#I just read some books for classes last semester that said those exact things

[afanofmanyhats]

On point commentary @toaarcan

Look, as much as I love celebrating Caesar’s death as the next Tumblrina, there’s an element to this that I think we need to address. About Caesar, about his assassination, about our reaction to it.

It didn’t work.

Killing Julius Caesar didn’t stop Rome from becoming an Empire. If anything it expedited the process. Because all the assassination did was turn Caesar into a martyr for his family and followers to turn into a standard to rally behind. The Republic fell, the Empire rose, and Caesar’s Assassination was the tipping point of it all.

In fact, there’s evidence Caesar had knowledge of the planned Assassination and went anyway, knowing what his death would turn him into. But why?

Fascists don’t get turned on by their followers when they die. They get turned on when they look weak.

By the time of his death, Caesar was sick. There’s evidence that he was incontinent and beginning to have mental problems. All in all, things that made him look weak.

I can’t say what would have happened in Brutus and the Senate had stayed their hand, but history would not have turned out the same way. Certainly, Caesar would not have been turned into a martyr with his assassination. If his followers had seen Caesar as he was, a shambling, dying, sick old man, would that have turned them on him? I can’t say.

The assassination of Julius Caesar isn’t a happy event, it’s a cautionary tale. I’m not saying this to ruin our Ides of March celebration, but I feel it needs to be said. Make Dictators look weak, and then stab them.

[1kook]

ZOOM CALL

⇢ meeting two

jeon jungkook x (f) reader

⇢ series masterlist

summary: Most notably, there’s one group project waiting for you, which leads you to Friday. Sitting at your desk, bright and early, absolutely dreading being assigned to your group. genre: fluff, slice of life, smut (tags tba) warnings: ITS A SLOW BURN OKAY...., sweetheart jk, campus crush jk, college crushes, social distancing, zoom -_-, jk owns a keroppi plush, oc thirsts over his hot bod, jk’s sweet attempts at flirting </3 he’s just 2 cute for his own good ratings: e for everyone <3 wc: 3.7k

notes: this took long bc i wrote one version but it was SO LAME u guys r lucky my friend and editor ( @kigurumu​ 🖤 ) stopped me from posting it. so then i had to reorganize my thoughts n b like girl. the ppl are waiting. get it together. anyway here’s zoom jk 😎

Being grouped with Jeon Jungkook (he/him) for your first class on the first day of your first Zoom semester truly sets the standard.

By no means do your other classes suck; they’re quite enjoyable, more relevant to your area of study. They’re familiar which makes them comfortable, your Zoom meetings filled with faces you’ve seen time and time again the last four years. The material interests you, so you definitely don’t have anything against them or your classmates. 

That being said, no one is prepared for the awkwardness that comes with each and every Zoom meeting. You never thought you’d be embarrassed to turn your mic on— to speak in a class filled with your peers. And the meetings are all like that, filled with uncomfortable silences and endless black screens. 

You wish there was a Jeon Jungkook (he/him) in every class. 

Jungkook’s just got this bubbly aura to him, this magnetic presence that staples itself into the back of your mind with each passing day. No one fills a Zoom call like he does, making every person laugh and smile like him. 

Wednesday rolls around and you find yourself a little disheartened when you don’t get sorted into the same randomized group as him again. Disappointment melts into annoyance when you find out how incompetent your other classmates are, refusing to speak in the small group or just completely clocking out all together. A lot of them didn’t do the reading— the one you stayed up all night doing —and your first partnered assignment of the semester finds you doing it all by yourself. Muted mics, black windows, complete radio silence; you hated it all. 

You find yourself weirdly longing for Jeon Jungkook’s presence, even if he’s only there to talk about some movie he saw last night. No one is as much of a chatterbox as him, can’t even hold a candle to the way he draws everyone in with his mindless conversations. At least he speaks during Breakout Rooms, you think bitterly. 

Anyway, the first week of classes ends and your brain is a frenzied mess. There’s schedules to memorize, professors to impress, assignments to plan out. There’s definitely no time to sit around and fantasize about the curly haired cutie in one of your general classes. The weekend is spent trying to organize your planner, filling in due dates and exam days ahead of time. It’s your last semester and you’re dead set on making it your best one yet. There’s a lot of written work this time around, analyses and research papers that need to be organized. The road ahead is manageable, but you’ll have to work hard to keep it that way for the next five months. 

Most notably, there’s one group project waiting for you, which leads you to Friday. Sitting at your desk, bright and early, absolutely dreading being assigned to your group.

Jungkook is early this time, not like on Monday where he’d been one of the last to filter in, and he’s looking as chirpy as ever. Donning this horrendously hot pink shirt, completely unlike the neutral tones he’d worn during your last two meetings and that decorate his room, and the cutest pair of circle glasses sitting on his nose. He says his regularly scheduled ‘good morning’ to you all and receives a collective response from the rest of the class that not even your professor got. 

Speaking of the professor, you’ve been giving him the stink eye this whole time. Not that he can tell, given the fact he’s probably miles away in his own home while you angrily glare at him through your webcam. It’s this old guy who’s decided to sort you all into semester long groups for the class, which is the absolute worst. These types of groups always go the same way: you make a group chat promising to study together, those plans fall through, and then everyone just leeches off of each other for homework answers. And in most cases, it’s you handing over your homework answers because no one else ever bothers to do anything. Sadly, it’s a routine you’ve had to suffer through many times in your academic career. 

The thought makes you sick. Having to spend another semester being labeled as the bossy, nerdy dictator of the group? Not exactly how you wanted to spend the last few months of college, but there’s nothing you can do. Maybe this time around you’ll just let it be, won’t fight it (and by it, you mean your lazy classmates when they inevitably try to guilt trip you for homework) and simply let it run its course. 

“I’m going to put you guys into Breakout Rooms with your new groups!” your professor claps excitedly, and then you and the rest of your classmates are forced to watch him lean too close to the camera as he begins clicking around to find the preset groups he’s assigned the class. “Remember, guys, this is it for the rest of the semester. So if something isn’t right, let me know by the end of today.” 

Man, this was going to suck, you groan. The syllabus had said that the purpose of these groups was to keep you all connected with your classmates during these trying times, to give you the same opportunities in-person learning would. Frankly, you’re not too worried about making friends with everyone in this large class. Most of them are younger than you anyway, save for Jeon Jungkook (he/him) and a handful of others who are apparently in your year. Befriending lowerclassmen only to have to bid them adieu in a few months seems awfully sad, a little too heartbreaking. You really just want to get a good grade in this class, collect the last of your credits, and put this whole college experience behind you. 

Your thoughts are wrapped up by the pop-up message that appears on screen. 

The host is inviting you to join a Breakout Room: Group 12

You sigh, contemplate dropping this class for all of two seconds, before dutifully accepting the request. Worse comes to worst, you make up some lie to tell your professor that you’re allergic to group work and hope it works. (It won’t.) 

You sit through the mandatory loading screen for a few seconds before being abruptly dumped into your new room, Group 12, or so the message had said. There’s no one else here yet, which isn’t really a surprise. A lot of your classmates are probably like you, scowling at the pop up message every time your professor sends you into small groups before accepting the request. So you chill by yourself, eyes tracing over your own mirrored image. The notes on last night’s reading are neatly laid out before you, your copy of the book off to the side. 

Another beat and then, much to your surprise, Jeon Jungkook (he/him) is appearing in your room. “Oh,” he says, round eyes magnified by the thick lens of his glasses, the glare of the computer’s glow casting a funny shape across the lens that momentarily robs you of his pretty eyes. His pretty pink lips stretch into a smile, upper lip thinning out a bit when he flashes you those perfect teeth. “Hi, __,” he greets politely, bubbly. 

It’s embarrassing how much his presence affects you, your back going ramrod straight in a terrible attempt to compose yourself. “Hi, Jungkook,” you manage to get out, fingers nervously reaching for something, anything, to ground yourself. They land on a pencil. 

Jungkook doesn’t seem even the slightest bit aware of the commotion he causes within you. “I was really nervous for these groups,” he begins rambling right away, lips pushing down into an exaggerated frown as he shivers at the memory. “But I’m glad I got placed with someone hardworking like you!”

Despite how sweet he sounds, you’re not entirely sure if he’s buttering you up just to take advantage of your ‘hardworking’ attitude later down the road or if he’s genuinely being polite. The little information you know about Jungkook wants you to believe it is the latter; he’s very kind, sweet and nice in a way that makes everyone he speaks to feel warm. Still, for all you know this could be some elaborate ruse of his to make you trust him now and then convince you to do all the work for the rest of the semester. 

Tentatively, you ask, “and how would you know that?” You try your best to keep your usual snappiness out of your voice, pose it simply out of curiosity. But everything you say or do feels like a stark contrast to Jungkook and his bubbliness. 

His head tilts cutely to the side, imploring brown eyes looking at you for one hard second. And then, “I read your forum analysis from Wednesday,” he admits, breaking into a smile. Shy and tiny, bashfully looking down at his desk. “I thought your perspective on the piece was really interesting,” he says, lips pursing together as if he’s suddenly too embarrassed to admit such things to you. 

Stunned, all you can manage is one slow nod. “Thank you,” you eventually choke out, trying to ward the heat away from your cheeks as Jungkook sheepishly nods back, cute smile still on his face. 

“Oh, please,” he chuckles, raising his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Don’t thank me!” 

It is in this exact moment that you are suddenly made aware of two things. 

One: despite his collection of soft sweaters and t-shirts, his bouncy curls and sweet smile, Jeon Jungkook’s body is neither as cute nor as soft as any of his belongings. In fact, Jeon Jungkook’s body is all hard planes and prominent veins. Arms beefy, biceps that bulge beneath the fabric of the short sleeve t-shirt he’s donned today. His shoulders fill out the material nicely, making him look broad and huge, but that’s not even the worst part, because—

—two: Jeon Jungkook is covered in ink. Dark streaks and swirls paint his forearms, curling around his elbow. Every inch of his pale skin is littered with tiny designs. They dance along the back of his hands, over his knuckles, and end at an unidentifiable point beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. When he tugs at the neckline of his shirt in an effort to readjust it, you hope your eyes are deceiving you and that isn’t a hint of ink by his collarbone. 

Your normal composure seems to slip away at the mere thought. 

It’s Jungkook’s voice that brings you back, a soft timbre that asks, “aren’t we supposed to have someone else in our group?” You flinch as if you’ve been caught ogling him, never mind the fact he’s started mindlessly shuffling some papers around on his desk, not the slightest bit concerned with you. 

“Oh— um, yes. I think,” you stammer, feeling like some creep for ogling your very cute, very sweet classmate. The memory of his inky skin nearly sends a shiver down your spine as you navigate back to the class syllabus. “We’re supposed to have at least three people,” you read off, glancing at the boy on your screen who frowns at the news. 

“Do you think they dropped?” Given it was still only the first week of school, probably. There had been a fewer number of people in the call when it started, you remembered. Jungkook sighs, this rather light sound that ends in a hum. “Well, we can always wait a few minutes just in case.”

So you wait, nervously bouncing your leg up and down. It’s not awkward, or at least, not as awkward as it would be with anyone else. The other week you had silently sat with another classmate in a one-on-one discussion and hadn’t uttered a word for five minutes. It wasn’t because you didn’t care about the class, but because said classmate had been tapping away on their phone the entire time and hadn’t even responded to your simple greeting. That was awkward. 

With Jungkook it’s more weird than awkward. You can tell the silence makes him uncomfortable because he keeps doing these tiny inhales like he’s about to speak, followed by a little head shake where he seemingly stops himself from saying anything at all. He wants to talk, very badly it seems, but holds back for some odd reason. 

He’s scribbling on some sheet of paper, leaning forward to give you a view of the top of his head. From this angle, his shirt hangs forward and a silver necklace falls out from beneath the neckline, thuds against the table. And then your suspicions are nearly confirmed, and oh god, is that a chest piece—

You quickly look away. 

Robbed of his handsome face and feeling like you’ll die if you look at his body any longer, you settle for your newly acquired favorite pastime: inspecting your classmates’ rooms over Zoom. Yes, you’ll admit it is incredibly nosy, but what else can you do? You can only look at your professor for so long until you inevitably grow bored, attention drifting off to your classmates tiny windows. And with no professor in sight, just gorgeous Jeon Jungkook, you quickly begin your examination of his bedroom. 

