Desi Kids Don't Do Drugs, They Take A Spoonful Of Horlicks And Shove It In Their Mouths

i honestly don’t think authors grasp the effect dark haired, morally grey characters have on their readers. like i mean they can literally kill a man and most of us will still be here like

Forgotten in the rain

The streets were empty and quiet, devoid of life, save for the occasional passing car, rushing and hissing over the wet asphalt. Dark clouds swirled in the gray sky, pouring their sorrows on the desolate city below. Most remained in their homes far away from the endless rivers of water falling from the sky, but not Sirius. No, he most certainly did not despise the grim weather or the rain. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed it, finding it peaceful and almost…serene. He liked to hear the sound of the millions of droplets of water clattering against the windows and cars, sliding down vibrant green leaves, falling on the ground, sinking into the earth and turning it into mush, and disappearing down the drains into the cold metal pipes. It calmed him, washing away the restlessness, pain, and memories, even if it only were for a few short minutes. A light, trembling wind fought his way into his body, past his leather jacket, chilling him to the bones, ruffling his wet hair. But again, he did not mind. A dark green leaf, the colour of Aisha’s eyes, detached itself from a low hanging branch, fluttering briefly in front of his face, before titling down and falling at his feet on the gray cobblestones.

Aisha…she was lovely. A smart, funny, gorgeous woman filled to the brim with joyous life. A temperamental, but kind soul. But it was not the same. Something was still missing inside of him, a small, but important void in his chest, almost as if he had lost something he had never possessed in the first place. And it hurt. He hid it well but it pained him.

He continued walking, immersed in his thoughts and not paying attention to his surroundings. Sirius was so distracted, that he did not notice the pots full of flowers standing on the side of the sidewalk and nearly fell flat forward on his face, as he tripped, knocking them over. White petals flew in the air, and gently settled on the dirty pavement, around withered green stems. Cursing he picked the, up, stepping on one in the process and leaving behind ugly black stains on the squashed flower. They were beyond salvaging.

With a heavy sigh, he entered the little flower shop, water running down his clothes and heavily dripping on the floor. His hair lay in wet black and gray strands on his face and neck, sticking to his skin, and his blue-gray eyes shone bright with curiosity in the dim lighting as he looked around. The place was small and dark, walls covered in crackled navy blue paint, and a couple of dingy light bulbs hung from the bare ceiling, casting their flickering light on the room. Flowers of every shape, colour, and size were cramped in glass vases, broken stems and yellowed leaves were strewn here and there across the floor, and dried bundles of faded pink roses and baby breath flowers hung upside down above the counter, suspended on thin strings.

Sirius stood there, immobile, holding the damaged flowers, at loss, when the green door behind the counter opened, and an old man appeared. He was very tall and slim, dressed in a knitted cream jumper and brown corduroy pants. His hair fell on his face in a mess of graying dark copper curls stricken with white locks, casting shadows over his eyes. He seemed oblivious to Sirius’ presence, nose deep inside a large leather-bound book he cradled tightly with one hand, a steaming red mug of tea in the other. Clearing his throat, the black-haired man walked up to the counter, running a nervous hand through his dripping locks.

“Hello, sorry…I…Uhm,” he stuttered.

The shopkeeper looked up, clever green eyes meeting a confused silvery blue gaze. It was as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over Sirius, filling his bones with fear, chilling every inch of his skin with anxiety. Those brown flecks swimming in pools of emerald, those sun-kissed golden curls, the millions of little freckles peppering pale, once youthful now wrinkled skin, the warm wool of knitted cardigans, the sharp scent of burning hot tea that has just been brewed, the crinkle of rapidly turned pages…he knew all of these things. He was more than familiar with them. It all belonged to Remus John Lupin. It was his Moony. His Moony, who he hadn’t seen in years. Memories washed over him, flicking in his mind like a flipbook, rushing through the years.

The first time he saw the tall, lanky boy with gangly limbs on the Hogwarts Express, the nervousness written all over his face, clear as day, as he sat on the stool, the Sorting Hat heavy on his head and insecurity dancing across his taught features as the name “Gryffindor” resonated in the Great Hall. Sirius remembered the first year, spent in nervous glances and reclusion, the bitterness and resignation when his secret came out, and they found out he was a werewolf.

He remembered Second Year, when Remus’ smiles gradually got brighter and he became more comfortable, yet he still wouldn’t change in front of his friends.

Then came Third Year, and the whole Animagus process, where he finally saw what it was like to turn into a vicious beast once a month, what it was like to tear yourself apart and wake up the next day, just a little more tired and broken than the day before. Fast forward to Fourth Year where his problems with his family truly began, Remus’ constant worried glances, and that cold, dark Christmas Eve of 1974 where he, Sirius Black, appeared at the Potter's barely breathing, beyond hurt and wrecked.

He, of course, never forgot Fifth Year and the stolen, longing stares, the minute he realized he liked boys, and the precise moment he understood that the boy in question was Remus John Lupin, his best friend. He also recalled, with regret and sorrow, the time that he gave away Remus’ condition to Snape; an idiotic, dangerous, so-called prank that near,y cost him one of the most important people in his life.

And then Sixth Year and its tension, the first drunken kiss, the secrets, the lies, and the blissful nights spent at the very top of the Astronomy Tower. Sirius kept the memories of summer 1977 dearly, reminiscing of the sweet warm nights, the bonfires, the day the rest of their friends found out about him and Remus, and the pure joy and happiness of those few weeks.

