#I meant to give him like the bangs in the bottom but just automatically drew Owen and only noticed why he looked off in EDITING

[glittter-skeleton]

Ted and Jenny, I personally prefer thinking they were generally insufferable

#the only things we know of her is liked Ted and wants to do edibles at her own wedding #she was Not normal #people can’t change That much he was pretty shitty before Jenny left #not AS MUCH obv but u know maybe it’s a good thing they never got together #NEVER allowed to babysit anyone EVER #I meant to give him like the bangs in the bottom but just automatically drew Owen and only noticed why he looked off in EDITING #fanart #v's art #starkid #hatchetfield #ted spankoffski #Jenny starkid #idk she doesn’t have a surname #the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #npmd #nerdy prudes must die #time bastard

[cosmichoneyedblossoms]

Love Over Nobility

Pairing: King Bang Chan x Bodyguard Reader (F)

Genre: Smut | Angst

Word Count:

Requested?: Yes, by @ncttrashnoodle

“Excuse me?” You asked, the words playing upon your ears confusing you.

“You heard me. I want to marry you.” Chan hummed as if it were like he was stating what he wanted to eat; scoffing, your eyes followed him across the room as he started to unclasp his belt.

“I think you’re quite confused about your social standing as opposed to mine, your Highness.”

“Oh, no, I completely understand where we both stand in this house, but that still doesn’t change my feelings and decision.” You were left utterly speechless while he slipped out of his bright red robes to be left in his pristinely white Hanbok, “You are a bodyguard, and I’m your King.”

“Your Highness… you need to be with someone of higher status—preferably a noble lady or a princess—” He short you a glance, one that sent shivers down your spine.

“Listen, Y/N…” he padded his way toward you, “Are you telling me that the night we shared was just one-sided? Because if I remember correctly, you started this little mess in my head.”

“H-hold on—” In a blink of an eye, he had you pinned to the wall, his dark eyes searching your, searching for a shred of something to keep him going. The pounding of your heart was causing a feeling you only felt with Chan, a dark passion that could swallow you if you lost your ground.

“I want you as my wife.” Breaking eye contact, you looked away from him, shifting your eyes to anything but him. Hiding your emotions became easy when you took the position as his guard, but in a moment like this, it was easy to lose yourself to him.

“I’m not having this conversation with—”

“Look at me and tell me no.” His rasped command had you swallowing hard, knowing that it would be almost impossible to turn him down, but you tried. You connected your gaze with his once more and cleared your throat.

“No, Channie.” Your voice wavered on his name, you tried to keep your composure, but he knew you all too well.

“How about a deal?” He dropped his hands from the wall to let one of them grip the ribbon of your jeogori, “If I can’t please you, then I’ll let this matter die, and I’ll meet with a matchmaker, but…” Tugging the ribbon, the bow unraveled, “If I can, then you’ll accept my proposal.” Rolling your eyes, you shoved him away.

“You’re being a child.” You hissed, trying time fix your jeogori, but his hand grabbed yours, and you reflexively smacked him across the face. Before you could even comprehend what did, he cupped your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours. You couldn’t help but melt into his touch; slipping his tongue into your mouth, you let a subtle moan escape your chest. The warm wet muscle danced with yours, enticing it to let him lead, to let him taste you. Pulling away from your lips, he wove his fingers into your hair to pull your head back, exposing your beautiful skin to his eyes. Lips attached themselves to your neck, his teeth not afraid to bruise the flesh he was craving, “Channie… you can’t leave marks—” Your sentence was cut short as you gasped, the nipping of his teeth caught you off guard.

“That’s a lovely sound.” He hummed, fully untying your jeogori and removing it from your body. He marked every inch of your skin, from your neck to the delicate skin of your décolletage just above the fabric that bound your breasts, “Let me hear more of your voice.” He pulled the binding from your chest, revealing your breasts; cold fingers traced their shape as he kissed you once more, this time rougher than the last. You returned his kiss to catch his bottom lip between your teeth eliciting a quiet groan from him, “You want to play rough this time, huh, Y/N?” He quickly tugged the ribbon of your skirt, it bunching up around your ankles while he wrapped his arms around your waist, letting his hands grip the soft supple flesh of your ass, “I went easy on you last time, don’t expect the same kind of courtesy this time around.”

“Who said I expected you to?” Turning you around, he pinned you to the wall and dipped his hands between your thighs for his fingers to brush over your pussy. Smooth fingertips outlined your shaped before delving two fingers into your core; your walls automatically clenched around him as he spread his fingers inside you.

“Ah, I know you’ll deny it, but it looks like this mouth missed me.” The tantalizing curl of his fingers stirred up nerves you didn’t even know you harnessed; you bit back your moans trying to keep your emotions contained, but the more he dug at your sensitive walls, the harder it became, “You’re practically drooling for me…” Chan whispered while pulling his fingers from your core, “I think you’re ready...”

“Think I’m ready for—” You choked on your breath as he plunged his cock into you, you didn’t even notice that he had pulled down his underwear and baji since you were so focused on his fingers, “Channie, you can’t just ram it in!” He wrapped his hand around your throat as he buried his cock deeper inside you; the pressure from his fingers filled you with an unfamiliar feeling.

“C’mon, I know you like it…” He rolled his hips into you roughly, losing himself in the sound of your choked out moans and the way you gripped onto him. With every thrust, you could feel the coil in your stomach getting tighter, searing every nerve in your core; your legs quivered under you, threatening to give out, but Chan wasn’t having it. He firmly gripped your waist, rapidly slamming his cock into your now sloppy pussy, “You taking my cock so well, Y/N.” Electricity shot through your limbs at your orgasm started coming to its high, and your body was shivering, your core began to cling to him even more than it was before, Chan could tell you were about to cum, “Cum for me, my Queen.” With a few more of his pointed strokes, your body unraveled around him, the thundering of your heart in your ears covered the squelching wet noises coming from the junction between your thighs, “If you squeeze me like that, I’ll come right away—” He didn’t let up which meant you couldn’t either, he kept thrusting into your greedy core until he emptied his load into you.

“Fuck…” You whined at the feeling of his warm cum filling you; you slid down the wall, your legs finally giving up under your weight, and laid down on the floor trying to catch your breath. Chan breathlessly admired your naked body in front of him, he never got the chance to admire it the first time around, but this time he was savoring the view you bestowed him. Your skin was glistening with sweat, the bruising love biter he left on your neck coming into full bloom, his cum dripping out of your mess of a pussy—the throbbing pain reappeared, and his cock was standing at attention once more.

“Y/N…” He whispered, grazing his fingers over your trembling legs.

“What…?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Sorry…? For what…?” He straddled your leg and put the other one over his shoulder as he penetrated your hole once more. Blissful moans escaped you as he jerked his hips into you again, this time all of his thrusts attacked one spot and one spot only, “Channie—” You reached down to try to slow his hips, but he caught your hand and raised it to his lips to pressed feather-like kisses to your fingers.

“Bear with it.” He rasped, continuing to keep his steady pace while your high was beginning to peak again; Chan notice your hips starting to buck under him, he knew that you wanted to cum again, the way he’s been attacking your aching nerves, he knew exactly what you wanted. He slowly rubbed small circles around your clit, the languid movements causing you to scream at his teasing.

“I want to cum, Channie!” Without warning, he pounded into your pussy and drew tighter and harder circles around your nub.

“Cum then…” Jerking his hips into you once more, he came with the clamping of your orgasming core. He took your leg from his shoulder and pulled out of you to lay down beside you, his gaze getting lost in your fucked out expression, “What do you say…? Marry me…?”

#stray kids #bang chan #stray kids bang chan #stray kids imagines #stray kids drabbles #bang chan imagines #bang chan drabbles #stray kids bang chan imagines #stray kids bang chan drabbles #broccoli tree works

[grind-pantera]

Imaginw Bernie walking reader home after they met up with Elton working on some music and he lends her his jacket because it's chilly!! That brown leather one of his

A/N- Hi HI. Thank you guys for reading !!!! I appreciate it lots. And I saw Rocketman and fell in love with this man automatically so catch me writing more for him now that I’ve got this oneshot done! reblogs and likes are appreciated!!! Thanks ! - Miss. Em.

Title: Sound Bite.

Fandom/Movie: Rocketman.

Pairing: Bernie Taupin x Fem! Reader.

Words: 2,738.

Rating: K. ( Super fluffy, no warnings other than some language adkfmsdlkm ).

Big noises didn’t seem to exist. The squealing of a front door of the flat that Bernie shared with Elton and a handful of other people, the small ‘goodbye’ he had given the group who initially shouted a ‘goodbye’ to the two of you, the wave you gave them as you stepped out of the flat onto the small landing in front of the building, the slamming of the screen door as it shut behind the two of you, the rumbling of a car passing by on the street, music playing from inside. It felt as if your ears were left ringing sensationally, drowning you and keeping you under the water until it clogged your ears and you were left with a vague sense of sound. You had just met Elton John, hearing his voice sing along effortlessly to Bernie’s flawless lyrics. You could have stayed the entire night listening, having a lovely chat with their roommates about anything, the existence of the universe, if love was a real thing, any strange conspiracies you could come up. You were welcomed, it felt, something you were initially worried about when Bernie suggested you come over tonight just to hang out.

But, hang out was such a broad term. Hanging out for the two of you was popping into the small cafe down the street on your way to classes in the afternoon and bumping into each other, saying hello, chattering to one another as your eyes peeped at his lips and his own trailed down your body and then snapped back to captivate your attention. Flirtatious, but Bernie was naturally shy and tried to cover up the fact that he had been looking at you like that by bringing a hand through his soft hair, de-tangling some, but messing up other strands. The sun seeping into the cafe window hit the two of you, giving off the impression that his hair was almost honey colored with dark highlights. You felt mesmerized for a second, realizing that you hadn’t managed to murmur any response to his offer of hanging out outside of your normal routine in the cafe, midday, every Wednesday and Friday. He was there often, using the cafe as a muse of some sort as he often wrote lyrics there. You wondered for the first few times what he was doing, slanted handwriting scattering along sheets of paper, scratched out words, words written over others, notes in the columns. Bernie explained your second week of talking.