Jungkook’s room is pretty much the same as you remember it, rather neat and plain. There’s not a lot going on in terms of decoration, which is a little surprising to say the least. Over the course of the week, you’ve watched your classmates’ dormitories and bedrooms gradually change, decorations and tapestries decorating the walls, mountains of pillows added to their beds. It’s only natural that everyone has an innate need to show off who they are now more than ever, and you thought Jungkook would be the same. 

Apparently not. 

Aside from the guitar you had spotted on Monday, his little dorm room remains unchanged. Blank walls, grayscale sheets. The same perfectly fluffed pillows and then—

A tiny Keroppi plush smack dab in the middle of his bed. 

It’s adorable but a little out of place amongst Jungkook’s rather masculine decorations (or lack thereof). A tiny green doll sitting by his pillows, cute striped shirt and ridiculously dopey smile. 

Leaning forward, you unmute yourself and conversationally say, “I love your Keroppi.” 

At the sudden sound of your voice, Jungkook abruptly straightens up, glasses practically at the very tip of his nose. Eyes wide, it takes him a second to process your words before jerkily whipping around to stare at the aforementioned item. “Oh,” he jumps, slowly looking at his screen again, lips pulled into a tight line. “Um… it’s not mi—“

“It’s adorable,” you add, propping your chin in your palm, absolutely endeared with the rosy color that paints his cheeks, fades down the column of his neck. 

He squirms, hurriedly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looks like he’ll deny it again, nervously nibbling at his lower lip, before eventually he settles with a sigh. “I won it from a crane machine,” he confesses with a sheepish huff of laughter, rolling backwards to the edge of his bed to snatch it from its spot. 

(Of course he manspreads as he sits, dark jeans hugging his thighs as he rolls back your way. His arm looks so strong, covered in all that ink, you nearly drool.)

“It’s cute, isn’t it?” he says, abandoning his embarrassment as he shakes the little figure around, makes it look like it’s dancing for you. “My mom said it looks like me.”

At that, you laugh. Loud and boisterous because you were definitely not expecting Jungkook to say that, such an odd but weirdly fitting comparison that has you looking at the doll in his hands with renewed interest. And through the pixelated screen, you can see the similarities: Jungkook does have the same smile as Keroppi. 

“Your mom was right,” you agree, wiping a faux tear from the corner of your eye. “Very cute.” 

Jungkook’s got this big goofy smile on, shaking his head in disbelief that you would ever dare agree with his mom. Like he’s genuinely enjoying himself, you think, oddly proud to have evoked that reaction from him. Granted, Jungkook always looks like he’s pretty happy during class, but it feels nice knowing that you were (confirmed) the reason why.  

A little caught up with the bumbling feeling in your chest, you’re not expecting his next words. “Does that mean I’m cute?” he asks, still with that same dopey smile on his face. 

It’s a bold statement you wouldn’t have expected from him, someone who seems content being the world’s friend, but apparently Jeon Jungkook also craves compliments. 

Slowly, you nod. “...yes,” you say, trying to keep the tumultuous emotions inside of you at bay while you grant him this one compliment. Outwardly, you give him what you hope is an obviously feigned look of disbelief, managing to lace it with a little amusement as you shake your head at his inquiry. On the inside, your mind and heart are a thundering racetrack, the roar of the engines and the screams of the crowd enough to momentarily make you lose your senses. “Very cute,” you repeat, hoping he can’t hear the same pounding of your heartbeat in your throat and in your ears as you do. “Like a little frog.” 

Jungkook graces your robotic response with the most boyish laugh, head tossed back as one loud cackle (because, really, there is no other way to describe the sound that tears itself from his throat) escapes him, curls bouncing back from the movement. “Cute like a frog,” he wheezes, seemingly to himself as he shakes his head with a grin, scooting closer to the camera again. “That’s a new one.” 

“You set yourself up for it,” you defend, busying yourself with the papers spread out in front of you before Jungkook can distract you any further. “Anyway!” you announce, neatly lining the papers up. “Our group.”

Jungkook does his best to wipe the glee off his face, but even as he reaches around for his things, it’s still there. “Right,” he agrees, “we have to, um—“ a huff of laughter “—group contract! Or, well, partner project.”

Briefly, you consider calling in your professor to inform him of your missing partner. He had said to let him know by the end of today if something was wrong. But, honestly, you didn’t see a problem with your group the way it was now. While you can only hope he’ll turn out to be as dedicated to his work as you, as it stands now, there weren’t any major red flags surrounding Jungkook’s character. 

Besides, you didn’t mind being with him for the rest of the semester. 

You nod, forcing yourself to ignore the glimmer in his eyes when he looks at you through the screen. “I think it’s safe to say it’ll just be the two of us, which I don’t mind,” you say, glancing at the time on the corner of your screen to see five minutes have passed since you agreed to wait. “Do you?”

On screen, Jungkook profusely shakes his head, curls bouncing all over the place. “Nope,” he hums. “I don’t mind at all,” he reassures you, resting his chin in his palm as he regards you, and then sweetly adds, “it’ll be nice with just us, __.”

Right. 

You gulp, heart fluttering at the dreaminess he exudes through your screen, the soft strand of hair that falls over his forehead, tickles his brow bone when he flashes you another smile.  He was so handsome. Before you say anything silly, you quickly attempt to move on. “But it does make us more of a duo than a group.” 

Jungkook looks away from his screen for the first time in what feels like forever and you finally let your heart rest for a second. “A duo,” he murmurs, shuffling through his papers. “Like Mickey and Minnie?” 

You nearly choke on your spit, coughing to hide the surprise from his rather cute suggestion. He’s not even looking at you, doesn’t even realize the absolute shock he’s thrown you in by comparing the two of you to one of the most famous couples— that’s what they are, a goddamn couple, not a duo! the words mean two completely different things! —in the world. Instead, Jungkook is humming the theme song to Drake & Josh. 

This man was dangerous for your heart. 

After having felt all the emotions in the world in the span of ten seconds, you eventually gather the courage to say, “sure,” and quickly try to move the conversation along. “We just need to, um, make some ground rules and responsibilities for us to follow.” 

Jungkook nods, finally glancing up again, but not at you. He’s glaring at some point behind his computer, brows furrowed together as he begins brainstorming on his own. You try to, really, but his lips pout adorably when he’s deep in thought, and they’re just so pink and look so soft and would feel like—

“Well, we should probably exchange numbers first,” Jungkook says, interrupting your spiraling thoughts with a new topic to spiral over. He tilts his head to the side, brown eyes focused on you. 

“Yes, of course,” you stammer, fumbling for your phone as Jungkook lets out a soft yay at your acceptance of his request. Quickly, he recites his number and you type it in with trembling hands into the number pad, giving him a quick call so he can have your number as well. 

You save him right away, just his name followed by the class you share with him. Not like you know any other Jeon Jungkooks, and if you did, you doubt anyone could ever leave such an impact like this Jeon Jungkook. 

“__, look,” Jungkook calls, that same excitement lacing his already lovely voice, and you raise your head up at the screen again. He’s waving his phone over his camera, so you don’t get to see his face when he says, “It’s a little mouse emoji and a pink bow— just like Minnie!”

Dangerous for your heart and, most likely, the death of you this semester.

Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[whump-town]

Stubborn

Everybody taking care of old Hotch because... I don't like it when old Hotch gets left to just die on his own :( don't ask why that's where I draw the line

No pairings

No warnings

In Jack’s second semester of his junior year, Hotch collapses again. He’s home this time, out in his garden under the glaring sun. The day had begun no different than any other. The birds on the powerline chirping and causing their disturbances, as eager for the day to begin as the school-aged children shouting in the street. He’d watched them from the sliding glass door facing the street, his tea warm in his hands. He’d waved at a few, the older ones who recognize him as a mystifying adult with stories to be unlocked. The younger children give him a face akin to a monster’s, his mystery horrifying in their already confusing enough lives.

It’s an hour before lunch. Two hours before Spencer shows up because it’s Thursday and he teaches a class on this side of town every Tuesday and Thursday at 2. One that he occasionally asks Hotch to attend -- as a guest lecturer, as a treat to his students, or just for the company.

He could call just about anyone.

Emily’s downtown, on her way back from a meeting with the Department of Justice. She’d be thrilled for an excuse to not go back to the office and spend an hour or two in his kitchen telling him about those pretentious assholes.

Garcia’s about ten minutes away, working at a nonprofit teaching “at-risk” kids how to code. Being the guiding hand she’d needed as a teenager so that they might not repeat the same mistakes she made. She was lucky, Hotch saved her but he’s not around to catch any more kids like her.

Morgan got hired by a family two streets over to fix up their house before they move in. He’s there now, tearing out rotting beams.

This collapse is not of the life-threatening kind. Not to Hotch at least. There’s no internal bleeding, no emergency surgeries. He doesn’t even need stitches but he’s on so many medications that thin his blood that it’s just on the safer side. From the hospital, he calls who he needs to. Reid first, he’ll worry when he gets to Hotch’s house and sees his truck gone. Then, Jack, it’s better to hear this sort of thing from him and not Emily in half an hour when she needs to yell at someone and who better than the son of the idiot she hates right now? Dave and Emily follow and he trusts them to carry the news the rest of the way. Rather, he simply doesn’t want to talk about it anymore and he’d rather Garcia and JJ and Morgan and everyone else just be mad at him than go on to have another conversation about how he’s feeling.

Fine. He just got light-headed. It was the heat and his perpetually low iron and probably his thin blood (the killer had been his blood pressure but they’re working on that). He just needs to get better about remembering to eat breakfast -- a larger breakfast than just tea and toast. Fainting, he assures Dave, happens. Jack’s seen it happen. The heat makes it worse, the summertime drains him. He’s come in from the garden and gotten weak in the knees plenty of times. He actually moved some chairs around the sliding glass door to the yard, prepared for this exact problem.

This over clarification does not help.

Made only the more complicated when he explains his head is fine. The fainting thing really isn’t a big deal, he just needs a ride home. He’d landed weirdly and pulled his back. He left with a new problem entirely, a torn ligament in his shoulder. That is a problem for a different day.

The surgery is set for the week just before Jack’s finals. Armed with a suitcase full of textbooks, his laptop, notes from this semester (and a few from last), and just enough clothes to recycle a few and still be fine, Jack shows up on his father’s doorstep. “I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the library… but it’s not the worst place I’ve studied.” It’s far too late to send Jack back but Hotch is reluctant to let him stay. Even if he does prefer Jack be his ride rather than the likes of Penelope and that tiny green eye-sore of a car she drives or leave him to Reid and his defensive, jerky driving.

To the sound of “Aaron Hotchner November 2, 1971”, Jack settles down with his books. He tries to put himself in the right headspace for studying but it’s harder than he anticipated. The constant motion of the room unsettles him and he looks up several times to see his father’s reaction. To gauge the anxiety in his face, in the deep breathes that he pulls in through his nose. In how tight his fists are holding the sheets underneath him. It’s a simple surgery and they’ll be out of here in no time.

“Young” his heart had not handled the heavy sedatives and morphine well. Then again, those incidents are always hard to measure against a thing like this. Rushed into the ER with nine chest wounds and having nearly bled to death, it’s natural to conclude the stress of his depleted blood supply and his very recent trauma had caused his heart to stop on the table. That said trauma was the reason his heart had maintained to be a steady problem up until they released him. Again, when he was brought in with some of the worst internal bleedings the staff had ever seen. His heart had given them trouble too.

Jack is staring blankly at his flashcards when the doctor comes out.

Hotch had gone to Georgetown to be a lawyer like his father and his grandfather. Jack went to Georgetown to get an Art History degree. He was lead by something else. Not chasing some shadow, clutching at a lie he spoonfed himself. Jack didn’t live in anyone’s shadow, never felt the pressure to look and act a certain way. Was never beaten into submission or told to hold his tongue. Jack went to museums every Saturday with his father, preferred them to the aquariums and the zoo. Hotch held him close to the artwork, pushed his dense schedule around to go to new shows, and learned the names of pieces just to recite the knowledge back to Jack.

In his lap, Jack is memorizing pieces of art like his father had years ago for him. He’s stuck on The Anatomy Lesson, eyes glued to the details. The way colorless skin is held in forceps, peeled back to reveal angry red. He can feel the pinching teeth on his own skin, feels the heavy flow of hot blood spilling down over his arm.

“Hotchner?”

Jack flinches, caught completely off guard. He stands, flushing as he tucks his notecards into his textbook, and stands. “Ugh, yeah. That’s me.” He wipes his hands off on his pants, rubbing away the nervous sweat he’s built up.