He remembered Seventh Year and the mounting fear, hanging heavy in the air, the worried whispers, and the empty, saddened stares...all things that perdured even after Hogwarts.

Then came the War, accompanied by mourning and grief, only brightened for a few moments by James’ and Lily’s wedding, and then Harry's birth. A joy that didn't last long, as Sirius’ rapidly deteriorating relationship with Remus finally broke with the death of their best friends and his unjust imprisonment.

He remembered every excruciating full moon of the twelve years spent in Azkaban, every other remaining day blurring into an unintelligible mess, slowly sinking into insanity, with no knowledge of Remus’ whereabouts.

He remembered, without doubt, the first time he saw his godson, Harry, all grown up, looking just like his father, brave and kind, having survived more than he had ought to. And then there was Remus too, looking exhausted and grayed, only a pale, faded shadow of his former self. The next few years were spent between Order missions, confrontations with Death, and the same old, familiar stolen glances. They attempted to rebuild their relationship, yet they never regained that special, magical even, bond.

And after the War, Remus disappeared. At first, they exchanged weekly letters, which then got rarer and rarer, until they stopped coming altogether and for years, Sirius knew nothing of him. Until now.

“Excuse me, sir!” said Remus waving his hand awkwardly in front of his face. “You...wanted something, right?”

The other wizard suddenly shuddered, blinking, as if he had just been roused from a trance.

“Yeah, sorry...I...um...was just, you know...thinking,” he stuttered, blushing.

His former friend raised a sarcastic, amused eyebrow.

“I just wanted to pay for these flowers I sort of...destroyed. By accident of course!” Added Sirius hastily, watching him apprehensively.

“That’s alright, I should have thought to bring them in a while ago already. It’s curious, really, you remind me of someone I used to know a long time ago. His name was Sirius Black. Quite a peculiar name, isn't it?” he replied pensively.

A flare of hope lit up inside Sirius. Maybe, just maybe, he remembered and recognized him.

“Remus?” he asked quietly.

“You know me?”

A look of surprise crossed his face.

“I…,” he hesitated. “No. I thought I knew you but I guess I was wrong. I must have mistaken you for someone else, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s alright, it happens to everyone from time to time,” answered Remus lightly. “Do you want anything else?”

“Maybe white roses, for my girlfriend.”

“Excellent choice! These are my personal favourites” he said, reaching for a bouquet of snowy white roses, with soft petals and lush, dark green leaves.

“I know they are,” thought Sirius bitterly. “You told me in Third Year on a lazy summer day that white roses were your favorite flowers because your mum’s garden was full of them.”

“I’m sure she will love them,” he smiled.

Sirius Black at some point:

I Read A Court of Silver Flames Because I Guess I Just Hate Myself Now

Here’s a fun fact about me: I work in a hospital emergency department. Some shifts, I hit a point where we’re short-staffed, there are sixty people in triage, ambulances are calling in every 2.5 minutes, everybody has COVID and/or bedbugs, and I’m running on adrenaline, half a protein bar, and a metric fuckton of cold black coffee. I realize it’s not going to get better, so I embrace it. I lean into the shitshow, and it’s almost like ascending to a higher state of consciousness.

It’s a point where, someone could literally take a shit on my shoes while naked and screaming obscenities (this has happened), and I’m just like, IS THAT ALL YOU GOT? BRING IT ON! When I hit that point, I am fucking invincible.

That’s where I’m at with SJM books, and… ACOSF almost broke me anyway.

I might be done after this one. Either way, I’m going to have to take a long, hard look at every life choice that brought me to the last two days I spent reading this book.

Hold on tight, everyone, because this book is a dumpster fire of such epic proportions, I wouldn’t use its pages to wipe my ass. This is a very long recap, and I had to cut a LOT just so it wouldn’t be a novel by itself. CW for a truly astonishing amount of slut-shaming, piss-poor treatment of mental health and addiction issues, and multiple graphically detailed sexual assaults.

Keep reading

Suddenly someone's hands covered my eyes and pulled my head back. I tried to pull their hands away but it wouldn't work so I covered their hands with mine. Their fingers were long and thin, and their hands were slightly cold.

"Who is it?" I asked.

Not too long after, I felt a feather light kiss on my forehead followed by a quiet whisper in my ear. "Guess who?"

A smile spread across my face as I recognised his voice. I rose up a little and gave him a quick kiss, smiling like an idiot when his hands were removed from my face.

"Hi." I whispered.

"Hi." He responded.

The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

James trying to impress Lily

James: *seductively takes off glasses*

James: Wow, you're fucking blurry.

Character Aesthetic: Jude x Cardan

Our eyes meet, and something dangerous sparks.

He hates you, I remind myself.

“Kiss me again,” he says, drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.”

I feel those words, feel them like a kick to the stomach. He sees my expression and laughs, a sound full of mockery. I can’t tell which of us he’s laughing at.

He hates you. Even if he wants you, he hates you.

Maybe he hates you the more for it.

After a moment, his eyes flutter closed. His voice falls to a whisper, as though he’s talking to himself. “If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.”

He drifts off to sleep, but I am wide awake.

- The Wicked King, Holly Black

Actually true love is centering someone's bindi for them. Actually it's adjusting their dupatta so it's evenly draped. Actually it's straightening the collar of their kurta. Actually it's making chai when they didn't ask. Actually it's running your fingers over their mehndi. Actually it's giving them your last samosa.