“I write lyrics for a friend.”

“Anyone I would know or have heard?”

The smile he gave you was confident in nature, contradicting the shy and cute grin he’d often have for you when he first spotted your face walking into the cafe. There was a fazed out expression on his face. He knew something you didn’t and it no doubt intrigued you to the ends of the Earth. “Not yet, but you’ll know him soon enough. Everyone will.”

You weren’t sure what to say when he asked you to come over, so, you stumbled out a tiny ‘yes’ in reply, earning yourself that small charming smile from Bernie that he always seemed to have tucked away for you and that always made you feel breathless as if you were going to be knocked out from how pretty it was. How handsome he was. He’d jotted his address down on a napkin, handed it to you with slightly shaky hands and told you, “I’ll be home around 7 if you just want to pop by. I’ll be waiting out front for you so you don’t have to knock. My roommates… They’re well…” He shrugged softly, the bag on his shoulder shifting with that movement as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “They like to pry and I’d rather not put you in danger by knocking on the front door and having one of them answer before I do. Believe me, I won’t see you tonight if that happens.”

Sound began registering again as your feet tapped down the steps before the two of you hooked a right so you could venture home. A fifteen minute walk or so from where you were and Bernie offered to walk you rather than have you go on the train by yourself. With sound returning, the knowledge that Bernie’s fingers, his hand, was sliding against yours by your side, almost teasing in nature. Arms rubbed and pried one another, giving you shock waves of his warmth from under his brown leather jacket. God, Bernie wanted to grab you, wanted to hold your hand and tug you towards him but there was an invisible force that was stopping him. This was putting Bernie to the test to see if he could be as smooth as he once imagined he was, and God knew you were making it hard for him. For a split moment as the two of you cross the street and he peered down at you in the lamp light, he wondered if you were aware that you were like the wind to him. Come up, swirling around him, taking him up, up, and up and wrapping yourself into him. He could act on it, but, Bernie refrained and drew his bottom lip in as you finally brought yourself to speak.

“That was fun.” You were disappointed in yourself that the only adjective you could fathom at the moment was ‘fun’ when in reality, you hadn’t had a good time like that in a long time. It was great, lively, boisterous. But, it was fun. The sound of piano notes, the gentle nature that Elton would press against them one moment and then the vicious way he’d bang the next, playing with such crystal clear emotion that it tore you apart to look into Bernie’s eyes as Elton sang, wanting to muster enough courage to kiss Bernie for the sake of feeling the pressure of his lips against yours, to grab his arm and lean forward, closer and closer. Closer and closer, you thought to yourself and wrapped your arms around yourself as a breeze shot between the two of you. “Your lyrics— they’re amazing, Bernie.”

“Are they?” The smile on his face was soft, the creases around his mouth evident as the expression grew into sincere fondness. “It’s the strangest thing, I’ve never thought they were amazing until I met Elton. He’s ability to turn my lyrics into… Into works of art is uncanny. It’s like the world bursts into color when I hear him sing my songs, when I feel the vibrations of the piano notes in my ears. There’s nothing quite like it.”

“Give yourself more credit,” You said clearly, your fingers tangling into his by your side momentarily before you flattened your hand, “I love Elton and the music, but your lyrics are so… You.” Bernie gave you a strange look at that with a faux scoff. He knew what you meant. “I could sit and listen to you read your lyrics to me all night, you know.”

“You don’t want to hear my voice all night, believe me. You’d get quite tired of it by morning.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” It was your turn to smile and it mimicked the one that Bernie had previously given you. It was full of fondness, something that was so soft that Bernie himself felt his feet slow down and he lingered a few paces behind you now, wondering if it was normal to feel this breathless at such a simple statement. Such a simple compliment. Clearing his throat, he caught up to you, each step feeling lighter and lighter as he chewed his bottom lip tentatively. Looking up at Bernie, there was something swirling in your eyes. Something that told him you knew something he didn’t know. Or maybe, he did know and he was worried that it wasn’t reciprocated.

“Are you cold?” Bernie asked, panic evident in his voice as he watched you shudder as the breeze hit your skin. You were wearing a jumper, but it wasn’t enough fabric to keep yourself toasty but it was giving you means to lean into him every other step to feel his warm body against yours, even if it was for a second.

“I-I’m okay, Bernie. We’re almost to my—”

Blinking, it took the brunette next to you only a moment to slip his brown leather jacket off his small shoulders before the clothing was placed onto you gentle, your walking pace slowing down so he could properly adjust it onto your shoulders. It smelled like him– musky, his after-shave that reminded you of a sandalwood candle. Soothing, and the heat of his body rolled against your body from the fabric of the jacket and caused you to smile to yourself as Bernie hummed in a reassuring tone, “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Well, no-now you’re going to get cold.” You whispered softly to him, tucking back a piece of your hair before grasping the front of his jacket to keep it on your shoulders so it didn’t fall to the ground. “Bernie–”

“I’ll be fine, (Name).” He laughed, letting you slip your arms through the arm holes of his jacket. It was long for you, but it was comfortable and you found yourself nuzzling the side of your face into the collar to linger in the smell of Bernie that clung to the fabric. “I wouldn’t object to you… Wrapping your arm around me, if you want. For the sake of keeping me warm, of course.” Smooth, Bernie thought to himself and let his eyes pour into yours as you felt heat on the tip of your ears at the suggestion.

“Of course,” If you were nervous, you weren’t showing it to him but inside it felt as if you were rioting. You did what he suggested and let your arm snake around his waist and hook around. The pace of walking was slower, turning the fifteen minute walk into twenty-five minutes at the very least. “Just to keep you warm, though. No funny business, Taupin.”

“No funny business.” He reassured as you tucked your free hand into the pocket of his jacket, feeling a piece of paper slip between your fingers.

“What’s this?” You inquired, slipping the paper out of his pocket and holding it up in the passing light of the streetlamps.

“Ah,” He snatched it comically out of your hand and chuckled deeply inside of his chest and from the closeness of your two bodies, you could feel it against you. It rattled you and brought you some comfort as you tilted your head upwards and waited for an answer. “Just some shitty lyric that made no sense. Must have shoved it in my jacket for a reason.”

“What does it say?”

“Oh, come on, (Name). They’re shitty, you don’t want to—”

“I do, Bernie.”

There was silence between the two of you for a split second, the only sound coming from Bernie as he unfolded the piece of paper hesitantly, re-reading what he had once written and shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t know why you’re so adamant—”

“Please, I– I want you to read them to me. Let me be the judge.”

“But I remain silent,” Bernie whispered, half under his breath giving off the impression that the words were being sung to you in some silent song. “Oh, I won’t say a word…” That was breathless to the point where it left a shudder stringing down your spine, “I leave you to realize… I’m the light of your world.” Laughing slightly, he re-folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his back pocket with shrugging shoulders as you heard his voice echoing deep inside of your mind. His voice was soothing, you realized. More so than you thought before and there was no doubt in your mind that you wanted to hear it speak in your ear, against your skin, against your lips… Anywhere. “See? It’s really nothing— Sort of just scrambled words put together—” His words came to a shocked stop as you turned to face him and placed your hands flat onto his chest, successfully getting Bernie to stop walking as well with a slightly straggled laugh. “What are you—”

For a second, he thought you were going to kiss him. You were going to take that one step and finally close the gap between the two of you and you thought you’d do the same thing. You imagined it, of course. Feeling your hands flatten completely against his chest, his heart beating heavily against your hands. The feeling of his hot mouth conforming against yours out of desperation for it was pent up want that the two of you wanted to release. Bernie nearly puckered his mouth in anticipation but found it forming into a tiny grin at your voice, “How do you think those lyrics are shitty? They’re so—… So…” You swallowed and realized what word you needed to use. “Romantic, Bernie. So, shut your mouth about them being shitty and put them in a song.”

His mouth popped open at your last statement and he found himself throwing his head back in a cackle. “I can’t just put them in a song! That’s not how it works! They’re detached! I need to write a song around them in order to get them to work.”

“Then do that.”

“You know, for my muse, you’re pretty pushy.”

Your lips parted as you took a step back to look up at him properly. What he had just implied was something unknown to both of you, or at least that’s what you got from the surprised look on his face as the words came tumbling out, freeform into the air around the two of you. “I’m your muse?”

He smacked his lips and tilted his head to the side in a silly fashion. “I suppose. Is that what I just said?”

Hitting his chest playfully, you gasped as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you close to him, instinctively your hands came up to rest on his shoulders to keep yourself steady against the slightly wet pavement under your feet. “Of course, that’s what you—”

“Then, I meant it. You’re my muse.”

“Is that a pickup line, Taupin?” You smiled and cautiously wrapped your arms around his neck to hike yourself against him. The fabric of the leather jacket bunched around your wrists, Bernie’s hands resting on your waist, close enough to your hips to know that this was something he wanted and has indeed thought about. He kept his distance though, not letting his fingers wander downwards or upwards. It was a comfortable spot for both of you and you found yourself happily moving against him and rolling onto your toes as he whispered to you, your right hand reaching up and tucking your fingers through his silky, light brown hair.

“This is my first time using it, did it work?” You nodded and he laughed. “If it worked, may I… May I kiss you?” You nodded once again only this time, your tongue peeped out of your mouth to wet your lips as Bernie laughed breathlessly, lifting one of his hands and cupping the side of your face tenderly. “I’m going to kiss you, okay?” You licked your lips once again and giggled breathlessly, almost going cross-eyed as Bernie dipped his head and hovered his face in front of yours, only two centimeters away from yours and with a surge of what you’d consider to be confidence, he closed that lingering gap and you found yourself gasping into the kiss, eyes immediately falling shut as Bernie’s lips pushed a bit harder. He tasted like beer, something you didn’t like but Bernie somehow made it feel tasteful.