The doctor recognizes him from earlier. He’d watched Jack and Hotch get out one last goodbye. Jack pulling up a nervous smile, dirty-blonde hair, and light eyes a complete contrast to Hotch’s ever-darkening features. Somehow more solemn, voice taken by the sedatives already working through his body. He hadn’t said a word, eyes vacantly following Jack’s movements but unaware.

Jack expects the same monologue he hears every time. The one that comes out so dry and perfect that they must practice it in front of the mirror, say it softly to themselves as they as they get ready each morning. He’s got it memorized himself -- the bits about recovering in post-op, make a full recovery, and whatever on the fly timeline they give for access back to the room.

“But he’s-- He’s okay? He’s--”

Jack feels impossibly childish. Five years old and Emily’s chilled fingers brushing his tears away, “baby, I know you miss your mommy. But you’re being so terribly mean to your daddy.” He had been, a terrible little monster squirming away from his father and refusing to eat anything. Throwing tantrums about nothing and everything. Screaming and crawling under his bed every chance he got. Pushing himself to the wall knowing he couldn’t be reached.

Now he can remember Hotch just sitting at the edge of the bed. There on the floor for hours. Sometimes he read, would pick up a book, and just start from wherever just to make it so his voice was reaching where he couldn’t. He slept there too, on the hard ground just to make sure Jack knew he was there. Slipped strawberry pop tarts on crazily designed animal plated under there, offered bites of his own food to the darkness under the bed. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk and juice.

He feels like a little boy again, getting news that he has no idea how to handle.

“He’s okay?” Jack stammers. “He’s going to be okay? I can see him?”

Hotch remembers those days under the bed too. Waking up in the middle of the night as Jack groggily curled close to him, still under the bed but crawling under his blanket. The ends of those awful sobs, Jack’s little chest jerking as he hiccuped. The force of his sorrow was too much for his little body. And Jack would fall into his lap, exhausted and needing comfort. His little fingers tracing the scars on Hotch’s face. How he whispered “thank you” and “please” from underneath the bed and how he’d pop his head out to say, “Daddy, I’m going to potty. I’ll be right back.”

Jack’s legally old enough to drink now and Hotch still sees that little boy. The three-year-old wiping his snot on Hotch’s dress shirt. The six-year-old holding his hand and reminding him to look both ways twice before crossing the street. The eight-year-old he left the hallway light on for, old enough now to think he needed to brave the night without a nightlight. So Hotch would offer to keep the hallway light on, not for Jack but for him because he doesn’t like the dark. The ten-year-old sheepishly offering him a father’s day gift he bought with saved allowance, a t-shirt he’s now worn the words off of. The fifteen-year-old curling up beside him on the couch, seeking his comfort but not sure how to ask anymore. The eighteen-year-old as tall as him talking his ear off while he tries to get dinner ready, sticking his fingers in the pan and sitting on the counter.

How did he grow up so fast?

He’s not a little boy anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.

The creaking of a chair moves Hotch’s attention and he looks away from Jack. Away from the sight of his little boy curled up on a cot, drooling onto a pillow and notebook still open, a pen dangling from his fingers. He looks over and Emily’s sitting up, her reading glasses precariously sat on the tip of her nose. “Oh look,” she mumbles. She stretches out, groaning as her joints complain from being held in this miserable hospital chair for hours. “You’ve decided to join the land of the living.”

Hotch watches her fold the thin black frames of her glasses up, gently sits them down by his hand as she stands up. Jack had called her, even though he promised he wouldn’t worry anyone. Hotch didn’t want anyone else coming to the hospital over something so small and though Jack protested that their concern wouldn’t be because he was bothering them but because they love him. The very same reason he’d come home is that people gather after these sorts of things. They need reassurance that he’s alive and he’s just going to have to accept that. They compromised in the end, everyone could come to smother him in worry after he got home from the surgery.

But Jack was scared. He called the only person he could think to, the woman whose role in his life that was never really clear. She’d gotten on him about his grades, smacked the back of his head when he said something stupid, and always let him taste-test her wine at Thanksgiving dinner. Emily knew things that not even Jessica knew and she could be sterner than both Hotch and Jessica and also more relaxed, more understanding. She was always there for both of them, in the same capacity as Jessica and yet her own unique one. A friend Hotch trusted and loved and Jack could understand that. His friends always wanted to know if they were dating and he knew intuitively that the answer was no but he would hesitate to try and explain. But he didn’t understand the gravity that pulled them together, adults and their relationships far too complex to fit it into his simple understanding of love.

He did understand she was the only person to call.

“What’d he do this time?” she asked and knew she was playing the wrong role for the wrong Hotchner because no sooner than she could ask she had an armful of Jack. She sat with Jack for hours, let him get his fear out. Held him while he sobbed, felt pulled to the past. When it was Aaron on her shoulder, terrified he’d lose his son. Life has this very odd way of bringing everything full circle.

“I bet you’re hurting.” Emily moves to the table and pours water into the little paper Dixie cup left by the nurses. “Been right dramatic this afternoon,” she informs him, a dissatisfied matter-of-fact tone in play. “I know you find that to be particularly taxing.” She holds the cup for him, gentle despite her annoyance. She’s close enough to see the iodine on his skin. Dark orange swipes across his pale skin, the smell burns with its strength.

He pulls greedily from the cup, mouth impossibly dry. Stopped only by how little she poured, he sinks back heavily into the pillows behind him. His shoulder hot and angry from forcing himself upright.

“They’re going to let you go in the morning,” she says, sitting back down. He won’t remember this in the morning. Emily holding his hand, whispering thickly how angry she is with him as tears fall down her face. How scared she was getting that phone call from Jack, racing down here to be a composed person to comfort his son thinking her best friend was in the morgue.

He’ll wake up with a pit in his stomach, residual feelings from the night before he can’t tie down to memories. Emily shows no inclination to repeat herself, just coldly informs him that she’ll have Penelope make him a cardiologist appointment (it’s unspoken that no one trusts him to do this himself). Jack walks on glass, close by but terrified of being pushed away. Hotch is too out of it to put up much of a fight, by the time the morning shift has their hands on him he’s silent. Properly dosed up for a ride home and out of his mind.

He’s groggily propped up on pillows, watching Jack and Emily fight over if he has the right to wear shoes or not. Emily wants to hold them captive, he won’t run off or refuse the wheelchair without them and Jack shakes his head, “he’s not our P.O.W, Emily. He’s even going to get that far if he does try to run.” He’s given his shoes but Emily makes a point to collect his cane, holds it while the nurse helps him into the wheelchair. He’s a flight-risk and she’s not going to trust him, he’s run off on her too many times for that.

At the house the other’s have gathered up, having nothing better to do evidently on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Penelope’s frying eggs and bacon, the carnage it takes to feed their brood spread out on his kitchen counter. Reid sitting on the counter, Hank in his lap, and the two of them watching Penelope. Derek’s on the sofa, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Savannah learning on his shoulder. Dave’s getting orange juice from the store declared them all lawless, and didn’t trust them to get the right kind.

Hotch is granted his cane to get back inside the house but Emily threatens to kick it out from underneath if he tries anything fast. He smacks her ankle and Jack has to actually step between them to keep them apart. It’s in times like these where Jack finds himself wondering how these two ever had any role in raising him at all.

“Don’t you have jobs?” Hotch asks, hooking his cane over the coat rack and toeing his shoes off. He ignores the hand Emily places on his arm, afraid he’ll knock himself over. He manages just fine, has the whole house set up so that every other step is within arms distance of something to lean on. Fingers trailing the back of the couch he limps past Derek, smiling when Savannah offers a soft “glad you’re okay”. She pats his hand and he nods back.

“Up for some food, sir?” Penelope asks and she’s not taking no for an answer. They might be having heaping servings of eggs and bacon and gravy and orange juice but she’s made two small bowls of oatmeal. She takes the medicine Jack tosses up on the counter, puts it at the end where the rest of his medication sits. “I cut up apples,” she tells Hotch with a wide grin, sliding the bowl in front of him. “Dashed a little cinnamon and sugar in there, it’ll stick to your bones. Keep you healthy.”

He’s at a healthy weight at the moment, not as thin as he leans to when he’s sick but with Hotch, it’s always a good thing to have some collateral weight for the ��in case”. Lifting the spoon in his left hand he scoops some of the oatmeal up, doing his best to hide his annoyance at how weak his extremities still are. How his hand shakes under the light strain of the oatmeal. He looks up, watches Spencer carry Hank over to the highchair sitting at the table beside him. He’s distracted so Emily swoops in, takes his spoon from his hand, and tries his oatmeal. He lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. She likes it. He nods, it’s pretty good.

Hank immediately knocks his spoon on the ground and makes a low whining sound in the back of his throat. “Hop help,” he whines, pointing down at his spoon. His speech is still developing so he pronounces help and hop nearly identically but Hotch understands the difference. He just can’t bend over like that. His right arm is still pinned to his chest in an intricate web of gauze and this sling.

“Reid,” Hotch calls. His voice is deep, strained from intubation and anesthesia. It makes him sound sick. “He’s dropped his spoon.”

Reid nods, he already knows.

Hank points to his shoulder and frowns, “Hop fall down?”

Hotch nods, that is pretty much what happened and at the same time, Emily sweeps in and tickles Hank. She presses kisses to his face and making him laugh loudly. “That’s what happens,” she says. “Hops is just old.” Hank is too distracted by the ongoing attack to defend Hotch not that a toddler rising to his defense is very helpful.

Hotch sighs as Jack comes up behind him, stealing his spoon too. He takes a bite of the oatmeal and deems it nearly as good as the kind that Jessica makes. Hotch wants to be annoyed by it and yet all he does is nod and finds himself smirking just a little.

Penelope calls everyone in for breakfast and Hotch ignores the kisses pressed to his cheek as people drag chairs to the table around him. To the hands that slide over his back, assurance of life he remembers Jack calling it.

Derek slides him a mug of tea, made exactly how he likes it. He sits across from Hotch, close to Hank in case either needs assistance. Emily sits to his left, slides her coffee up beside his tea so he can have some if he’s quick about it. Jack sits beside her and the rest is a blur, too much motion at once for him to take in without his contacts or glasses. Penelope slides a tea plate to him, his medicine on it, and kisses his head while he’s still scowling at the plate.

They don’t leave him alone all day.

He ends up taking a nap with Hank, the toddler’s sticky little fingers holding onto his shirt as he finds himself unable to fight off the effects of the medicine and his full stomach.

He’s squished on the couch between Derek and Dave, forced to watch baseball because he can’t worm his way upright again just yet.

They change the dressings on his shoulder, his teeth clenched tightly so that he doesn’t let anything slip.

At midnight he wakes up on the couch. Jack’s bedroom door is shut, he’s sleeping peacefully inside. His heating blanket is pulled up to his chin, the heat turned up all the way. He can’t remember getting into this state himself but he has a fate memory of JJ helping him move his hand to his mouth, encouraging him to take the pain killers before bed. Of Derek making sure he didn’t just fall straight over onto his side. He manages to find Dave stretched out on the Lazyboy -- the chair he got Hotch for his fifty-something birthday. He’ll wake up in the morning to more food being made in his lonely kitchen, JJ this time. She’ll make blueberry waffles.

If he’d wanted attention, Emily will tease the next morning, he could have just asked. And he didn’t even know he wanted this. He never finds the words to ask for it to continue but every Saturday morning it happens anyway -- his kitchen and living room full of pajamas and suits in varying degrees depending on who has what to do that morning. The fainting thing is not cool but he considers this to be a good trade.

[writtenonreceipts]

I saw this prompt for feysand and i would love to see your take on it - I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

I've really been enjoying your writing!!❤

AN: I took it and ran, and ran, and kept running.  Thank-you so, SO much for sending it my way!  This was a great prompt that had fun with.  I’m glad you’ve been liking my stuff, it means a lot! ~5.5kwords

TW: Brief talk about death, anxiety, depression, fear.

 Worth It

Seated at a canvas with paints or pencils in hand, Feyre was unstoppable.  She could create landscapes with ease or depict a simple still life and turn it into something far greater.  Art was where she lived.

Not in a basement classroom learning about Prythian history.  

There wasn’t anything wrong with history, especially when it was as rich and vibrant as Prythia.  But talking about wars, treaties, and assassinations could only be discussed for so long.

Of course, it didn’t help that Feyre was dyslexic, but she didn’t talk about that.

She glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone else was as bored as she was.  It was the first day of class and she was the only one not taking extensive notes.  Well, she and a guy at the front of the room.  All Feyre could see was the back of his head.  His hair was dark as midnight and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as he sat at his desk.  He didn’t even have a textbook with him.

