what actually is. he’s supposed to be here right now, with his arms wrapped around you, his familiar scent surrounding you. he smelled like warm cinnamon and broomstick oil most of the time. you didn’t like it at first, but now you can’t live without it. you don’t ever want to live without it, because living without it means that you’ve actually lost him. but the thing is you think you actually have lost him.

now, when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t see yourself like you used to. your hair is dull, and lifeless now. your lips are no longer that shade of pink, perfectly pouted, alluring, drawing in attention from many a passerby. your eyes - your eyes are shallow. there’s nothing but pain and anger in your eyes. you can’t believe he left you. after all you’ve been through, he left you, and that makes you sick to your stomach. you’re not good enough for him - you were never good enough for him. you were just something to pass the time. everything you’ve ever felt for him. it’s been a complete lie. he never really loved you, you tell yourself. if he had, he wouldn’t have left. he would’ve know that when you get angry you go ballistic. when you get angry, nothing matters but what you feel, and you’ll say whatever comes to your mind. he knows that. he’s provoked you enough to know that. but he’s gone. he’s left you. and slowly, you realize that he left you. that he thought that you weren’t good enough? if you aren’t good enough, who is? his hand? and slowly the betrayal and initial hurt and shock that you felt turn to anger. but you’re still not sleeping at night. sleeping would come too easily, wouldn’t it?

instead the circles are growing darker and darker. your sheets now feel like sandpaper against your skin, so you spend night after night curled up in an armchair, staring into your fireplace, looking at the warm flames lick the bricks that surrounded it. the colors are so mesmerizing, and the way the flames dance around each other. you remember the first time you two dance, and your eyes shut, your legs pulled into your chest, curling up into the fetal position. you don’t want to remember him, you don’t want to remember anything about him, you don’t want him. he makes you sick to your stomach, he makes you want to stab something. you know you’re lying to yourself. he makes you want to cry, and laugh, and dance all at the same time. but right now, it’s mostly crying. you feel like you’ve been stabbed in the side, or something. you don’t know what to do: so you sit in your armchair, and you close your eyes, tears escaping them, silent sobs escaping your mouth as you clutch your sides. but then the sun comes up and you have to pretend like everything’s fine. you smile, but you feel like breaking down. your eyes aren’t the same anymore. there’s no spark in them, no twinkle anymore. your laugh is soft, and dry. people notice, but they can’t do anything. no one can do anything, but he can.

but seeing him would make everything so much worse. because seeing him would mean losing yourself to emotion completely. you can’t do that. you can’t let him win.