You pulled away with a hushed huff and swallowed. “Do— You should come inside. You should come inside and have some tea and warm yourself up and-and…”

“If you want me to come inside and read you more lyrics, you just need to ask.” He chuckled, kissing your lips slowly this time and letting the feeling sink into the both of you as if it was bubbling from your feet all the way to your head, your fingertips… You felt bubbly. Like a champagne bottle that had just been cracked open. “You don’t need to tempt me anymore than you already have…”

#bernie taupin #elton john #rocketman #bernie taupin x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #emmy writes

[greedisgreen]

Can you please write a PetyrXSansa fic where Petyr is mugged pretty badly while on his way home, and Sansa finds him unconscious and bleeding on the road and then takes him to the hospital

Another old prompt filled, plus two kissing prompts!

@jonarya786 asked:

56, 34 :)

Anonymous asked:

Thank you! I’d love to read a story based on prompt 11

The snow fell hard as Sansa made her way through the side streets of King’s Landing, and she tugged her wool peacoat tighter. With how fast it was accumulating, she regretted not calling a cab, but it was only three blocks back to her place from Jeyne’s flat, and at the time she couldn’t rationalize the fare for so short a distance. However, while they resided in a safer area of the city, Sansa kept her mobile screen alert, tucked inside her pocket, thumb readied to dial. In the other, she held the bear spray she picked up the last(and only) time she got roped into camping. She supposed if it could keep a bear at bay, it would do just fine against a human assailant.

She’d just turned to take a short cut behind her friendly neighborhood bodega, when she heard it — a metallic clang. Her whole body tensed, and she deftly stepped into the shadow of a nearby dumpster, her fists reasserting their grip on the meager items meant to offer her a modicum of defense. She inhaled sharply, trying to tame shrill beat in her chest. She should really know better than to travel the secluded alleyways at night, and cursed herself for her stupidity. Again, she heard the tumult, but nothing more — no footsteps, no crunch of snow. She peeked from her hiding place, surveyed the landscape, and that’s when she saw the dapples of blood in the snow. Alert eyes heedlessly followed their trail to a pile of refuse in the distance, where an unconscious man lay face down.

Oh god!

Sansa’s stomach sank, concern suffocating the last reserves of her caution. With her thumb already poised for action, she dialed emergency services. She hadn’t truly processed the full extent of the scene when the dispatcher answered the line.

“Yes, there’s a man the alley behind the bodega at the corner of Silk and Sage. There’s a lot of blood.”

“No, I didn’t see what happened.”

“Is he breathing? I- I haven’t checked.”

“You want me to what? But I don’t know-”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll try. Just- just gimme a minute.”

Body surging with adrenaline, Sansa walked towards the body on shaky legs, cautiously checking her surroundings, phone clutched. She felt exposed now that she’d left her safe little nook, but the lifeline to the dispatcher was open and ready if she needed to use it. A man laid prone amidst the asphalt and rubbish as the snow slowly encased him. If he was breathing, it was shallow, indeed. She crouched down beside his head, smoothed the flakes away from his face to see a rather striking profile. He was cold, and the bottled up dread she’d been suppressing came welling up. Swallowing down the bile that threatened (Because oh, god! What if he’s dead?), she reached beneath the collar of his heavy coat, placed her fingers as instructed over where his pulse should be, and collapsed on the ground next to him as relief flooded her entire body. He’s alive — hurt — but alive. Upon closer examination, she saw an ominous gash over his temple, and a small pool of blood beneath his head, but flow had thankfully ceased. She heard a buzzlike sound, and realized the dispatcher was yelling through the open line to gain her attention again.

“He’s alive,” she breathed. “But the snow is falling fast, and he’s chill to the touch.”

“Yes, yes,“ she nodded, vigorously trying to clear the snowfall away form his head, somewhat annoyed until she realized the patch over his ears was actually his hair. “I’ll stay with him until the paramedics arrive. Thank you, thank you so much.”

Distractedly, she ran her hand over his hair — satiny smooth against her fingertips — and worried at her bottom lip. “What happened to you?” A pained groan was received in response, and Sansa squeaked in surprise, her phone fumbling out of her grip and lodging in to snow with a crunch. Automatically, she reached for it, but a hand caught her wrist in vise. She froze as she beheld glazed grey-green eyes fluttering open. A wretched sobbing breath caught in his throat. “Cat? Am I dead?”

“No. No, you aren’t dead.” She pried free the hand on her wrist, warming his frozen palm between her own.

Sirens blared in the distance, and she knew help would arrive soon, but he was agitated, distraught as he pushed himself up from the cold asphalt. She need to calm him before he managed to injure himself further. His voice cracked, “I must be. You’re dead, Cat.” He cried into his fist, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to correct him. Whoever this Cat person was, she was clearly someone he cared for dearly.

Playing along, her voice was coated in tenderness as she soothed, “No, no, look.” She released his hand to cup his face. “Look at me. I’m alive. My hands are warm, can’t you feel them?”

He choked back another pained whimper, resting his cradled head against hers as the tears swam down his cheeks. He shifted closer, his palms cupping the outside of her thighs, flexing and releasing as though he was working out what was real. The heaving sobs receded and an expression akin to relief came over him, awe maybe. “I almost lost you,” he gasped, surging forward to catch her lips without warning. He was delirious and deceptively strong. Arms steely as they bound her to him, her own trapped against his chest. She opened her mouth to form a protest, but he used the opportunity to claim her further; his mouth slanting, his tongue darting in to bait her own. At a loss, Sansa relented. He wasn’t in his right mind, and if a kiss would give him comfort that’s not bad, right? She reached out for him, her tongue toying, lips teasing and soft. He tasted of mint, of salty tears and copper. Despite the melancholic circumstances, it was pleasant. Too pleasant. This nameless man kissed her hard and thorough, and her body grew flustered and hot even as her head was screaming how wrong it was.

Finally, his arms relaxed, and reason was restored. They both gasped for air as she placed some distance between them with a firm hand to his chest. Not so far that he would feel the ache of rejection, but enough that there was space to move again, to breathe again.

The ambulance lights flashed behind her lids, and she lifted them to see it skid to a halt at the end of the alley. As the paramedics rushed towards them with a gurney in tow, Sansa willed herself together, gently removing his arms from around her so that she could stand and flag them down. “He’s over here. And he’s conscious now.”

He looked very small from where she stood, and he stared up at her in a daze. Did he realize she wasn’t this Cat for whom he’d mistook her? Compassion wrenching at her heart, she knelt down beside him again, licked his taste off her lips as she tried to explain what was happening, taking his hand again. “You are hurt.” She drew it up to his temple, let him feel the blood with his own fingers, let him see it. Cupping his cheek, she attempted to drill understanding into him, blues eyes going soft as they met only incomprehension. “They’re going to take you to the hospital now, though, okay?”

Clearly disoriented, he nodded like a child, not fully understanding, but not in a place to question. And Sansa watched on helplessly, biting at her nails as they checked his vitals. Satisfied that he wasn’t in immediate danger, they prepared him for transport — strapping him to the gurney and covering him with a warm blanket.

So preoccupied with her own tumbling thoughts, Sansa almost missed the question when the EMT asked, “Did you want to ride with him?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

“No, I- I shouldn’t,“ she said lamely, shuffling on her feet. “I only found him, and I need to get home and feed my cat.”

The paramedic shrugged and the pair started rolling him away. And the man’s expression was distant as he stared back her, his eyes lifeless.

God, this didn’t feel right, and she couldn’t stop herself from chasing halfway down the alley after them. “Wait! Wait,” she panicked. “What hospital are you taking him to?”

They didn’t stop their frenzied gait as one yelled an answer over their shoulder. “King’s Landing General.”

She stood frozen, hugging the wall, until they loaded him up and drove away. She felt like an idiot, worrying after a man she didn’t even know, and kicked the snow at her feet, feeling something jolt loose under her heel. Her investigation turned up a wallet — Italian leather, expensive. Recalling the thick wool of his overcoat, and the soft silk of his shirt under her hands, she knew it was his. Inside, it was stripped bare — credit cards, cash, anything of worth removed — except for his ID.

Fingertips traced his imaged, absorbing every detail as she memorized his name: Petyr Baelish.

The next day, Sansa paced in her apartment, tapping his wallet against the palm of her hand as her cat, Sir Percival, bobbed his head, following her movement from his perch on the kitchen table. What to do, what to do? Turn it into the police or drop it off personally at the hospital? She knew, rationally, that the station was the correct route — it was technically evidence. Yet, some treacherous curiosity gnawed at her insides; that hollow expression on his face etched behind her lids.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Pursing her lips, Sansa huffed through her nose in annoyance, hand rearing to strike the wall she shared with her neighbor. The old bat was going to drive her insane one day, and when she snapped no jury would convict her. Letting a silent curse slip past her lips, Sansa fisted her hand at her stomach, yelled through the wall instead, “Oh let up, Mrs. Schmidt! I’m not making any noise! I’m not even wearing shoes, for Christ’s sake!” Not entirely true, but her ornery neighbor would have to come complaining to her door to prove it.

Ugh! She needed to get out. Maybe a jaunt through the park would help; fresh air to untangle her hopelessly tangled mind. Giving a perfunctory scratch to Percy’s ears, Sansa snatched her jacket and scarf from where they hung and donned them clumsily as she ran down the stairwell, out into the thick drape of winter.

It was only a hop, skip, and a jumped before she stared up at King’s Landing General. She didn’t even recall how she got there.