Feyre forced herself to pay attention as the Professor finally shut down the slide show presentation.

“Make sure you look of the syllabus,” Dr. Wesson addressed the class.  She was a small woman with rich brown hair and a plain green dress.  “It outlines the schedule of tests and essays.  None of the dates will be altered.  My TA will be at your disposal.” 

Dr. Wesson nodded to the guy with the black hair and gestured for him to stand up.

And just like that, the class was the most fascinating thing in the world. 

He was tall, taller than he’d originally appeared.  His warmly tanned skin made his violet blue eyes bright and eager.  A sly sort of smile traced his mouth as he observed the class.

“Call me Rhysand,” he said, “I’m working on my masters specifically in the historical aspect of how literature was shaped by wars in the land.  I’m always glad to help with your questions.  Just make sure you email me to set something up.”

The girls next to Feyre whispered to each other, exchanging significant looks.  Feyre exchanged a significant look with the amount of reading and writing that was required.

Hell.  It was going to be a long semester.

The class dismissed right at nine o’clock, much to Feyre’s relief.  While most of the students flocked to the front of the room to either gawk at the TA or further discuss issues with the Professor, Feyre left the class.  Already she could feel her dread pooling into anxiety.  Her heart rate quickened and the muscles in her left hand twitched.  

She just needed to get home and sit down with a canvas and paint.

As soon as she made it outside the Humanities Building however, the dread continued to tug at Feyre.  It was far too dark.  With far fewer lights than she’d expected for a college campus.  Or maybe it was because there was a thick layer of clouds sagging down and threatening rain.  

“Feyre!” 

Snapping to attention, Feyre clutched her bag to her chest and found the source of her name.

Her friend, and roommate, Alis waved at her from a path diverging deeper on to campus.  Her dark hair hung in waves down her back and the jacket she wore was flattering against her curves.

Feyre let out a long, releieved breath and plastered a smile on her face.  Quickly, she moved toward her friend.

“Hey,” Feyre greeted and accepted a hug from the smaller girl. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you had a late class,” Alis explained, “and I knew it was with Wesson.  I heard the woman is miserable.  So intense.  But--I mean--you’re going to do great.  Your always so creative with everything I’m sure she’ll love you.  Anyway, I was finishing up buying my books for the semester and thought I’d meet up with you.”

Feyre smiled as Alis spoke, grateful for the small distraction.  Even if it was slightly horrific in thinking about trying to get on a professor’s good-side.

“Thanks,” Feyre said, “I appreciate it.  It was a bit intimidating.”

“I think everyone just likes making freshman miserable,” Alis said.  Alis was technically a junior, but had changed her major four times and couldn’t decide on a minor.  She was not on track to graduate when she’d originally thought, but wasn’t at all concerned.  

Feyre wished she could be more like that than the raging mess she felt she was.

Behind them, leaving the Humanities Building, the TA appeared leading an entire gaggle of girls.

“Let’s go,” Feyre muttered. “I’m exhausted.”

#

By the third week of the semester Feyre came to better understand her relationship with exhaustion.  And it was not a good one.

She was fairly certain her body consisted of ninety percent caffeinated beverages and ten percent hot pockets.  She’d never been one for eating much.  Growing up had always been a struggle in keeping food in the fridge and a decent pair of shoes on her feet.  Feyre knew by now how her body functioned.

It wasn’t healthy, not in the slightest.  And there was a part of her that recognized that.  And another part that ignored it.

Two nights a week, Feyre found herself stuffed in the basement with little enjoyment.  Other than getting to stare and Rhysand when Dr. Wesson turned the class over to him for brief instruction.

And looking at him was enjoyment.  He was far different from any other guy Feyre had encountered.  His hair was kept neat and short sweeping easily back out of his face, a charming smile, and warm brown skin.  Not to mention the tattoos. 

Feyre had never really considered tattoos as being attractive.  Perhaps it was the artistic side of her that couldn’t get enough of them.  On him at least.  The way the black in swirled on his skin and swept up his arms.  It was a shame he never wore short sleeves or unbuttoned one extra cutton at his collar.

Hell.

Mentally shaking herself, Feyre forced herself to pay attention.

Rhysand was discussing scores from the test last week.  And, to put it mildly, was not impressed.  Oh, there was plenty of good to say.  Some of the students were engaged in the topics at hand.  Some of the students displayed an obvious grasp of complicated topics.  Others did not.

Feyre found herself sinking deeper into her seat by the end of class.

He hadn’t called her out by name, but truly--it felt like he had.

“That’s it for today, enjoy the weekend,” Rhysand called out at the tick of nine, “and remember essay proposals are due by the start of class on Tuesday.”

There was a quick rustle of the students getting up and gathering their things.  It was a glorious Thursday evening and Feyre had somehow managed to keep her Friday’s clear of classes.  At least something had gone right.

“Feyre?” She whipped around to meet those stark violet eyes. Hell. “I needed to talk to you about the questions you had on the proposal assignment.”

Feyre bristled.  And not just because some of the girls shot her angry looks for being singled out by the hot TA.  She hadn’t asked any questions.  She was just trying to skate by on this class and be done with her prerequisites so she could get into her Art Major.

She set her bag on the floor once more and went to the front of the class.  Already most of the students were leaving, far too eager to be done with school for the night.

As Rhysand answered a few last questions and dismissed the rest of the students, Feyre approached.  Already she knew what she was going to say.

“I don’t have any questions.” The words fell from her mouth with ease. “I already know what I’m writing on.”

Lie.  But a well-practiced one.

Rhysand’s mouth curled in a smile.  He hefted a small stack of papers in one hand and leafed through them.  Feyre froze realizing that they were the tests from last week.  He pulled one of the stapled bunches out before setting the rest down.

“Honestly, I was surprised while grading this,” he said, “I mean, you’re obviously smart.  I saw that you were awarded the Starfell Scholarship, not an easy accomplishment.  Not to mention your always engaged and taking notes.”

Feyre wished her skin wasn’t as pale as it was.  Her skin flushed under his scrutiny, but she tilted her chin up and met his gaze.

“And?” she asked. “I take my education seriously.”

Somewhat.  When she actually liked the work.

Rhysand handed her the test.  And she saw the grade.

D.

D.

D.

Hell.

Her stomach churned.  Roiled actually.  Maybe she was going to be sick.  That was just what she needed.

“So?” she asked instead. “It was the first test of the semester.”

“And yours in the only outlier,” he replied.

His eyes never left hers and Feyre felt more and more inclined to throw something at him.  Who was he to talk to her about her grade?  He was just the damned TA.

“Dr. Wesson doesn’t like picking up the slack of grading or talking to students about it all that much,” he continued, literally reading her mind. “I’m just concerned about you falling behind.”

Feyre stiffened and pursed her lips.

“I grew up learning Prythian history, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said stiffly.  

Another lie.  She knew enough that basic education taught and what she’d heard and listened to.  But reading about it?  Her mind couldn’t grasp it.  It had been hard enough getting decent SAT scores to get accepted in the University let alone writing that damned Starfell essay.

“Of course,” Rhysand said slowly.

And Feyre had the sense that he was assessing her.  Analytically, carefully.  In the was that one would size up an opponent or scrutinize a strange recipe.  He was trying to understand her.

Feyre handed him back the test.

“Thanks for the concern,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

Perhaps he was just being nice.  Perhaps he was merely trying to fulfill his duties as TA.  But she had seen the way he acted in the class.  At times rebuffing boys and girls alike.  Not to mention seeing him around campus tossing a football around with two other boys.  She’d also seen him get kicked out of the library for a parkour prank challenge.  

In all honesty, Feyre had no idea what to make of him.  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

He didn’t seem to believe her.  Not with the crease forming between his brow nor the frown turning down one side of his mouth.  

Well, that was his problem.

“Have a good night,” Feyre said.  She spun on her heel before he could say anything and grabbed her bag and was out the door.  

Once she was outside, she could breathe again.  Strange.  She often found the darkness, the night, to be so suffocating.  It wasn’t long before Feyre realized something was off about the night.  And then she realized.  Alis was nowhere in sight.

Feyre dug her phone out of her pocket and found a missed text.

Sorry chica, caught up at study group.  Probs gonna spend the night at Nuala’s too.  See you tomorrow!

Of all the nights Alis could get serious with her girlfriend.

Feyre swallowed stiffly and stared out over the pavilion that stretched between the humanities building and out to the mathematics building.  A few pathways branched off to different parts of campus and then there was the main one that would take her to the dorms.  And of course, most of the streetlamps were barely flickering to life.

She’d never liked the dark.  Never liked what could hide in the shadows.  Nor what could sneak in silence.  Perhaps it was childish to still hold onto that fear.  She was almost nineteen years old after all. Nearly fifteen years later and here she was.

Feyre’s hands shook as she clutched her phone.  She could call Elain.  Nesta.  Even just to talk to as she walked.  Though Elain lost her phone even when it was in her hand.  And Nesta was at work.  

But it was fine.  Feyre knew it was fine.  Because all she needed to do was walk.  And shed been walking for long enough that putting one step in front of the other was natural.  Easy.  Simple.  Yet here she was.  Standing.

When Rhysand spoke, she didn’t even start.  

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Myself.  “No.”

Silence.

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

How strange it was, to hear only the hum of crickets and breath of night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rhysand asked.  

Feyre glanced at him.  Even in the shadows she could see him clearly.  It was like he was made of night, of dark, of the mysteries that she could never lay her hand on.  She shook her head.  Focus, Feyre.

“Of course I am,” she insisted, a little too sharply. “Maybe I like having time to think.”

“At nine-thirty at night.  Outside the least exciting building on campus.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I heard that last year a group of boys nearly got suspended for trying to host a snowball fight, indoors.” Feyre couldn’t help but grin when she saw how Rhysand flushed.

“Technically, I’m not the one who brought the snowballs inside the building,” he said defensively.

“Oh, no, you’re just the one who built an entire fort in front of the main entrance to the building,” Feyre said.

It had actually been pretty hilarious when she’d heard about it from Alis. It almost made her wish that she'd been around last year instead of taking a year off.

“Technically,” he said again, the word making Feyre’s brow arch, “it was my brother who instigated the fight. He couldn’t let his reign be challenged.”

Feyre snorted a laugh and looked out over the quiet campus. It almost didn't look so dark and cold as she'd thought it had.  But still, she felt her heart continue to hammer out unevenly in her chest.  She couldn't walk home alone. Even the thought of taking one step forward had her clench and unclench a fist over the strap of her bag.

Rhysand continued saying something, but Feyre was only half listening.  She was mostly focused on the thought of walking home.  She could cut through the Science building.  If it was still open.  Or she could full out sprint.

“Are you alright?” Rhysand asked.

Flushing, Feyre pushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded. “Fine, yeah.” She knew she had to ask him.  Knew that it was her only option despite how embarrassed she might feel. “Could you--this is stupid, so you can say no--could you walk with me to the dorms?”

Rhysand was quiet for a moment.  And in that moment Feyre was certain he was going to sneer at her.  Laugh.  Tell her to get over herself.  Just like the others before him.

"Where do you live?" Rhys and asked suddenly, cutting Feyre off before she had the ch

“The dorms on the west side,” she said.

“Alliance Dorms?” Rhysaid confirmed.  When Feyre nodded, he flashed her a small smile. “Absolutely.”

Relief pounded through Feyre.

“If you tell me what the deal was with that test.”

“You’re an ass.”  The words were out before Feyre could stop them.  Not the best thing to say to the TA of a class she was likely going to flunk.

Scowling, more to herself than him, Feyre started walking towards the dorms.  She was a strong confidant woman.  She did not need him to walk her home.

But Rhysand with those damned long legs kept stride with her easily.  And he was laughing.  Feyre was half tempted to knock an elbow in his side for laughing at her, but his next words caught her off guard.

“I like you Feyre,” he said, “you are rather interesting.”

She glanced up at him.  Was he serious?  She’d insulted him.  She’d barely exchanged ten words with him at this point.  And was scared of walking home alone.  Granted it was a valid fear for a young woman on a college campus these days.

“Insane is the better word for it,” she replied, mostly under her breath.  That’s what everyone back home said at least.  In the small town where nothing was supposed to go wrong.  But everything did.

“Interesting, curious, vibrant,” Rhysand listed off. “Far better words I think.”

Feyre had never been good with words.  Like now.  She couldn’t find the energy to respond to him.  There was a spark in his eye that almost challenged her, begged her to continue the banter, the little game.  

She remained silent.

She’d heard it was a far better mask for her to wear anyways.

