Popular |a.g, j.b, 1d, LM, 5SOS, etc.|

06 | Fatal Attraction and A Blond Leprechaun

before you read: please make sure to vote and share :)

1D to the right > Sessy ass mofos, am I right? (just so you know, they're not yet a band in the story)

Listen to Just a little Bit of your Heart (written by Harry Styles for Ariana Grande) on the right or on top.

Hehe.

Who would like to be a character in this story? Just comment something that will make me choke, and we got a deal ;)

(If it's that funny and makes choke to death, I can't guarantee you'll get your part of the bargain)

Before you read, I'd like to say, I love you all soo much. You guys mean the world to me.

I never thought my story would reach 3.9K ever! And it has. *tear drops*

Thank you so much!

Now you may begin :3

[Chapter Status: Edited]

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06 | Fatal Attraction and A Blond Leprechaun

The Grande house―and I'm sugar-coding here―is an absolute mayhem.

It's like World War 2 and Chris Brown and Drake's infamous bar fight exploded up in here.

Okay, maybe that was just an exaggeration.

I suddenly hear glass shatter from downstairs. "I accidentally dropped one of the glass plates!" Frankie calls out from our kitchen.

I swallow in a petrified gasp, nearly slipping my curling wand out of my hand.

Exaggeration, my αss.

I shake my head, and my attention departs from the scene Frankie just made, me focusing back on the giant curls at the end of my hair.

"You what?!" my mother, Joan Grande's witch scream booms pass the doorway of my bathroom, causing me to shudder―and this time, slam my wand down and stomp downstairs to confront the chaos erupting below me.

I swear to baby Jesus, if that was a real wand in my hand, I would've evanesco'd their αsses and this shambolic occurrence.

Yeah, I'm a die-hard Harry Potter fan. I can literally be the most shriveled up piece of shιt―but picking up a joyful, thick piece of Deathly Hallows, I can bloom into a pulchritudinous tulip.

Pulchritudinous: beautiful.

No, it is not a nasty disease, if that's what you were thinking.

I make my way down my stairs, nearly tripping over my brother's spare sneaker laying inconveniently at the end of the staircase.

"Oh Jesus," I cry under my breath, putting pressure on my forehead to maintain sanity.

My kitchen cabinet slams shut, scaring the foundation off of me. "Do I need to put a bell on you or something?"

Oh mom.

Silence fills the halls as I wait for a response. Something―which I presume is a hand―slams down on something―possibly the countertop in my kitchen. "Where would you even put the bell?"

Oh dear Frankie, took you long enough.

I kick his shoe out of my way and storm over to meet with my mom and my brother, who are yapping their lungs out.