Room 414

Sansa stared at the number; hesitantly, raised her hand to knock only to drop it again, uncertain. His face flashed before her; the crushing desperation on it just before he’d capture her lips; the listlessness of his eyes when the paramedics carted him away. The way he just looked at her — looked through her. Her knuckles rapped.

Knock, knock, knock

Through the door, she heard a plaintive, lowly murmured, “Come in.”

Tentatively, she peeked inside to see him reclined in bed, hospital gown slightly askew at his shoulders as he read a book. A set of reading glasses were perched on the tip of his nose, and it struck her that it was an appealing look on him; far handsomer than the faded license picture presented. Unfortunately, he seemed enthralled with the words on the page, and made no move to greet her or even glance up. She cleared her throat with a little cough, and his eyes darted up, spying her in the cracked door over the tops of his frames.

Color tinged her cheeks as their eyes met, and he seemed almost as abashed, quietly snapping the book closed and folding his glasses away. “I’m sorry,” he said as he tried to sit up straighter. “I thought it was just another nurse come to poke at me. Can I help you?”

“Umm… hi,” she greeted with a small, nervous smile, tucking away her hair as he slid into the room. Approaching the bed, hands animated, she explained, “I’m, uh, not sure if you remember me. I’m the one who found you last night.”

“Oh!” His eyes widen briefly. “Forgive me,” he muttered apologetically, rubbing a hand over the bandage near his temple. “My head… It’s still a little fuzzy.”

“No, it’s fine. You were pretty out of it, so I wasn’t sure…” She trailed off with a sigh, shrugging away the unfinished thought. “Anyway, I found this on the ground after you’d gone.” Edging closer, she extended it out to him. Their fingers grazed, sending a shock straight through her, and she retracted her arm quickly, averting her eyes to the linoleum tiled floor. “I thought you might want it back, even if it was picked clean.”

“Thank you.” Petyr — Mr. Baelish — he turned the wallet over a time or two, as if debating how much of his life had been disrupted before admitting defeat and pulling it wide. His brows twitched upward, and he huffed, “Wow. They even took my coffee rewards card.”

“The monsters.” The glib comment flew out without thinking, and an apology was half formed until she saw him crack a smile, heard a muted chuckle, and coyly met him with one of her own.

His whole face softened, the deep lines around his eyes going slack as he seemed to relax at last. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. I should properly thank the woman who saved my life. What’s your name?” He held out his hand for her, and after a seconds hesitation, she placed her own within it.

The warm contact caused prickle after prickle to raise on her skin, and she prayed the color flooding her cheeks was mild enough to be explained by the coat she still wore. “Sansa — Sansa Stark.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stark. I’m-”

“Petyr Baelish,” she finished. Explaining in a rush, “I saw your license.”

Mirth played on his lips as he tugged her closer. “Well, it seems you have one up on me, Miss Stark.”

“Sansa. If you keep calling me Miss Stark, I’ll just look around the room, confused,” she joked lightly.

“Fair enough. But if that’s the case, you must call me Petyr.” A thumb brushed enticingly over her knuckles, sending a frisson budding low as he raised her hand to his lips, his eyes hooded. “Thank you, Sansa, from the bottom of my heart.” When his lips met her skin, she thought for sure she was going to turn into a puddle on the floor.

She stuttered, heart flying in her chest, “I- Uh- I’m glad I could help.”

A catlike grin lit his features, as his thumb swiped again, rubbing the faint moisture from his lips over her hand before he released it. “Actually, if you have a moment, maybe you could help me with something else?”

Her brows furrowed as she flex her hand, trying to ignore the way it tingled. “I- Maybe?”

Pulling forth the tray table that had been rolled to the side, Petyr lifted the cover off his lunch. “My current harridan of nurse is adamant that I finish this. Yet,” he distastefully eyed the cup of green jello, “that gelatinous goo is on my plate. I don’t suppose you like it? You’d be doing me a great service,” he pled.

Sansa ruffled her hair and laughed. “You want me to eat your Jello? Really?” At his adamant nod, she shrugged, “Okay. I think I can suffer the indignity if it’ll help.”

“You’re an angel!” he exclaimed with exaggerated relish. “Now sit. Tell me about yourself, Sansa.”

A mild cerebral edema kept Petyr in the hospital far beyond what he would have preferred. He explained it to her as she toyed with the cup of jello in her hand. The condition was not severe enough to warrant surgery, but the doctor insisted he stay for observation until they were certain he was out of danger — one week at a minimum. He hadn’t even been there twenty-four hours, and the stress of being endlessly poked and prodded was already taking its toll. But he enjoyed her company, and would she mind coming again? How can a girl turn down an invitation like that?

So, it became their routine. Sansa swung by daily to visit Petyr, eat his terrible jello, and they would talk — about everything. She told him about her job at the coffee shop, the classes she was taking at the local uni, and he in turned would regale her with tales of his own. He worked for the government (some fancy accountant type), and traveled abroad on the regular. It was a bit intimidating at first. He was older, had seen places and met people she only recognized from the telly. The vast differences between them, however, soon dwindled in relevance as their similarities came to fore. They were both orphans; both raised in the foster care system; both somehow survived and thrived.

Some subjects, however, seemed too delicate to broach. The kiss, Cat, that whole crazy night — they both circled around it. That was until the night before his discharge.

After her shift, Sansa snuck a coffee to him — a mint mocha with an extra dollop of whipped cream — and smiled a secretive little smile as she watched him take an appreciative sip; her giggle coming out involuntarily as she pointed out the ridiculous amount of cream caught up in his moustache. Petyr tried to lick it away, but mostly succeeded in mooshing it beyond the reach of his tongue.

Grabbing a tissue, Sansa took pity on him, plopping herself at the edge of his bed. “Here,” she offered, tilting his face up to dab at that impossible little spot of white, face growing warm only after she’d finished and he’d pulled her hand down into his; her gesture suddenly feeling far too intimate for their short acquaintance. Feeling silly, she tried to remove herself, but he refused to let her go, yanking her back.

There was something alight in his eyes that she couldn’t place immediately, then it hit her. Nervous — he wanted to say something and he was nervous, and now she found that she could barely meet his eyes. What if he was about to say goodbye? Go back to the infamous Cat that he never mentions. At indistinct pain welled up in her chest at the thought, and her breaths grew shallower and shallower until he spoke, “Once again, I feel the need to say thank you. I’m not sure I would have survived my stay here without these little kindnesses of yours.”

Shaking her head, she tried to laugh him off. “It’s no trouble.”

“So you say, but…” he looked sheepishly towards their entwined hands, “I haven’t been entirely honest.” Sansa’s brows pinched, confused. “I need to apologize. I lied. When I first saw you, I acted as though I didn’t recognize you, but I did. I remember everything that happened that night.” Her face lit up like a neon sign when she understood his meaning. “I wasn’t in my right mind when I came to, but that doesn’t excuse my actions.”

“Petyr, it’s okay. You don’t have t-”

“I do. I-” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable as he adjusted where he sat. “ I forced myself on you and you’ve been nothing but kind to me since. Coming to visit everyday, bringing me newspapers and books, sneaking little treats for me past the nurses. I feel as though I’ve taken advantage. I’m sorry, Sansa. Truly. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, please just say the word.”

Please, kiss me again. That was the real reason she came here to return his wallet. She tried to delude herself into believing she was being a good Samaritan, but it was only the lie she told herself to make her behavior more palatable; admitting that she wanted him just a bridge too far for her conscience. In her dreams, that kiss replayed over and over in slow motion until she was breathless. But, of course, she couldn’t say that. It had been meant for someone else — for Cat.

At a loss(because how on earth had she allowed herself to become this far gone), Sansa racked her brain before smiling lamely, and suggested, “Well… I wouldn’t say no to a steak dinner.”

“Is that all?” he asked, granting her a smile that almost made that twisty, achy feeling in her gut(That try as she might, she’s never been able to quite tamp down) worth it. He kissed her hand for the second time in so many days. “I think that can be arranged.”

Removing her coat, Petyr handed it off to the girl working coat check along with his own, and all those meddlesome nerves that’d been knotting up in Sansa’s stomach since they made these plans threatened to choke her. Oh, the restaurant is posh; actual linen adorned the tables with candlelight, the service staff in black tie dress, everything screaming of romantic rendezvouses. Earlier, she worried if perhaps she’d over done it with the teal raglan dress and black leggings she wore, but she feared now the exact opposite was true. She tugged at the hem that barely reached mid thigh; smoothed the fabric down her middle trying to appear unaffected, and failing. She fretted, teeth tugging at her red tinted lip until she tasted the lipstick, then made a mad dash with her fingertips to wipe off the color that transferred before anyone noticed. Shit, she was nervous, and this wasn’t even a date.

Petyr’s touch burned at the small of her back, startling her out of the worried glances she was casting over the room. His whisper light, but a touched concerned. “Are you okay?”

Clearly, she wasn’t doing a great job of hiding her apprehension. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Just- I feel a little underdressed. When I said steak, I was thinking more along the lines of the nearest Sizzler. This looks… expensive.”

“Never you mind,” Petyr assuaged into her ear, guiding her to follow the waitress to their table. “The owner is a friend of mine. Everything will be comped tonight.”

“I guess it pays to have friends in high places,” Sansa quipped as they approached their seats.

His hand slipped further around to squeeze the curve of her waist, and Sansa almost tripped over her feet in surprise. She could hear the smirk in his reply. “That it does.”

Filet mignon, drizzled with an avocado butter and rosemary sauce. Asparagus wrapped in bacon, cooked to crispy and tender perfection. Roasted cherry tomatoes with whole garlic cloves, bursting with savory flavor. Sansa hadn’t eaten this well since… Well, ever. There may have been one Thanksgiving when she was still just a child, but the memory was tainted; her foster family at the time having been particularly cruel.