#

The first paper she turned in for the History class was returned with far too many red marks.  Far too many question marks.  Far too many.  So Feyre merely folded the thing in half and stuffed it in her bag.

She could burn it later.

Dr. Wesson ended the lecture right at nine and dismissed the class.  Feyre had almost disillusioned herself into thinking she could avoid a conversation with the Professor.  With Rhysand.  But just as she was trying to maneuver around the giggling pack of girls that sat next to her, Dr. Wesson’s voice called out for her.

“Oh Miss Archeron, a word please?”

Feyre froze.  She could feign a phone call.  But then next class session the same thing would happen.  So, Feyre braced herself for what was to come and went to the front of the class.

As usual, Rhysand looked perfectly unruffled.  Despite the fact that Fall was quickly slipping into the winter months, he still wore a simple black button up tucked into slacks, the sleeves rolled up.

“Feyre,” Dr. Wesson said as she approached, she reached out a hand and gave Feyre a firm pat on the arm. “I know Rhysand spoke to you last week about your test.  I wanted to follow up, especially in seeing how this essay went.  Now, there is still plenty of time left in the semester, but I worry you aren’t grasping the things you should be.”

Blood pounded in Feyre’s ears.  She could hear her heart beat throb, feel it in her veins.  Her entire body flushed with embarrassment, stress, horror.  Everything bubbled to the surface even though she’d tried so hard to tamp it down.

She tried to open her mouth but found her teeth were grinding together so bad that her jaw hurt.

“I think,” Dr. Wesson continued, “that you would benefit from spending a bit of extra time with Rhysand.  Just to make sure you’re where you need to be in the class.”

Feyre found herself nodding and agreeing.  Her voice was relaxed, calm even.  But far too close to breaking.

After thanking the Doctor for her uncharacteristic kindness, Feyre stared and the poorly erased whiteboard over Rhysand’s shoulder for a long moment.  With a slow exhale she finally met his gaze.

Rhysand met her eyes with such intensity that Feyre nearly lost her breath all over again.  She shook it off and rolled her shoulders.

“Shall we get started tonight?” she asked. “Or I’m sure you have plans.”

“Nah, only kicking Cassian’s ass at Mario Cart,” Rhysand replied.  He flashed her an innocent sort of smile.  Feyre wasn’t sure if it was one out of kindness or mockery of some sort.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stuck it out for him. “Just give me your number and I’ll let you know when’s a good time to study.”

Rhysand hesitated on a moment before accepting the phone and adding his details.  As soon as she got her phone back, Feyre changed his name from Rhys to Prick.  It seemed to fit better.

“It’s not a big deal you know,” Rhysand said.  

He followed Feyre out of the classroom.  His steps were confident against the carpet that had to be at least thirty years old.  Truly Rhysand was an enigma with his ease, grace, and elegance when pitted against the drab interior of the Humanities Building.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Feyre said.

Once outside, the cold night air nipped at her skin and even through her jacket she could feel goosebumps rise.  Just like the night last week, Feyre waited just outside the building doors.  She stared into the night; across the courtyard she could see a few pale lights from the Math Building.  None of the lampposts had been fixed which left most of the walkways in shadows.

Nothing about the night was out of place.  It was calm, still, and everything lingered on Feyre’s mind.  And just like last week, Rhysand waited beside her.

Overhead, Feyre could just make out the stars.  Only a thin veil of clouds hung over the sky allowing a small bit of freedom to pierce her heart.  But not enough.

“Could you walk with me again?” she asked quietly, unable to look at Rhysand.

“Only if you talk to me this time,” he said.  That cheeky grin returning.  And despite how much she hated it, it put Feyre at ease.

“Fine.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking. “What made you pick history?  There had to be something else.  You don’t seem the type for old stuffy books or maps.”

“And who do you peg me for, Feyre?” His voice was practically a purr.

“High and mighty sitting behind a desk,” she replied drily. “Running some company somewhere.  You certainly have the personality for it.”

He laughed unamused. “If my father had any say in the matter.  A degree in history only puts off the inevitable.”

“That’s a rather bleak look on things,” Feyre said.  It sounded like something she would say.

“Only if I didn’t enjoy what I was learning so much,” he said.  In the flickering light of the lamps, they walked beneath, Rhysand’s expression brightened. “Between the wars and legends surrounding what shaped the country...it’s always been curious to see what we became.  What we can become.”

His response seemed so honest, so genuine, that Feyre nearly stumbled.  She barely knew him, had barely spent any time with him, yet she was beginning to feel that she knew him.

“So you devote all your time and attention to it?” Feyre asked.

They passed by the last of the campus buildings.  A brisk wind scattered fallen leaves on the sidewalks and crunched under their steps as they walked.

“Don’t you have something you love?  Something that you feel has changed you and you’d never want to give it up?”

A box of paints.  Brushes that she’d had since she was ten.  A canvas only half finished.  She’d thought she could complete the image but it had been almost a year since she’d even looked at it.  But art…art had changed her.  Art had loved her just as she loved it.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted.  Tilting her chin up, Feyre caught sight of a small patch of stars amid the inky black sky.  Dim but shining still. “There’s always something.”

If he heard the sadness in her voice, he said nothing.  Which was partially surprising, but Feyre would roll with it.

“The tutoring,” Rhysand began.

“No,” Feyre cut him off.  “Not right now.”

“So you’re just going to ignore your problems?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Seems to be.”

Feyre stopped causing him him to move a few steps ahead of her.  When he turned back towards her, he waited.  

“I’ll admit to needing a little extra help to help my tests and essays, but I don’t see what else you’d need to know.”

“It’s alright to talk,” Rhysand paused, something else on the cusp of behind heard.  But he restrained, his voice trailing off softly.

Feyre ignored the comment.  Talking had never been her strong suit.  She was more of action.  Less idle, more work.  Ever since she was a child it had been that way.  She knew why, of course.  It was obvious when she thought about it.  So she never thought about it.

“What are you planning on studying?” Rhysand asked when she made no effort to continue on the topic of her test.

“Art,” she replied immediately. “I’m an artist.  But my sister wanted me to get more of an education that could support me.  So I’m just working on my prerequisites.”

“Art,” he repeated.  There was a lilt to his voice as if he really were actually interested in what she was saying. “Sketching?  Sculpture?”

“Paint and canvas,” Feyre said.  “Since I was little.  After my mom died, my sister bought me my first set of brushes and paint and everything I could need.  She was only nine.  I think she stole my dad’s credit card to do it.”

The reality of that had Feyre laughing softly, but Rhysand gave her look that was a mix of horror and confusion.

“It’s fine,” Feyre said quickly, “I’m fine.”

It was a lie of course.  If she really were fine, she wouldn't have asked him to walk her home.  She would better know how to control her fears, her anxiety.  She would be happy.

“My mother died ten years ago,” Rhysand told her, his voice quiet and contemplative. “She’d been sick for a while and we knew it was coming.  But for a ten-year-old boy, it was hard to understand.  My father certainly didn’t.  Still doesn’t.”

They reached Feyre’s dorms then, floodlights illuminated the front street and made it seem as though it were day.  Feyre turned toward him and found herself smiling, just barely.

“Thank-you,” she said sincerely.  “And I’m sorry you have to be a part of the dead mother’s club.”

“You too,” he said.

Feyre wondered if there was something else she should say.  Wondered if he would even want to hear it.  It was strange, that little flame of comradery that she felt towards him.  But it was gone in an instant as Alis came running out from the building.

“Feyre!  Get inside, it’s movie night!”

Shaking her head, Feyre offered Rhysand a small wave and headed into the dorms.

#

With three weeks until the next paper was due in that miserable class, Feyre spent her free time studying with Rhysand.  It wasn’t as miserable as she’d been expecting it to be.  Not when she realized he was far more laid back than she’d assumed.  And then she’d met his best friends who were essentially like his brothers.

It was far easier to study in the relaxed environment that Rhysand created.  And far easier to be herself around him.  Of course, it had taken Feyre a while to decide that maybe they could be friends.  

“Summarize what the chapter from last night’s reading discussed,” Rhysand said one night as they were studying.  It was well after ten o’clock but they’d been given permission to stay in the building.  

Feyre pursed her lips.  She’d done the reading of course.  As well as she’d been able.  Most of had been hard to understand.  No matter how she tried to focus or train her mind, her dyslexia always got in the way.

“Right,” Feyre said slowly. “It was about the last king of Hybern.”

“And?” Rhysand prodded.

“And he was a jerk,” Feyre added.  

Rhysand’s fixed her with a look.  Long and hard but still underlined with compassion.

“Feyre,” he said, just a bit more seriousness to his voice.

She sighed heavily and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt. “I read it.  I just didn’t understand it.”

Silence.

Feyre shot him a scowl but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m dyslexic.  And History tends to be a bit harder for me to understand.”

Rhsand blinked.  Once.  But nothing else.  No laugh or scoff of scorn.  Instead, he smiled and pushed to text book toward her.

“Then read.”

“Read?”

“Aloud, preferably,” Rhysand said.  He shrugged. “You want to be ready for the paper and subsequent test?”

“Prick,” she muttered.  But she dragged the book towards her and began.

It became habit.  A rhythm they fell into for the next several weeks.  Rhysand helped Feyre study and prepare for the paper, the test.  He walked her home, remaining the perfect gentleman.  And Feyre, Feyre relished the time.

It was because he was genuine.  Honest.  There was something about him, deeper than the intensity he displayed on the outside.  And for the first time in a while, Feyre found herself laughing with him.  For the first time in a while, she was living for more than just expectations.

He was actually turning into her friend and it was strange thought indeed.

“Alright students,” Dr. Wesson announced towards the end of class on the last day before Thanksgiving break. “I have your midterm tests and papers graded.  So now you can either relax or stress even further.  Depending on the grade.”

A weak laugh bubbled around the room.  Feyre gripped the underside of her chair tightly.  She wasn’t ready for this.  Not in the slightest.

Dr. Wesson slowly made her way around the room delivering both test and paper.  Feyre, by some stroke of cosmic affair, didn’t get her paper until last and the entire room was empty aside from Dr. Wesson and Rhysand.  Why was it they always ended up here?

“Well done, Miss Archeron,” Dr. Wesson said.  She handed two packets of paper to Feyre and smiled. “I love to see improvement.”

Gaping, Feyre looked between the two grades.  Heart hammering, she looked over the scores, brilliant red B’s shined up at her.

“I don’t usually offer extra credit,” the doctor went on, “but an exhibit is coming to the University about the Prythian Wall and it’s destruction.  If you can come up with a project to demonstrate what it entails, I might be convinced to help you keep your grade up.”

Feyre could only nod as the professor bid them goodnight and left.

“Well done.”

Feyre looked up to see Rhysand beaming at her and she couldn’t help but grin.  She leapt out of her seat and flung her arms around him in an embrace.

“Thank-you!” she whispered.  It took her perhaps a moment too long to realize that a hung might not have been the best of plans.  She hurriedly pulled back. “Sorry.  That was uncalled far.  I’m just really excited.”

“As you should be,” Rhysand said.  His smile hadn’t dimmed but there was something in his eyes that Feyre couldn’t quite read. “It wasn’t an easy test.”

“And now we have a full week off for Thanksgiving,” she said.  It was the best news she could have been given after getting her grades back.

“If you want,” Rhysand said, “my brother’s and cousin and I are having a game night, with pizza.  If you want to come.”

A spark of excitement ignited in Feyre’s chest.  She didn’t know when she’d developed a stupid little crush on Rhysand, but it was slowly starting to simmer out of control.  She should have said no.  Or come up with an excuse of some kind.  Insead she found herself nodding.

“I’d like that,” she said.

They collected their things and left the building.  Feyre took a few steps down the path they usually took to get to her dorm when she paused.  She turned back to Rhysand and frowned.

“Where do you live?”

Rhysand looked a little sheepish.  “Oh, I live over in the Court Apartments.”

Feyre blinked. “That’s in the complete opposite direction from my place.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been walking me home for practically a month.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Feyre asked, practically waving her hands in the air.  “It’s basically a two-mile walk from my place.”

Rhysand shrugged. “You asked for help and I wanted to give it.”

Feyre stared at him.  Her coat and scarf bunched around her neck, even though the night was perfectly clear.  It was clear enough that she could see the billions of stars overhead.  She could see them sparking in the black night.  And for one she wasn’t overcome with her usual anxiety.  Her usual fears.  Instead, all she would do was stare at Rhysand.

“Why would you do that?” she insisted.

Rhysand opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Because you were worth it.”

His simple words hung between them and Feyre had a hard time knowing what to say or how to react.  So she merely smiled and hooked her arm with his.

“Tell me about game night.  Am I going to wind up on some snipe hunt?”

“Oh no, you and I are going to gang up against Cassian and beat him at Mario Cart.”

Feyre laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

And she realized that she wouldn’t mind if that’s how the rest of her nights played out.  Late hours of laughs and friends, being around people--one person--who made her feel better than she had in a long time.  

No, she wouldn’t mind it at all.

#

thanks so much for reading!

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[ninbayphua-moyan]

Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds

Thunderous grey clouds hung heavy in the sky as I made my way towards the lecture hall. My body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion and each leaden step I took felt heavier than the last. I stopped, wanting to turn back, but time and time again, my body refused to obey as my legs carried me towards my destination.

          Half an hour later, I found myself standing outside the empty lecture hall despite the countless hesitations along the way. Sighing, I sank to the floor and closed my eyes, too tired to remain upright. That’s what university does to you. It sucks out your soul, your passion, and your youth, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk of a human being.

           A familiar voice calling my name pricked my hazy, sleep deprived brain and I cracked open my heavy eyelids. My facial muscles moved like clockwork, automatically forming a smile to greet my friend.

           “You look like a corpse!” Chu Ying exclaimed worriedly at the sight of the heavy dark circles beneath my vacant eyes.

           “Haven’t been getting much sleep this week…” I replied with a nonchalant shrug as I quickly scrunched up my eyes until they turned into little crescents of laughter, “assignments due soon.”

           Seemingly convinced by my explanation, she gave me a look of sympathetic encouragement and left. The second no one was looking, I let the smile fall. Amazing what a simple smile could conceal. You could probably murder someone, smile, plead innocent and everyone would believe you. Sighing softly under my breath, I grabbed my bag and joined the gathering crowd of students as they trickled into the dimly lit lecture theatre.

           My laptop sat quietly on the desk, an empty word document laid open on its illuminated screen as the lecturer’s monotonous voiced droned on and on in the background. I should have been taking down notes but my mind was too preoccupied with my issues with the Undergraduate Office to focus on what the lecturer was saying.

           A rhythmic vibration drew my attention towards the phone sitting on my lap. Glancing at the pop-up notification, a wave of anxiety and hope surged through my body as I registered who the sender was – the Undergraduate‘s Office. Quickly, I pulled up the email and immediately felt my heart sinking after reading the first line.

          All seminar groups are full and we cannot move students.

          Lies.

          Another notification, this time, from my personal tutor.

          It’s only week 3, relax.

          Disappointment. Betrayal. Frustration. Anger. I clenched my trembling hands into fists as the tsunami of emotions threatened to explode and spill out of my shaking body. Half of me wanted to storm over to the Undergraduate’s office and let loose the unbridled rage coursing through my veins at the unfair treatment. The other half of me wanted to lash out at my tutor’s condescending advice. My body trembled at the barely, ever so barely contained anger.

          Sixteen thousand pounds. That would be eighty-four thousand two hundred and seventy-nine ringgit each year in school fees. Fees which didn’t even include the amount I needed to spend in order to buy the books required for the modules. Sixteen thousand pounds per year just to get an education, an education that I wasn’t even getting at this point and her advice for me was to relax? How could I when my parents worked their entire youth away, saving every cent just so they could send me, all the way to Britain to get a proper education! Did they even know what the stakes of sending me abroad to study was?!

          My father’s average yearly income is twenty-four thousand ringgits, barely twenty-eight percent of my yearly school fees. Was it that unreasonable to want to be in a class that will allow me to learn and improve after paying for that much money out of my parents’ own pocket?! Why would anyone in their right mind come half way across the globe, paying that ridiculous amount of money, and being so far away from family and home for years, just to fool around? If that had been my intention, I wouldn’t even have bothered going to university in the first place, let alone coming all the way to Cardiff!

          University will be fun they said. You’ll meet open-minded people passionate about learning they said. Hah! That’s the biggest misconception if there ever was one. First of all, the university doesn’t care about whether you actually learn anything so long as you're paying the fees. The majority of lecturers or seminar leaders will only do the most minimal amount of work required and by that, I mean three hundred words of prose only per weekly assignment. What kind of creative work could anyone produce under three hundred words? In prose! Some don’t even bother with critical commentary which is just as essential as the creative pieces. Not only does the lack of practice in writing critical commentaries and limited word count for the creative pieces inhibit students from developing any work of significance, it also underprepares students for the three-thousand-word portfolio due at the end of the semester.

          Secondly, British universities are also especially discriminatory towards outsiders or people of colour, often treating minorities and international students with hostility or disregard. I’ve experienced this discrimination first hand upon requesting a seminar change. Despite having emailed the Undergraduate Office at the same time with the exact same reasons, I was denied the change whilst my British classmate was immediately allowed to swap seminars. The office even went so far as to lie about the class being full even though I was told by the professor leading that very seminar that it wasn’t. So much for the integrity of the institution.

          At the end of the day, international students are nothing but cash cows to British universities.[1] Not only do they have to pay double of what British students pay in terms of fees, they also have to deal with the discriminations that come alongside being an outsider. I understood that in this day and age, education was a business, and that the university itself was, essentially, a business, but doesn’t actual passion for learning still count for something? Or was I wrong in believing in that as well? Oh, so naïve, so very naïve!

          Old memories started to surface amongst the turmoil of emotions. My father and his worn-out clothes, refusing each time to buy new ones for himself just to save a little more money. My mother mending them as best she could whilst we slept, never once complaining. Images of my father’s prematurely greying hair and bloodshot eyes as he worked his health away to provide for his children’s future. My mother’s back bent low, labouring away at some project or another in order to make ends meet. Yet, they never once showed us how tired or how tough things were. There was always enough food on the table and they always had a smile on their faces around us. Sometimes, I noticed that they would eat a lot less than usual but whenever I asked, they merely joked and said they were trying to lose weight. They could have enjoyed their youth, their honeymoon, but they decided to save it all, sacrificing their health and comfort just to ensure mine by sending me here.

          I remember the times where they would secretly check their wallets whenever I begged them to buy me a book. Oh, how those very books painted and fuelled my illusions of Britain’s perfection. If only I had known the reality of it all before applying to study here. But it’s too late for regrets now.

          A sharp stinging pricked the back of my eyes, tears threatening to fall as my body shook with suppressed, uncontrollable rage. Maybe if I was a little braver…maybe if I fought a little harder…maybe if I confronted them a bit more…maybe…maybe…maybe…

          Then as quickly as they appeared, the tsunami of emotions faded away, leaving behind an empty husk. My clenched fists loosen and fell limply at my sides as a quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Nothing was going to change. No matter how hard I fought, the end results will remain the same so what’s the point of even trying in the first place?

          As the cold hard reality of the situation finally presented itself, I slumped against the chair, my empty laptop screen staring blankly back at me. Resignation dragged me deeper and deeper into the murky depths of my mind. I was drowning. No one knew and no one cared. But that’s fine. The ending remains the same regardless. Always the same…

          The sound of rustling papers and loud chatter momentarily draws me out of the murky waters. Realising that the lecture had ended, I gathered my things and shuffled towards the exit, my mind returning once more to the depths of the void. Outside, the rain was pouring. I plodded down the streets drenched to the bone as my legs moved mechanically towards my flat. A stifling numbness engulfed my mind as I trudged on in silence, the howling wind battering my shivering, rain-soaked body from all sides. Rounding the corner, I pulled out a key-card and entered the cramped grey flat. Out of sheer habit, I grabbed the letters from my letterbox and stuffed them into my coat pocket before heading upstairs.

           Entering the dingy room, I dropped my backpack on the bed and sank to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I stared vacantly at the bleak wall. My phone rang insistently in my pocket but I didn’t answer, too tired to move. The crushing weight on my lungs forced out whatever little oxygen I managed to draw, making each breath a struggle. The clamouring voices in my mind grew louder and louder, growing in intensity yet forcefully contained, like built-up pressure without release on the brink of implosion.

You’re useless

          I’m…not…

You can’t even stand up for yourself or fight for what you believe is right

          Yes I can! And I’m trying! I’ve –

You’re a disappointment to your parents and your family

          I’m not! I swear! I –

You’ll never amount up to anything

          That’s not true! I –

You’re pathetic

          No –

Nothing but a Failure

          Stop saying –

Human garbage

          Please! Just –

Waste of space

           “SHUT UP!”

           Silence. Nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing in the darkness.

The world would be better off without you

          I don’t know how long I had stayed there on the floor but by the time I came around, my dripping wet clothes were nearly dry. The chaotic calamity within had finally died down and I was filled with an eerie calmness. A deafening silence blanketed the air, pierced only by the hypnotic rumbling of trains across tracks. Ah yes…the railway…my ticket to solving everything…just two blocks away…and it’ll all be over…permanently…

          Forcing my lethargic limbs to move, I wobbled onto my feet and stumbled towards the door. A tiny parcel fell out of my pocket and the handwriting on it made me paused. It was my mother’s. Even under the dimness of the moonlight trickling in, there was no mistaking that immaculately cursive hand.

          Letting go of the door handle, I kneeled down to pick up the neatly wrapped package. Then, slowly, as if afraid it would fall apart at the slightest touch, I began unwrapping the parcel. Upon opening the box, tears welled at the corner of my eyes. Six little cylindrical bundles of haw flakes were carefully packed within, each attached to a tightly rolled up strip of paper. Gently untying the scrolls from the sweets, I began reading them one at a time.

          Jie![2] I got you your favourite sweets! Wanted to buy you more of them but Ma said there wasn’t enough space in the box. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a big box of them once I’ve saved up enough money.

– Di[3]

          My heart ached as I thought about how much it must have costed for them to ship the parcel all the way from Penang to Britain. And with the little amount of pocket money…it must have taken Di-Di months of saving to be able to afford buying that one bundle of sweets…

          Jie, just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you have to hold everything in on your own y’know? It’s okay to rely on others a bit more from time to time. Enjoy the sweets you idiot, you’re crazy about those haw flakes. No idea why you like them either, they aren’t even that nice.

– Mei[4]

          Tears pricked the back of my eyes as my sister’s grumpy voice echoed in my ears. I could even see the disbelieving eye roll at my odd preferences in sweets after the last sentence. How I’ve missed our senseless squabbles and late-night chats….

          A-Yun, being an international student in the UK isn’t always the easiest thing, especially when you’re a minority there. You’ve already taken the necessary steps and have done all you can in that situation. Remember, it’s the end result and not the process that defines a victory. Remember what Sun Tzu mentioned in The Art of War? ‘The most important rule to victory is to know when to pick your fights and how to fight it’. Not all battles need to be fought to win the war. Never forget our family values and never lose sight of your goal. Don’t worry about finances, let me handle that. Just focus on your studies and aim for that first-class honours. The best revenge is to succeed despite their efforts to stop you. Continue to work hard and don’t give up. Know that regardless of the outcome, your Ma and I are proud of you and that we love you very, very much.

– Ba[5]

           A sob catches at the back of my throat as tears flowed freely down my cheeks. Acute pangs of longing weighed heavily on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

          A-Yun[6] ah, if it ever becomes too much to bear at Cardiff, come home. Ma will make you your favourite dishes. I know you want to do well but don’t overwork yourself. Remember to get enough rest and try to change your bad habit of skipping meals. Two boiled eggs alone don’t count as a proper meal either!

– Ma[7]           

          A sheepish giggle escaped my lips despite the tears, Ma’s exasperated voice ringing in my ears. I could almost picture the look of indignation on her face as she judges my terrible meal choices before proceeding to fill my bowl with steamy boiled dumplings.

          Ah…Ma’s famous boiled dumplings…the saltiness of minced pork marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil…the refreshing sweetness of spring onions and carrots contrasting the pork’s saltiness…flecks of finely chopped hei-mu-er adding a chewy texture to the tender meat whilst thin sheets of delicately wrapped dough encapsulated it all…the slight bitterness of the herbal broth complementing the savoury dumplings…[8] My stomach growled in protest as I smiled fondly at the memory.

          Wiping away the remaining tears, I unrolled the last strip of paper. Elegant brushstrokes painted familiar characters in horizontal lines. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I recalled sitting on A-Gong’s [9] lap in the garden as kid, watching him practice calligraphy. I remembered how he used to read his poems aloud as I gaze at his hands guiding the bamboo brush across the ivory sheet, entranced by its flowing movements. Each word written was like a piece of art, each stroke of ink painting a meaning of its own.