Her companion watched in expectant delight, hands twined together over his own dish, as Sansa brought the first savory morsel to her mouth. A cacophony of flavor exploded on her tongue, eliciting a moan that was practically indecent.

“Does it meet with your approval, then?” he asked with a terribly wicked, teasing grin. 

That smirk really should be illegal for the deplorable things it did to her insides. She clenched her legs together, hoping to abate the fluttering twitch that pulsed low in her hips. With her ankles crossed demurely, she sampled the first taste of the spicy Syrah that he’d ordered with their meal, unsurprised to find it a perfect compliment. “Honestly, I think it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,“ she confessed with a blush on her cheeks.

“I’m glad. I wanted to do something special for you,” he said, cutting into his own meal. “Your presence this last week, it was a comfort. While I can claim many people’s acquaintance, there are very few who I could call a friend.“

Swallowing her disappointment, she plucked her bread apart. “So, is that what we are — friends?”

“Is that something you’d like?” Petyr commented casually, glancing up from his plate.

She plastered on a watery grin, attempting to hide her chagrin. “Of course, I would.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” he said quickly, explaining further, “I’ve missed having people I can rely upon. People, not in my pay that is. Unfortunately, as I’ve gotten older, it’s become rather difficult to connect with my peers. Usually, those around my age are settled down, worrying about how to pay for their kids’ education. I don’t have that issue. It’s freeing, but also quite — for lack of a better word — lonely.”

“So you’ve never married?” she asked, trying to squash the hope rising up in her. 

“No.”

“Then, I have to ask. Who is Cat?” The whole room seemed to go quiet, as she met the stormy depths of his eyes. She bit her lips before stating, “You called out for her that night after you’d been mugged.”

The utensils in this hand clanked as he set them on his plate, and he reached for his glass. “An old heartache. One that’s been slow to mend.” A deep draw of the decadent red wine bobbed down his throat, and he took a steadying breath. “She died almost twenty years ago. Her car skidded off a bridge. Her body was never recovered.”

“I’m so sorry, Petyr.” Her heart hurt for him, and she felt torn in two because she’d been sitting here jealous of a dead woman. Idiot — callous, thoughtless idiot. She squeezed his hand atop the table, determined to be the comfort he clearly thought her. “She must have been a very special to you, to still think of her after all this time.”

“She was,” he said soberly, returning her gesture along with a muted smile. “But that was a long time ago, and I’d much rather converse on happier topics, wouldn’t you?”

By the end of dinner, there was no denying it. Sansa was wildly enamored with Petyr Baelish — wildly enamored and completely, utterly heartbroken. He was the perfect gentleman; charming, funny, and after they’d demolished the first tray of bread she’d realized, devastatingly handsome for a man no less than twenty years her senior. The crooked grins he’d cast her way, the warm rumble of his laugh, the careful way that he’d helped her to and from the restaurant, the way his scent would crowd her — she was positively drunk off him. And he thought of her as a friend. Tears of burning frustration stung behind her eyes. What sort of stupid girl falls for a man who’s still in love with a dead woman?

The car hummed to a stop in front of her building, and Petyr’s hand found hers in the dark. “Is everything okay, Sansa? You’ve been very quiet the last hour.”

Sansa’s heart twisted as she took in the concern on his face, and her exquisite meal sat like a heavy immovable rock in her gut. “I’m fine.” She shrugged, casting him a pale shadow of a smile. “I probably shouldn’t have eaten so many lemoncakes. I’m just sleepy is all.”

“It was a particularly rich meal. I’m glad you shared it with me. I can’t recall the last time I had such enjoyable company,“ he agreed, tone raspy and warm. He pursed his lips, leaned into her intently, and that dastardly, sinful hope convinced her to close her eyes… "I thought perhaps-” But Sansa cut off whatever he was about to suggest, realizing far too late that he wasn’t making a move to kiss her at all. His lips were parted but immobile beneath her own, and by the time she pulled the brakes on this runaway train, she absolutely wanted to curl up and die. The face of complete shock stared down at her like a barrel of a gun, and his lips were stained red.

Oh, god.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I- I-” She licked her lips, her hand scrambling for the door’s handle. She had to get out of the car before she really did die of acute embarrassment. The cool grip found its way into her palm. Jackpot. “Um, thanks for dinner.” She bolted. Through the door, into the building, up the stairwell; pulling off her modest ballet flats after the first flight because they kept slipping and she couldn’t hide in her apartment fast enough.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Who does that?! Just up and kisses someone who was only trying to be kind!

The keys to her studio unit jangled uncontrollably as her hand shook; her blood pumping at light speed from such a heinous error in judgment, and she didn’t take a true, full breath until the door was slammed hard behind her. Not even a full minute passed before the little fury dictator was demanding her attention.

Mrrrew, mrrrew

“Oh, Percy, at least you still love me,” she said forlornly, picking up the grey tabby from where he weaved through her legs. Kissing him on the head, “Even if it’s only because I feed you.” She placed him on the counter as she opened a bag of treats.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"You have got to be kidding me!” Sansa whipped out of her kitchen and yanked open her door, fully prepared to tell Mrs. Schimdt just where to shove her wall banging broom, only to stop dead in her tracks. Petyr stood just outside her door, his hand poised to knock. Her stomach did a one eighty flip into a triple axle and whatever the fuck other fancy spinning, sproinging Olympic moves one could think of as he stepped closer. Words froze in her throat, which was just fine, as he didn’t seem interested in talking. He reached out for her — arms snaking around her waist, into her hair — and his mouth took hers in a deeply, sensual kiss. The slow, careful movement of his lips and tongue pulling the sweetest sounds from her throat. This kiss wasn’t as good their first. It was better. Because this kiss, this kiss was meant for her and her alone. She melted into him, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke, reveling in the same piquant flavor that she’d come to crave.

Petyr growled, painstakingly pulling his mouth away. “Now, if you’ll let me finish what I wanted to say before,” he purred against her lips. “I’d like it very much if we could continue to see each other.”

“Okay,” she sighed happily, nails rasping along his nape. “But only if you keep kissing me like that.”

“I don’t think,” he said, peck, peck, pecking down her jaw, “that will be a problem.” A sweltering kiss to her lips, and he loosened his grip attempting to exit gracefully. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Sansa wasn’t having it. She wrapped her arms around him tighter. Her voice dripping pure sugar, “You don’t want to stay awhile?” Oh, she really shouldn’t sound that desperate, but Petyr didn’t seem to mind.

The deep rumble of his chest warmed her through, as he replied with amusement tilting his lips, “We have an audience.”

“Hmm?” Sansa opened her eyes (When had she shut them? Who knows, who cares! Elation coursing through her veins because he kissed her! He wanted her! She was in his arms!), and craned her head around to see old Mrs. Schmidt standing in her house robe, cigarette hanging out of one side of her mouth and curlers in her hair.

Petyr tilted her to face him once more, kissed her lips with a grin. “Tomorrow.” He slithered out of her arms and veritably skipped down the stairs, and Sansa could not wipe the smile off her face if her life depended on it. It took all her effect not to make a complete ass out of herself by twirling into her apartment.

“Well, honey,” Mrs. Schmidt said in her smoke soaked voice, “If you two don’t work out, you can send him my way.”

In your dreams you old crone!

Sansa glided into her apartment, singing out sweetly behind her, “Goodnight, Mrs. Schmidt.”

#prompts #petyr x sansa #my fic

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hello, I don't know if I am writing this in the right place, I am Izzie141 from AO3 and I love you fictions .So I have prompt for you, could you maybe do back story for your last story (My Fault)? I would love to know why was Sirius in Azkaban, what happend and everything. With Happy ending please?

((A/N: This is a sequel/companion piece to this fic. 

Combined with the prompt: “That last story with post azkaban Sirius and james was so achingly beautiful. I wished thru all of ootp that James should just return &give Sirius the hug and the love and the kisses he deserves for all his suffering . Wud that be a valid prompt? Set in ootp-ish/ in grimld place with J coming back (to life/restored memory/diff dimension whichever works for u) & lots of love for Sirius (with maybe like harry finding out Sirius shud have been his parent too) or something like that? Thank you!!”)) 

Sirius stumbled around the house, heading up to Harry’s room where the baby was screaming and crying, barely able to see through his tears. He didn’t come across James’s body on his way and that was- that- he. His feet stopped moving and he was slumped against the wall, sobbing into his hands.

He didn’t remember moving but next thing he knew, he was in Harry’s room, his little red night light casting an evil glow across Lily’s body and the tiny wound bleeding on his forehead. Sirius fell to his knees next to her and fumbled to check for a pulse that wasn’t there.

He didn’t have time to stand up and reach Harry before he heard heavy footsteps that could only belong to Hagrid. He squeezed through the partially destroyed doorway and laid a large hand on Sirius’s back in comfort. He was crying too, large droplets that fell into his beard.

Sirius didn’t know why he let Hagrid take Harry. He shouldn’t have. He should have said “Fuck Dumbledore” and grabbed his son and raised him the best he could with Remus’s help. Merlin, Remus. He’d thought– actually thought– that Remus was the traitor and maybe that was why he’d done it. Let Hagrid take his and James’s child so he could deal with his guilt. If he got Peter, it would fix that; he’d get revenge.

~~~

In his cell, with ocean water spraying him on one side and dementors torturing him on the other, he moved between the two based on what he thought he deserved.

He re-lived that moment of utter horror and dread when he saw the safe-house. “I thought,” he rasped to himself as he held himself tightly. “I thought,” you’d be safe. “I thought,” it was the best decision. “I thought,” I was smart enough. “I thought,” he tried to finish it with wrong but it got stuck in his throat and he choked on it. My fault, my fault, my fault.

He didn’t know he was hurting himself until a splash of salt-water hit him and his sides stung viciously. His eyes were drawn to his hands, where his own blood was under his fingernails. He stared at them, head blank, until another splash came.

He reached his hand down and dug it into his side, gasping at the pain, but at the same time welcoming it. My fault.