Tranquil night’s darkness, the moon shines bright, From the mud the lotus rises, its petals pure despite. Vermillion red blossom like wildly raging flames; Elegant, virtuous, delicate, yet exquisitely untamed. The wise once said that adversity yields flair, An upright heart, oblique shadows don’t scare. Dripping water with time wears the stubborn stone, Sturdy wood too can be cut with rope saws alone! [10]

          A strange tranquility wrapped itself around me as I read the poem, A-Gong’s calm and mellow voice resonating in my ears. It was almost as if he was standing right before me with the usual toothless smile and twinkling eyes on his wizen face. Tenderly cradling the small box of sweets, a faint smile graced my lips. Their vermillion red and gold wrappings shone with a certain warmth under the soft light of the moon. Gently unwrapping one of the thumb-size bundles with shaking hands, I popped a disk-like piece into my mouth.         

          Immediately, a wave of warmth spread throughout my cold and hollowed body, almost as if it was infused with the life-giving heat of home. The familiar tart sweetness of the hawthorn berries cleared the heavy fog that clouded my mind and for the first time in a long while, I felt energy slowly seeping back into my worn-out soul, reigniting the snuffed-out fire within. Strange how something so small, barely the size of my thumb, could bring so much comfort and hope. That night, the moon shone a little brighter than usual, and the normally barren sky seemed to be exploding with billions of twinkling stars.

NOTES

[1] Alina Schartner & Yoonjoo Cho, ‘“Empty signifiers” and “dreamy ideals”: perceptions of the “international university” among higher education students and staff at a British university’, Higher Education, 74 (2017), 455-472

[2] ‘Jie’ means older sister in Chinese

[3] 'Di’ means younger brother in Chinese

[4] 'Mei’ means younger sister in Chinese

[5] ‘Ba’ means father in Chinese

[6] ‘Yun’ is written as ‘云’ meaning ‘cloud’

[7] 'Ma’ means mother in Chinese

[8] Hei-mu-er is the Mandarin term for black cloud ear fungus, a type of mushroom often used in Chinese cuisines.

[9] ‘A-Gong’ means grandfather in Chinese (specifically, the Hainanese pronounciation)

[10] This is a self written and self translated poem I wrote. The original Chinese version can be found here.

[11] ‘Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds’ is a play on 守得云开见月明 meaning the moon will shine brightly again when the clouds part, and 麻雀虽小五脏俱全 meaning though a sparrow is small, it has all the vital organs.

Author's Notes:

So this is one of my earlier prose pieces from uni (all the way back from first year lol). I don’t usually post prose? Not prose of this length at least. Anyways, I thought I’d take the leap and try posting them online now since I decided to start doing that for my poetry pieces? The rest of my prose pieces throughout uni somehow ended up becoming interlinked with several recurring characters though there are some inconsistencies since they were initially intended as stand-alone pieces rather than a series of somewhat loosely linked short stories. I’ll be posting them in story timeline sequence (or at least as closely to a sequence as I can since I didn’t exactly plan out the timeline of these pieces either) rather than in the sequence it was written in so there might be a slight fluctuation in writing style cuz they do kinda change over the years? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 1~ 

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

[junmyeonning]

Touch me — 1

Type: Series

Pairing: Kim Junmyeon (EXO Suho) X Unnamed OFC

Rated: M (no smut yet)

Summary: He's the manager at the library. Smart, polite, and most obviously, incredibly sexy. She doesn't want the opportunity to pass so she teases the hell out of him. Until he breaks...

Previous: part 0.5

Warnings: a bit of an age gap (30 and early 20s)

Word count: 3.8k

Tags: @fightoh @suhotly @ctc95 @suhowifeuu @smolpeyy @lavellanfriendliness @eggsoyehet @ohsehunxv

—

Monday comes around.  Her classes were cut short for the day, so she and her friend decide to grab a bite and hang out.

"So how is it so far? I've heard that professor is no joke."

"Oh god don't get me started," she thinks back on all the crap that's been dumped onto her ever since starting the semester. "It's only week two and it's been hell... I don't know how I'm gonna pass this subject."

"Well unfortunately you know how it is.  And if I'm being honest, his tests are even harder." Her friend Jenna grimaces.

"Ugh you're kidding me..." she sighs in defeat, regretting how she didn't take up this general subject earlier and got it over with.  But now she has no choice. 

"-go back over notes after each class or you'll totally be screwed." She listens to the last part after unintentionally blocking out Jenna's voice, her eyes widening at that last statement.

"But I don't wannaa... not my style." She whines, taking a small bite from her sandwich. Jenna raises her brows at her friend's childish manners.

"...'Style'..."

"Fine okay, whatever I guess. Let's talk about something else." She shrugs it off, changing the topic for now. It stays at the back of her mind though, wondering in what ways can she make this situation a bit more tolerable. She has other classes after all, a shit ton of assignments, and it can be depressing to her if she forces herself and she knows it... that's just the way she is. Maybe a change of scenery while studying?

She thinks back on different places she's been recently, places with a calming atmosphere, possibly quiet...

All of a sudden she's reminded of the library and that one encounter with its attractive manager.  It has almost slipped her mind, but now looking back at it she feels more eager to revise today's lecture.

She makes up her mind to stop by the place before heading home.

—

She enters it once again, getting butterflies in her stomach when recalling what happened the last time she was here.

Technically nothing really happened... but she saw this insanely cute guy.  And he smiled.  And waved.  That's something right? To her longer than admitted relationship-less life, it is actually considered something.

She doesn't see him at first glance, so she tells herself to stop acting like a teenager.  Later, time to study now.  She promises herself.

She takes a seat at the same place as her previous visit, settling down and pulling out her book and notes in front of her. She can't stop herself as she raises her head a little to look, and it's not too hard to find him this time while he's standing by the shelves talking to a customer.

Their eyes meet by chance, and he flashes her that gorgeous smile yet again. She notices how extra warm he's looking today, wearing a sweater this time with some shirt under it. And of course, those damn glasses.

She smiles back 'casually', an exact opposite from what she feels on the inside. Why is her heart jumping like this? She blames his cute looks and that attractive gentleman aura of his.

She forcefully peels her eyes away from him, telling herself to seriously calm the fuck down. 

Five minutes go by, nothing changes. Then ten minutes. Then fifteen. She's re-reading the same lines yet to no avail, her mind refusing to absorb any kind of information for the time being.

She feels frustrated when she looks up again, this time not finding him anywhere in sight. She looks right and left, wondering where he had disappeared when suddenly someone from behind her speaks.

"Looking for something ?" She almost jumps when she hears his voice.  He comes into view and grins at her reaction.

"Huh? No nothing, I'm studying." She laughs it off, pointing at her displayed papers.

"Ah okay then. Good luck!" He gives her a cute little thumbs up in encouragement then turns to leave.  She feels disappointed, knowing this could've went on for a little longer, but no unfortunately it's time to focus back again on her school work.

Fifteen more minutes pass by, and she starts to feel irritated with her lack of accomplishment. She's basically wasting her time doing nothing, and the library itself is so boring and empty, so she decides to just leave. She can't stay here when her mind is this occupied, it might've been a not so good idea in the first place.

On her way out she passes by him leaning against the front desk holding his phone. He has a surprised look on his face when he sees her.

"Oh, finished already ?"

"Well to be honest," she hesitates on telling him what's bothering her, but whatever. "I was trying to go over what I've taken today but I'm just so out of focus. I guess i'll go home and look it up or something."

"Hm..." he locks his phone and puts it away, giving her all his attention. "Maybe I can pull you out a book in here that'll help explain better ?" he offers.

"Sure, if you have anything on this." She shows him her book, making him raise his brows in acknowledgment as he takes it in.

"Ohh." He lets out a laugh, clearly amused. She's confused and he sees it, so he explains.

"I remember studying this subject back in college." He chuckles.  She makes an 'oh' face in realisation, and that's when it clicks in her mind.  Let's give it a shot.

"Ooh, how was it for you?"

"Hmm, I was pretty good at it actually." Perfect.

"What if... you help me out a little then? I don't think more reading will do me anything at this point." She subconsciously gives him a cute puppy face, and it's not hard to convince him to agree to her.

"Sure. As you can clearly tell," he gestures with his hands around him at the deserted library. "It's a very busy day today."

She giggles at his sarcasm. Wow he's a joker too.

"Hey watch over the place a little, I'm just gonna be over there helping her." He instructs his co-worker, then turns around and heads in front of her to where she was sitting earlier.  She skips behind him, mentally cheering herself for her successful plan.

He goes over the pages for a little, quickly getting reminded of the topic before starting to point and explain some key points.

His voice is gentle and his tone is so calm, speaking like he knows what he's saying and putting it into words perfectly.  One minute into it and she feels like she's in a trance, the only thing she's focusing on is him.

Then her eyes start wandering, looking down at his lips while they're moving and forming words.  She doesn't understand what he's saying at this point, just nodding along mindlessly and agreeing with whatever he's talking about.  Until he asks her a question on the topic.

"...Huh?"

"What I just explained now."

"Oh yeah yeah! That..." she thinks for a second, having zero idea on what he just said.  He notices and closes his eyes in disappointment.

"Was I not clear or..." he wonders genuinely, in which she quickly starts denying with wide eyes.

"No no no! It's actually the opposite, you're so good," she stumbles, not knowing how to say it. "I guess your way of explaining is..."

"Yeah?" He replies in a lower, more careful tone, and she almost melts under his gaze.

"Um," she laughs lightly, almost nervous, but she dares say it. "...distracting maybe?"

She feels time go by so slowly at that second, waiting for his reaction.

"Oh... I'm sorry then," he rubs his neck in embarrassment and looks down at the book. "Then our time was just wasted."

What? She's shocked that this is just what he understood from her.  After throwing all these hints and signals towards him, he's apologising?

"Hey, manager Kim you were literally perfect. I'm the one who should apologise here I told you I'm having trouble focusing today," she feels bad for putting him in this situation, she's the one who wasted his time, just because of her silly crush. "I'm sorry."

"No it's okay, don't worry about it." He gives her a reassuring smile, and her heart does that weird jump again. For the love of god stop being so cute. She says in her head.

"Okay, see you later?" She smiles back at him. He nods and they both get up, she starts putting her stuff away.

"Wait, what is your name?"

"Oh, it's Junmyeon." She tells him her own name, then leaves her things for a second to wrap her arms around him in a hug.

"Thank you Junmyeon." He staggers a little in surprise, standing there taken aback with his hands still in the air. He reacts then and pats her back with a laugh.

"No problem, I was entertained actually." She steps back from him and looks up in confusion.

"Huh? What's so entertaining about teaching."

"Uhm," he glances away with a small smile, before chuckling and shaking his head. "It just kind of reminded me of my college days."

She giggles at the way he's acting like a grandpa, when in reality he looks exactly like a cute little bunny with those cheeks of his.

"Stop I bet it's not that far."

"Oh but it is."

"How far?" She asks him and he takes a moment to think back on it.

"Hmm I don't know, nine years maybe?" She couldn't help herself from gasping, making him laugh in response. "Wow I look that young huh."

"So you're like thirty? Is that right?"

"Yep." She's struggling with keeping her thoughts in her head, her mind running a million thoughts per second. Something about this new info of him being in his thirties makes him more appealing to her, she doesn't know why but she feels even more attracted to him now.

"Thirty is still young by the way." She comments on what he said, and he shrugs it off with a 'sure whatever'.  They share smiles and laughs during the whole exchange.

She takes her bag and waves him goodbye, heading back home while her stomach is still feeling all jittery.

She can't stop thinking about him even when she's unlocking the door to her apartment, having spent all the ride home recalling their now second encounter. She remembers how sweet he was to agree help her (even if she was a little shit who kept staring at his mouth), and how gentle and mature he sounds when he talks, and the way he has smiled at her multiple times by now. Seriously? Those precious looking smiles directed at her? What is the intention, to melt her heart into a little puddle at his feet?

She bites her lip from smiling too big, feeling like a complete idiot just standing there in front of her wardrobe still in her day clothes.

Her mind is telling her she needs to see more of that cute library manager.

—

Unfortunately for a week or so, that didn't exactly happen.

Of course life got in the way, and for the past few days she couldn't even think of anything else with how busy she's gotten. Now with an important quiz coming up, she's extra nervous about it and studied it to hell and back.

She leaves all her papers and gets up, wanting to get a breather and just get the hell out for a little bit. It's nighttime, she's still in her pyjamas, she doesn't even know where she's going, hut all she's thinking is fuck it as she grabs her phone and keys. It is kind of reckless to just leave like this, but in her head she says maybe she'll just go to her close-by usual café or whatever.