~~~

Sirius didn’t think much of Pettigrew’s claim that he didn’t kill James and Lily, that he hadn’t betrayed them. He had lied to them in the past, and he would say anything to save his skin right now.

A quick glance at Remus proved that he didn’t believe it for a second either.

But he kept saying, “I didn’t kill him, I couldn’t kill him.”

Harry though, Gods- Harry was young and he didn’t trust Sirius, didn’t know him, and clearly didn’t know what to think. “Don’t kill him!”

All three of them froze, and Remus tried to reason with him. “Harry, he betrayed–”

“I know he did.” Harry looked scared but determined. “But I don’t think my dad would want either of you to become murderers for this.”

“He would’ve wanted a lot of things,” Sirius said quietly, but lowered his wand while Remus kept his raised. His impulse control had only gotten worse since escaping Azkaban and it didn’t take long together for Remus to realise that. A flick of his wrist and Peter was in chains, but oddly, Sirius didn’t feel the least bit satisfied at the sight.

“Sirius, I didn’t–” Another flick from Remus’s wand and Peter was gagged. That was good. Sirius couldn’t stand it if he continued on like that.

He didn’t know… he didn’t know.

~~~

He had a flat, he had a job. He was going on a year since… It was Halloween and he felt unsettled but couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why.

He couldn’t remember his name and was going by John. It wasn’t right, but he didn’t know better.

The office where he worked felt familiar when he was doing paperwork, but anything else made him feel like a person out of place.

He was walking to his flat– though it didn’t feel like his– when he saw a group of kids dressed up as witches going to a party with the designated parents. The cloaks, the pointed hats, the various sticks to serve as wands all tickled his mind. He wondered if he used to dress up like that for his job before. Kids’ entertainer maybe?

That night he had a dream of making different colors of smoke appear in front of a happily gargling baby and figured he was finally going to remember some of his life.

A couple months later, he found a wand hidden amongst his belongings. It was fine crafted and when he held it, it felt right in his hand. A few days later, he took to carrying it everywhere with him because it felt safer, made him feel even footed. He knew enough to know not to mention it to anyone, but never stopped bringing it with him.

There was a ring, too. A wedding band that had an inscription on the inside: To the very end and further. He slid it on his finger but didn’t keep it there. His husband must have died or left him if they hadn’t come for him.

~~~

It was a few days into November and he felt he was missing something important. He made a cake, chocolate, and topped it with strawberries.

He put a candle in the center and lit it, but didn’t blow it out because it wasn’t for him. He just watched it burn to the bottom then scooped the wax off.

He felt unreasonably alone.

It became a tradition. Every November third, he made a chocolate cake with strawberries and watched a birthday candle burn itself out.

He was waiting. He didn’t know what for.

~~~

He was in a section of London he hadn’t been to before– at least, not that he remembered being to before.

He started walking automatically, bringing him to a telephone booth that claimed to be out of order. His hand was reaching for the door handle by the time his mind caught up, and he hesitated. What was he doing? It had been years, he had a good life. He shouldn’t be walking around London in the dead of the night a decade and a half after he lost all his memories on some wild goose chase.

He looked behind him to consider going home, but he had already made his decision.

He swallowed thickly and tried not to think too much. He picked up the receiver with his right hand as his left typed out numbers by rote. He noticed, after typing them, that they spelled out ‘magic’, and he wanted to bang his head against the glass. He was making a complete arse of himself and–

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business,” a cool voice said, not from the receiver, but as if from a speaker in the booth.

“Er, James? For… memory?” he said unsurely into the phone, looking around as if a tiny woman would appear in the corner and explain this to him. ‘James’ sounded right. Was that his name? He thought so.

“Thank you. Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.” As she was speaking, a small badge clattered out of the coin return.

James hung up the phone and grabbed the badge. On it, it read James, Memory, causing him to frown at it nervously. The words had been etched in, more work than could be accomplished in a few seconds. He ran his finger over it lightly, and felt the indentions. So, not a trick. He thought about what the voice said and hesitated. He didn’t have robes, and he wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t some sort of fever dream– though it looked less and less like that was the case– so he just held it in his hand.

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the atrium.”

His hand reflexively went to his trouser’s pocket, where his wand was currently resting. Search and present? Was there a rank he was supposed to remember? Some sort of secret handshake so they didn’t throw him out?

The floor shuddered and started lowering, and as he watched the ceiling of the booth disappear, he got the feeling he was in way over his head. His right hand was clasping his wand, and his left the badge he’d been given. The edges of the badge were cutting into his hand, but he didn’t dare let go for fear of failing entirely.

The lift finally stopped. “The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” the mysterious voice said, and the doors opened.

James had worried the whole way down about what to do, but when the doors opened, the grand hallway was empty. The lights were dim and the mantel places empty, but it seemed… familiar, somehow. Like he’d been here before.

He started moving automatically, his legs leading him to a lift. He stepped inside, then drew his wand and laid it flat on his palm. “Point me.” His heart was pounding in his chest and he just about fainted with relief when the wand spun to the buttons and lit up the number nine. James swallowed thickly and pressed the nine, not pocketing his wand like he’d meant to. He felt safer with it out. Besides, worst comes to worst, someone finds him and assumes he’s mad for carrying around a stick like it has power. Even as he thought it, it sounded like a joke. His free hand reached up and ran through his hair, reminding him that he was still holding the badge. He studied it for a minute while the lift ran, then put it in his pocket.

The next half hour was a blur of muscle memory and guesswork when he finally stumbled across another human being. Unfortunately that person was dressed in all black and a creepy skull mask, and somehow managed to convey through that mask that they were not at all happy to see him.

“Potter,” they spat.

James glanced behind himself quickly– just to make sure he hadn’t walked in the middle of a western showdown with wands instead of guns– but no, it was just him and the skull mask person. He half-smiled and shrugged helplessly. Was his last name Potter? James Potter… he liked the sound of that.

They gestured with their wand, shooting a blast of blue at him, but his own hand moved quickly, casting first a small light shield, and then a jet of red light that hit them square in the chest and knocked them to the ground, where they didn’t move. He shuffled closer, then poked them with the toe of his shoe a few times. No reaction.

His fingers twitched uselessly as he thought. Not giving himself time to reconsider, he leaned down and pulled off the mask. He tilted his head to the side as he took in their features, remembering. Nothing specific, but he knew they were dangerous and a criminal.

He stood back up and started walking down the hallway they’d been guarding though, because he was a reckless berk, apparently. Absentmindedly, he dropped the mask and readjusted his grip on his wand. The part of him that had been working a desk job for the last decade and a half was nervous, but that part of him felt fake now, like a complex dream that had gotten out of hand. He walked confidently, but fuck if he knew where he was actually going.

He ran across a few other people, all of them in those skull masks. Luckily, they all seemed surprised to see him, so he was able to win quite easily. The deeper in he got, the more he felt like something was terribly wrong. Not with him for once, which was a nice change, but wrong as a whole. What were all these people doing in the Ministry so late with no one else around? If he started getting his memories back just to be murdered by a cult, he was going to be angry.

He heard the sounds of fighting and picked up his pace until he was running, practically punching the door in his rush to open it.

…And then he ran into someone. Fortunately it was a skull mask person and it made their spell go wide. James avoided tripping by jumping over their body with an instinct he didn’t know he had. He shot a stunning spell at the one he ran into, then looked around the room feeling a little uncomfortable. Nobody seemed to notice him, which was kinda upsetting. Having his memory partially returned and immediately stumbling on a battle was dramatic, damn it, and he wanted recognition. But not enough to actually interrupt anyone and nearly get them killed.

After a little time and a lot of hecticness and the arrival of someone who looked like a snake/human hybrid and then the arrival of the authorities, the fight ended. In James’s ever so humble opinion, they were all fucking morons, but he didn’t actually remember why he thought that, just that he did. A bit of it came to light when they tried to arrest one of the good guys (a haunted man that picked at James’s brain but he didn’t have a name for yet) and James called the auror a twat and walked more towards the group.

That, of course, brought all the attention to him, but he just raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at where the auror’s wand was still pointing at… his friend? The wand in question did lower, but more out of shock than anything else. He mentally shrugged; he would take what he could get.

“James?” he whispered.

He looked down at himself then back up. “I think so.” He moved closer, brushing the auror out of the way. “You’re… we’re friends. Right?”

Pain flashed across his face but was gone in an instant. He nodded. “Yeah. The best.”

James tilted his head as an impression came to mind. “Did you have a dog?” He held his hand out next to his waist. “Black, shaggy, never grew out of the puppy phase?”

He was grinning now, looking entirely too amused for James asking if he had a pet dog, but he nodded.

James narrowed his eyes at him. “And he got sprayed by a skunk and rolled all over the bed.”

He laughed– which sounded suspiciously like a bark– and closed the distance between them and pulled him into a hug. “Shut it,” he mumbled fondly.

“Twenty years and he’s still not over it,” someone else said, amused. “But perhaps we should get out of the Ministry before we talk more.”

He reluctantly let go of James, but stayed close by. He beckoned one of the teenagers– teenagers!– that looked awfully familiar over to him and had a whispered conversation that James didn’t even attempt to eavesdrop on because he was a gentleman. And also he wanted to look at the rest of the people in the room and see if he recognised them.

The aurors and some of their group were having what looked to be a very heated discussion, but it was clear who would win out, and it wasn’t the government.

The one who had talked before was definitely familiar, and James glanced back at his best mate– who he still didn’t have a name for– for a moment. “Didn’t there used to be four of us?”

They both tensed. The one with light brown hair and a faded scar on his face gave James a tight smile. “It’s complicated.”

“Is he dead?”

“He should be,” his best mate growled.

James raised his brow. “Alright. Complicated, got it.”

A different man with a scar-gnarled face and a false eye finished having a conversation with whoever was in charge of the aurors– who was now pale and looking thoroughly unmanned– and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here. Good to have you back, Potter,” he said with barely a glance his direction– with the normal eye, that is.

“I’m sure I’d say the same if I could remember you,” James replied cheerily, which was odd since the other man didn’t appear like the kind of person you’d want to fuck around with, but it was a reflex, like using his wand and wanting to walk right beside his best mate in a way that was almost too close. Had there been something more there once?

He apparently remembered how to use the floo, which was a relief. It was frustrating enough to have everyone looking at him like he should know them, he didn’t want to add any more complications to that. Before he went through, he tapped his best mate’s arm while nobody was paying them (much) attention. “What’s your name?” he whispered.

“Sirius.”

“Sirius…” James repeated. Echoes of feelings reverberated through his bones. “I love you. Right?”

Sirius smiled softly at him. “That’s what you always told me.”

“Black!” the man with the blue eye said, and Sirius responded to it. He motioned for him to go through the fire, which he did with a back glance at James. James went through next, less because he was told– he wasn’t– and more because he felt unsettled being away from Sirius even for a few seconds. Also he was confused because that meant Sirius’s last name was Black? It didn’t sit right; it felt like a lie.

James grinned at a waiting Sirius and followed him to what was probably the dining room since it had a long table. He sat next to him while waiting for… well, he wasn’t entirely sure. Probably for everyone else to show up. The familiar-looking teenager from before came up and sat next to Sirius, who put an arm around him and gave him a quick hug and asked how he was feeling. He shrugged in reply and looked at James behind battered glasses with excited yet worried eyes.

“James, this is Harry,” Sirius introduced.

James smiled at him and waved, though internally he was thrown. He’d always thought that if he had a son, he’d name him Harry, but this Harry looked just old enough that James must have remembered at least a fragment of him and integrated it into his life. “Hullo Harry. So we’re, what, brothers?”

Harry blinked at him and started to look awkward. “Er no. You’re my father.”

It was James’s turn to blink dumbly. “Er…” he laughed nervously and looked to Sirius. “How’s that possible?”

Sirius gave him a sad smile. “Well he was born before you died- or lost your memories and we all thought you died.”

“No I mean–” he hesitated. He’d known he was bent for as long as he could remember, and it had never been something he was ashamed of, but was it possible that he didn’t tell Sirius? Looking at Sirius now though, it was clear that Sirius knew and was hoping, for Harry’s sake, that James wouldn’t say anything. He had no bloody idea what was going on, but he trusted Sirius. He shook his head and gave Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t argue shite I can’t remember. Wait. Am I allowed to curse in front of him? Is that something parents shouldn’t do?” James was starting to get seriously worried, but Sirius was laughing.

“He’s fifteen, Jamie, not five; it’s fine.”

~~~

“We were together,” James said, and giving the theory voice solidified it.

Sirius swallowed. Nodded.

“Did we break up?”

Sirius snorted, but it sounded upsettingly close to crying. “No you died you fucker.”

James took a step forward, but Sirius backed up.

“You were dead for fourteen buggering years and you can’t just show up and act like nothing’s changed! We were married James and you don’t even remember me! I can’t- this is-” Sirius stopped himself, covering his mouth with one of his hands, and the other hugging his middle. “I can’t,” he repeated.

~~~

James had tried– for a few days– to treat Sirius like they were mates and nothing more. He’d never made so many aborted gestures in his entire life, he was sure of it. He started remembering more and… he told Sirius that he couldn’t continue on like this.

“I don’t remember much, and I know I’m missing most of our relationship, but… I love you. And I don’t see how that’s ever going to change.”

“James,” Sirius said, and it was a terrible mixture of longing and apology.

“We don’t have to jump back in,” James rushed to assure him. “We can take it slow. I’m still me, though, aren’t I? You still love me, and I know you miss me. Pomfrey says I’ll get all my memories back, but we don’t have to wait for it to happen to be together.”

Sirius chewed on his lip. “Slow,” he agreed.

James nodded eagerly. “Slow.”

~~~

‘Slow’ as it turned out, was, for them, not slow for other people. It helped that James was remembering more and more of their past with each day, but they hadn’t been anywhere approaching slow their first time either.

“We went plenty slow,” Sirius said, grinning at him with snog-swollen lips.

“I asked you on a date and you sucked me off in our dorm that night.”

“You deserved it,” Sirius said, as if it had been a punishment, “for waiting so long to ask me.”

“I didn’t pay any attention to sex or romance before that!”

“Oh yes you did,” Sirius argued. “But it was towards me and you convinced yourself that that was just how people felt about their best mates.”

James wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

Sirius nodded and kissed him again.

~~~

James watched Sirius and Harry interact with a feeling in his chest that could not be described as anything other than warm and fuzzy. James was trying to build a relationship with Harry, but unsurprisingly it was difficult and slow. Not that he minded, he knew it would take time to build a relationship out of nothing with all the expectations but none of the familiarity.

The thing about watching Sirius and Harry though, was that it was right. It was clear that they were still getting used to each other, testing boundaries and comfort, but James couldn’t help the way it seemed to slot into place in his mind.

“He’s ours,” James said when they were alone.

“What?”

“Harry, he’s not my son, he’s our son. She– that woman–”

“Lily,” Sirius supplied in a quiet voice.

James nodded absently, not having any memories of her but annoyed that everyone aside from Sirius and Remus expected him to remember the most about her. “Lily,” he continued, “had him for us. We asked her to.”

“Yeah.”

“Does Harry know?”

Sirius shook his head. “I wasn’t going to tell him before. He had so little, you know? I didn’t want to complicate his life more. He thinks the world of her.”

~~~

Molly Weasley, the mother of one of Harry’s best friends, didn’t seem to like Sirius very much. Naturally, that meant James didn’t like her, no matter how friendly she was towards him.

It didn’t help that Molly was one of the people that kept pressuring him to remember Lily. James did remember Lily a little now, but it wasn’t anything that could be construed as romantic. She was self righteous– or had been, in Hogwarts– and James had gone out of his way to piss her off.

Remus spoke fondly of Lily, as did Sirius, although his emotions seemed more complicated. It wasn’t hard to guess why– everyone thought James had been in love with her, when in reality it had been Sirius, had only ever been Sirius.

James lost his temper on the day of his and Lily’s supposed anniversary because everyone was tip-toeing and trying to make him feel better in a condescending way when he didn’t feel shit in the first place.

He sort of told everyone that he loved Sirius, had only loved Sirius, and would only love Sirius, and that, even if that somehow wasn’t true, he was gay, so they needed to bugger off and leave him alone.

Luckily, Harry wasn’t there for it, having left for Hogwarts earlier in the month. He still heard about it, maybe in explicit detail, but it would never come close to if he had actually been there to hear James yell.

~~~

Sirius told him about Azkaban. They went to sleep in the same bed– finally– and James rested easy. When he woke up, Sirius was gone.

James rolled his eyes and made his way downstairs, wincing at the cold floor on his feet. One of these days he would convince Sirius to redecorate, although by the time that happened, Sirius would be free and sure as hell wouldn’t stick around Grimmauld Place.

Sirius was standing in front of the stove attempting to make eggs, and James came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him, resting his head against Sirius’s. He tensed up for only a moment before he relaxed. “I’m trying to cook, y’know.”

James nodded. “‘Trying’ as in you have never made something edible on the stove in your entire life.”

“It’s never going to happen if you don’t let me try.”

James kissed his cheek but otherwise didn’t move. “Shame.”

The eggs ended up overcooked but somehow still runny. Sirius took a tentative nibble before throwing them in the rubbish bin. He sighed, leaning back against James. “You’ve been hugging me for ten minutes.”

“Yep.”

“Are you planning on stopping?”

“Nope.”

Sirius huffed, but James knew he didn’t mind. “Arsehole.”

James snuggled into him. “Yep.”

#filled #marauders #james potter #sirius black #prongsfoot #second war #married #established relationship #but also #getting together #james lives #Anonymous #siriuslystarbucks

[celticnoise]

After what happened to Neil Lennon on Wednesday night, a lot of people revised their stance on our manager, in an effort to escape guilt by association with those who shouted obscenities at him and even threw the coins. Others haven’t bothered, because they don’t even mind the charge. They doubled down.

Lennon, they say, is his own worst enemy.

A worse enemy, presumably, than those who have physically assaulted him or sent him bullets in the post or scrawled his name on walls with threats to hang him or worse. Yes, Lennon is more harmful to himself than those people – including those who sent bombs to his home – will ever be.

It boggles the mind.

There are people who have an association with this blog – regular readers, based in England – who cannot believe some of what is on here.

They view Scottish football at a remove. That’s not their fault, and frankly I am glad for them in being well out of it. The game here is toxic, tainted, corrupted, rotten. The atmosphere can veer into the realms of pure poison and it does not take much.

Football fans, just like we are, they exist outside the bubble and to truly understand the bubble you have to live in it, to experience it. They don’t, and so their bafflement can be understood. I sometimes wish I didn’t understand any of it either.

As such, they cannot believe that so much of what appears on here is about the governors of the game, and how dreadful they are. They don’t get why this blog and others are so hypercritical of the media. Even explaining what Alex Thomson of Channel 4 called “succulent lamb journalism” doesn’t quite cut it. They never had to read a piece of excreta from Kris Boyd, pure ignorance, spreading rumour and innuendo for his own purposes.

Even if they did, they would never understand the context of it.

This is why they cannot understand the number of pieces on Sevco that are written.

They cannot comprehend why this blog and others touch on subjects which, on the surface of it, have nothing to do with the game.

And I’ll answer it for them now; we do it because the media won’t. Because the media here thinks that the best way to solve a problem is to ignore it. We do it because when they do cover issues here they tend to spin them in whatever way sells the most papers or appeals to those who are feeding them their lines to take.

Things work a little differently up here. The game is different. Scotland is a small country, and Glasgow, where my club can be found and where Ibrox is not that far away, is a small city. There are things that are simply too big and too important to ignore.

In any other part of the football world some of the subjects we write about would have exactly nothing to do with the game.

You have to get it the way we do. To get it at all you have to be immersed in it, every single day. You need to have watched it for years, and in a way become desensitised to it all. I try not to get like that. I try to stay angry when anger is called for, but it wears you out. Anger makes you sick. You can’t be like this, 24 hours a day; you’d go off your nut.

Yet there are times when anger is the appropriate response, whether outsiders understand it or not. Indeed, there are times when it is the only response you can give, just to stay sane.

Let’s take the Sevco situation in 2012 for a moment, as if you were explaining it to someone who knew the basics of it but didn’t fully appreciate what the facts meant.

Back then, a club that got into financial trouble because for years it had been buying players and paying wages it could not afford, was liquidated.

The bits were bought and glued together and the governing bodies tried to slip them into the place where the dead club had been; what happened next poisoned the sport up here in ways that are impossible to explain to those not part of it.

Two lies were born; the Survival Lie – the concept that Rangers escaped liquidation and that they are the club that plays at Ibrox – and the Victim Lie.

The second follows on automatically from the first; if the club that plays at Ibrox is Rangers then the SFA and the SPFL and all the clubs broke its own rules and “relegated” them illegally, costing them tens of millions of pounds and forcing them, at the worst moment in their history, to rebuild their whole shattered club from the bottom tier.

Imagine that had actually happened.

Imagine it happened to our club.

How angry would we be? How disgusted? How furious?

You have to understand what Rangers was – Murray called it “the second biggest institution in Scotland after the church” – and the mind-set of their support to get that the Survival and Victim lies could not have been taken on board by fans more susceptible to it, or less likely to react to them in a rational manner.

And then bear this in mind; this all came about in a place where the game was already awash in the twin inflammatory ingredients of politics and religion, two subjects which, themselves, have sparked wars and caused massacres and divided nations and even continents. Football, politics, religion. Three subjects you don’t discuss at dinner parties … Scottish football has it all, and an epochal sporting scandal – where justice was never done – on top of it.

Anyone writing about football in this country and who is not writing about those things, even if it’s to lament them, is not doing their job right.

The people I’m talking about must be looking at Scottish football right now in absolute disbelief and perhaps even disgust. They will be even more shocked when I write that people up here are barely surprised. Horrified and perhaps even a little ashamed of the national sport, but not surprised.

Because this has been going on for years, and when I say “this” I mean, of course, the Neil Lennon saga.

They may be aware of it, but I bet they don’t understand it.

Here’s a little insight; in the Categories section of this site there is a box that predates my time with the blog.

I have ticked that box more times than I am comfortable with; it reads “Demonization of Neil Lennon.”

He has been living with this for more than 15 years.

Neil Lennon is the intersection of all Scottish football’s grubby little secrets. You can understand them by understanding what has happened to him, and what continues to happen to him. You can get to the bottom of it all simply by comprehending his struggle.

The politician George Galloway wrote a book about Lennon’s struggles up here and the bile he has been subjected to. That book should be essential reading for everyone who seeks a fuller picture of what Scottish football lives with, but has been ignoring for too long.

Rivers of bias, bigotry and sectarianism run beneath our sport like lava. Sometimes they bubble up to the surface. This is the only country where a club which spent its way to death can be painted as victims whilst a man like Neil Lennon is blamed for the hatred that he is surrounded by.

Yeah, I get angry. Because anger is called for.

I cannot think of the plight of Neil Lennon without anger, because what happened the other night was not surprising to me at all, it was the all-too predictable consequence of the continuing demonization of that man. And the people responsible for that can be found in a lot of places, but most notably in our media.

It was people in the press who were first out of the starting gate the other night with the idea that Lennon “brings this stuff on himself.”

I know exactly what they mean when they say that, whatever they tell themselves.

It’s got nothing to do with his attitude, his aggression, his personality. Scottish football is filled with little men with a chip on their shoulder. They don’t get death threats. They don’t get attacked on the touchline. They don’t have people sending them bullets and eventually live bombs. I defy anyone to tell me of another footballer in Europe who draws that kind of spite.

Think about that for a moment; not Ronaldo, not Messi, not Muller, not Hazard, not Pogba, not anybody. Even those “one man teams” who utterly ruin the dreams of rival fans on a regular basis, even they do not get that kind of unwavering, unblinking hateful attention. Not only is someone like Cristiano Ronaldo the worst nightmare of any opposing fan, but he’s so full of himself and strutting that he virtually invites dislike.

He does not invite hatred, not on Lennon’s level.

Lennon was never a match winner.

He was never a glamorous footballer.

He played in one of the unsung roles that flashy players aren’t attracted to. He was tough in the tackle, and hard as nails, but so was Keane, Ince, even Gerrard himself. None ever drew so much venom in a single away game that his manager put a supportive arm around him at full time and walked him across the turf to his own fans, so that he could feel something other than detestation for a brief time. Martin O’Neill did that to Lennon at Ibrox in November 2004.

When, in the aftermath, O’Neill told a packed press conference that Lennon had been the victim of “anti-Irish racism”, the first chorus went up blaming the victim for the crimes against him. The media and others have been banging the drum ever since.

The problem for Lennon is obvious; a man such as him – a Northern Irish Catholic – is supposed to keep his head down in this country, to know his place, to shut his mouth. It’s okay have success … but for God’s sakes don’t rub anyone’s face in it lest those who think they are The Peepul wonder why they don’t, and start acting out.

Lennon is fierce in his own defence. He is proud of who and what he is and where he comes from and there’s a section of Scottish society – a big section – which simply cannot cope with that. Not when who he is, what he is and where he comes from is the absolute antithesis of everything they are. And you cannot truly comprehend what it does to them unless you’ve lived here, unless you’ve seen it up close, gone nose to nose with it, had it right in your face.

We know it because that’s our lives. That’s Lennon’s life.

It is easy, in some ways, for those in the media, who’ve never had to deal with it and don’t really get it, to find excuses to blame Lennon. It’s even easier for those in their ranks who would join in his lynching party – and those people do exist, and they can take umbrage to that all they like but we know they do – to add fuel to the fire.

And it’s easier still for some of those who have, perhaps inadvertently, stoked the hate for years by pushing this tawdry line that he somehow deserves this, either out of ignorance of the consequences, intellectual laziness, or just utter cowardice, to now, at such a dark hour, one which perhaps, brings belated realisation with it, to walk to the water bowl, clean off their hands and pretend they had nothing to do with it.

But that is what got us here. Because the rivers of hate could have been drained years ago if the media and Civic Scotland had gotten a grip on this stuff.

Instead it has pushed it into the background and in doing that, and in building other toxic myths, the problem has grown.

Lennon is not the first public figure to suffer dire treatment for being of a certain background and religion and speaking out about it, although those who targeted him went above and beyond the norm and far past what others had to endure.

(Except in the case of the bombs, where several other high profile Catholics in Scotland were similarly targeted; at the trial the perpetrators were charged with “conspiracy to assault.” One of the bombs was sent to the Irish Republican organisation Cairde na hÉireann; do me a favour, and imagine two of their members had sent those same packages, to a footballer, a prominent lawyer, and a parliamentarian … honestly, do you think for one second that the charge would have been “conspiracy to assault”? Neither do I. And whilst you’re at it, remember that the guy who assaulted Lennon as he stood on the touchline at Tynecastle when he was Celtic manager got a “Not Proven” verdict in his own trial, in spite of it happening live on the telly.)

Scotland just does not want to hear this.

The media just does not want to say it.

Our political class does not want to have to do anything about it, which is why today all the talk is about Strict Liability, and placing the blame on football clubs and fans in general, instead of acknowledging that it stems from a deeper problem, that sectarianism lies at the heart of it all.

And because nobody wants to tackle that, the problem grows and grows and grows and hatred flourishes.

I know this stuff is hard to comprehend, I know it must seem like we all live on the dark side of the moon. And maybe we do.

To get it you have to live it and nobody lives it quite like Neil Lennon, a man who is the public face of all Scottish culture’s grubby little secrets.

His struggle is the junction point where a media that does not want to offend a certain demographic and those amongst that demographic who thrive on hate and a political class that dances around this issue all come together with a bang.

He is simultaneously the loneliest man in Scotland and a part of all of those of us who have experienced a little in our lives of what he goes through every single day, and so when it happens to him and Civic Scotland turns its back it happens to the rest of us too.

That’s why we say “We are all Neil Lennon.”

Because we are.

What has happened, what is still happening, to him, and occasionally to us, is Scotland’s secret shame. Only sometimes it’s not so secret. Every now and again those rivers bubble up, the lava rises, and the rest of the world gets a glimpse of what lies beneath.

Ugly, isn’t it?

And in Scotland, all this stuff weaves in and out of football and every issue we face in the national sport.

There is nowhere else like it, and it’s why me and the other bloggers do what we do.

It was the great US Supreme Court justice Louis Brandeis who wrote that “Publicity is justly commended as a remedy for social and industrial diseases. Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants; electric light the most efficient policeman.”

Scottish society may owe Neil Lennon a debt of gratitude today because maybe, just maybe, he’s shone a light on all of this that truly does some good. Out of this appalling few days, a little good – and even a little would help a lot – might eventually come.

You can discuss this and and all the other stories by signing up at the Celtic Noise forum at the above link. This site is one of the three that has pushed for the forum and we urge all this blog’s readers to join it. Show your support for real change in Scottish football, by adding your voice to the debate.

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