Just as she arrives at that spot, she looks a little down the street at the familiar place she hasn't thought of these days.  What has he been up to? Did he think of me at all? She wonders.

She figures seeing him will instantly make her mood better, so she crosses out her initial plan and heads to the library.

She pushes the door open, looking around and seeing it practically empty again at this hour.  What if he's not on his shift? She clearly didn't think it through, but she ignores the voice in her head and gives it a try as she struts around casually.

She passes the aisles one by one, until she finally lays eyes on what she was looking for.  Or more specifically, who she was looking for.  She wants to sigh in relief, he might just be the highlight in her otherwise miserable week.

"Oh, manager Kim!" She walks up to him as he was apparently arranging some books.  He looks up when hearing his name, quickly recognising her and smiling in her way.

"Oh hey," he continues his work on the shelf. "Haven't seen you for a while."

Damn you, heart. Calm. Down.

"Yeah you know, college, life," she stands beside him, attempting at any sort of conversation. "What are you doing there ?"

"Stocking some new books, almost done with my shift now," he puts up another one. "Did you come here to talk to me or to actually study ?"

He says it jokingly without even looking, so she decides to muster up and just say some of the truth.

"Umm, both I guess?" He pauses and looks at her now. She smiles innocently at him, biting her lip subtly, which in return makes him glance down at her lips before looking back into her eyes.  He clears his throat awkwardly and looks away, putting up the last book in his hand.

"So you want something from here or can we just..." he means to leave but she quickly comes up with a lie.

"Wait, uh I need a book from there actually." She points at a place behind him randomly. He turns around to look, then looks back to her confused.

"Where?"

"Oh right there I think..." he goes along with her and walks over to where she pointed, somewhere farther behind aisles close to a corner.

"What exactly-" he spins back to face her, only to find her directly standing in front of him. He laughs in surprise. "When did you follow me this fast ?"

"I walked up right behind you." She smiles, now very much close to cornering him against the wall of books.

"Are you sure you meant a book..." he laughs it off, looking visibly more nervous now.

"Yeah, what else ?" She casually pulls out a random book from beside him. "Found it."

She opens it and stares a little, pretending to have interest in whatever the hell she just pulled out on a whim. He furrows his brows as he takes the book from her hand, looking at the title and stifling a laugh.

"10th grade physics. Interesting."

"Does it matter ?" She lets out a little laugh, taking it back from his hands and throwing it to the side.

She's getting more serious now as comes closer to him, looking up into his eyes and giving him that look.  Her bottled up feelings are coming up and she just can't stop them, her mind clouded and her frustrations from everything in her life right now is making her act out more than usual.

"Junmyeon..." he looks back at her, not saying a word as she comes closer and closer.

Their faces are so near from each other now, her eyes darting down to his lips then back up, her intentions very clear.

"What are you doing..." he whispers just as their lips almost connect, eyes closed by now.

"Isn't it obvious?" She whispers back, and finally goes in for it.

Their lips touch softly, staying still for a few seconds. She begins moving her mouth so slowly, kissing him and testing the waters. Before realising he still hasn't moved a centimetre.

She pulls back a little, looking up at him while his eyes are still closed. She calls his name in a careful tone to see his response, and he opens his eyes and looks down at her.

"...you shouldn't have done that." Her heart sinks a little.

"Why not ?" She gets closer again, their breaths hitting each other's faces as she tilts her head up to the side, waiting for him to make the move this time.  Their lips are so close, all he has to do is press his down onto hers like she did earlier

But he doesn't.  He's not pulling away, but he doesn't move in for it either.

When she sees he's not initiating anything, she moves back away from his personal space and looks at him with disappointment.

"What is it?"

"You know... it doesn't work." He looks at her with pleading eyes.

"What doesn't work? Give me a reason." She presses. He seemed into her enough to not pull away, and she caught him a few times eyeing her, specifically her lips, it doesn't make sense that he backs off this way.

"I... you're too young." He murmurs, not making any eye contact whatsoever. She crosses her arms.

"I'm twenty one... if that's your reasoning, remember we're both of age here and we're free to make our own choices." He looks conflicted, like he agrees with what she's saying but still holding himself back. She holds both his hands in hers, leaning in close to him once again and tilting her head.

“Come on, do it," she whispers. "Kiss me..."

Time is moving so slow as he leans down his head finally, getting his lips closer to hers.  It is clear that he wants her too, and she awaits the moment that their lips touch once again, but he just stops there.

"I-I'm not sure..."

"Okay then hear me out," she stands back away from him, sighing as she gives it a thought. "Let's go on a date.  If you're still unsure, we'll leave it at that for good."

The eye contact feels too strong, and he takes a few second to make a decision as he nods slowly.

"Okay ?"

"Yes, okay."

They exchange numbers and go to part ways, but not before her giving him a sweet smile in reassurance as she's leaving.  The corners of his mouth lift up slightly as he smiles back at her, growing more and more convinced in his decision of agreeing to go on this date with her.

In his mind, he has never went for women who aren't within his age range, so this is definitely very new for him.  He knows nine years isn't really the smallest number, but like she said it won't hurt to give it a chance since they're both adults here.

He is still looking at where she left with a small smile, shaking his head as he can't believe what had just happened.  She knows what she wants... and it's damn hot.  He admits to himself.

Finally snapping out of it, he attempts to push all thoughts of her out of his mind for the time being.  It's way too early to try and guess what's going to happen on their date...

He continues to pack some stuff up and close the place for the night, with her still lingering at the back of his head against his own will.  He might just enjoy their time together more than he initially thought, and he can't help but look forward to it.

So being the person that he is, as soon as he enters his home he types her up a text.

'Hey there, did you get home safely?

Just wanted to say that even though I wasn't sure at first- you shouldn't worry about anything now.  I actually can't wait to see you again.'

He looks at it and frowns.  Too wordy, very unnecessary over-explanations.  Why the sudden nerves?

'Hey there, did you get home safely?'

He goes with just that for now, leaving his phone on the bed as he starts changing into something more comfortable for the night.  Just when he pulls off his shirt, he hears the familiar new message sound making him leave his closet open and go check her reply.

'Yup.' He reads her simple answer.  He starts typing again but she beats him to it, a picture of her suddenly popping up in a message bubble.

She's lying down on her bed in the dim lights of her room, holding up a peace sign while flashing him her pearly whites in a cute smile.  He catches himself smiling back instinctively, quickly typing up a reply.

'Good.'

Send.

'Just wanted to check in on you.'

Send.

He locks his phone momentarily and throws it back on the bed, taking off his pants now and deciding to wear just some sweatpants to sleep.  His duvet is pretty thick so he didn't bother.

He lies down finally, checking his phone again to see two new messages from none other than her.

'Aw seriously?'

'Well let me check in on you too... where's my cute pic :('

He laughs out loud at that.  That little...

He looks down at himself, very topless, and that gets his mind going.

'Sorry, can't do cute pics atm.'

'Can I ask why, mister?'

'...sure you wanna see ?'

Over at her home she's reading his text once more, her heartbeat accelerating when she thinks on the possible meanings behind what he's saying.  He's flirting back, holy shit-

'Bring it on, manager Kim.' And send.

She picks at her nails as she waits in anticipation, and that damn 'ding' rings in her ear as she quickly opens his newly sent photo.

He's mimicking her own picture, lying down on his back as well and holding up a peace sign.  But what's very different is his obvious naked upper half, the covers coming up at just below his chest. His chest to her surprise looking muscular and very toned.

Her eyes also take in his shoulders and arms, feeling herself about to drool with this rather suggestive picture. She already found him pretty sexy before in all these baggy sweaters and shirts, but now knowing all of this is underneath takes it to a whole new level.

Her hands start to sweat as she ponders what to say next, feeling her body getting hot overall.

'Saved. ✅'

He smirks to himself at her response, having noticed how long it took for her to type it.  Oh well she asked for it.

Time goes by unnoticed as they continue this playful/flirty texting back and forth, feeling more at ease with each other and for him a lot less tense.

Later on they find themselves going to sleep that night with a clichéd smile across their faces, the instant click between them being something of a pleasant surprise. The start of a beautiful and exciting thing perhaps.

—

(A/N): obviously I apologise for how late I posted this. I swear i have commitment problems to projects… dw it’s because we haven’t got to the good stuff 😈 can’t wait to show you what i have in mind

Comment if you wanna be tagged in all future parts! ♥️

Thanks everyone! Xx

[sirphillipcranestanaccount]

Modern AU teaser under the cut. Let me know what y’all think!

“Ugggh” Eloise said, dropping her forehead onto the textbook that lay on the table in front of her. She looked at her phone, 10:30 on a Friday night and she was still in the library. “How did I get myself into this situation?” she raised her head and looked across the table at Penelope, “Pen, when I said ‘oh I think I’m going to get a master’s in English’, English of all things, why didn’t you talk me out of it?”

Penelope shifted her eyes from her laptop screen to Eloise without moving her head. “Because,” she began to reply, never once stopping her typing “I believe your exact words were ‘Pen, I’m going to grad school and there’s no way you can talk me out of it’.” 

“She’s right, El,” Edwina said not bothering to look up from her computer, “I have it on video.” 

“How many drinks had I had up to that point?” Eloise’s head was once again in her textbook making her words difficult to hear. “And was I aware at the time that I would have to read The Canterbury Tales again?”

“None and yes,” Penelope replied.

“Ugh,” Eloise repeated, “what are you two working on?” she wanted to distract herself from Chaucer for a moment,

“I’m writing a paper about the works and political activism of Susan Sontag,” Penelope answered.

“I’m writing a reflection on a trip I had to take to the Met,” Edwina stated, “so I’m attempting to be engaging about statues I have seen on what must be at least a hundred occasions.”

“Do you guys remember in undergrad when we used to do fun and interesting things on the weekends?” Eloise asked. 

“I don’t think that emptying 4 bottles of Barefoot Riesling and eating buffalo wings while watching Golden Girls re-runs could be deemed interesting in any sense of the word,” Penelope said, “plus, judging by the frequency with which Eddie’s phone has been vibrating, she certainly has an interesting weekend ahead of her,” she smirked.

Eloise’s head popped up in interest. Finally a distraction! “Are these texts from a gentleman?” she asked with a tone of overstated interest.

Edwina started to flush “Do you guys remember that TA I had last semester for my archaeology class?”

“The one who’s so smart and funny and cute and always replied to your e-mails right away?” Eloise replied, “I’m not sure if you mentioned him.”

Edwina’s eyes narrowed at Eloise’s teasing, “Well, we went out and got coffee the other week and we’ve been texting ever since, and long story short I think I’m going to marry him.”

“Marriage?” Eloise scoffed, “have you two even…?” she let her words trail off, but let a rude gesture with her hands finish the statement.

“I was being facetious,” Edwina replied, “and no, I haven’t slept with him,” she returned to typing just before adding, “Very ladylike hand gesture by the way.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve never once tried to be ladylike in my life,” Eloise retorted.

“The blouse and pencil skirt you’re wearing at the library would state otherwise,” Penelope teased.

“Pen, you know I have to wear this when I tutor,” she shot back “apparently I have to look professional when I’m trying to help freshmen comp lit majors figure out what Candide is about.”

“What is Candide about?” Edwina asked.

“Hell if I know,” Eloise replied with a shrug. She looked back at her phone, “can we go home now?” she asked, “I hate walking through the park after 11.”

Penelope closed her computer, “I was about to suggest the same.”

As the 3 women walked out of the now-empty library Eloise spotted something on a bench in the vestibule between the library doors. It was a leather-bound notebook with a snap closure. Eloise couldn’t help but be curious, so she opened it.

“What on Earth are you doing El?” Penelope asked, “we are in New York City, god knows where that’s been!”

“Calm down Pen, it’s not street trash,” she replied. She opened to the first page of the notebook and read: property of Phillip Crane. If found, please contact pcrane282@nyu.edu

Phillip got home and all but went straight to sleep. Well, first he thanked and said goodbye to his Aunt who had been kind enough to watch his children after their most recent nanny had quit.

It appeared that the final straw for the most recent young lady–in what seemed to be a revolving door of unfortunate women (and some men)– was when the twins had decided to put a layer of cream cheese on the deodorant that they found in her purse. Phillip was more bewildered by his children’s antics than anybody, but even he had to admit that someone who decided to pursue a career in child care ought to be made of sterner stuff. 

But today had been a long day, and he needed to sleep before he went back to the lab tomorrow. He peaked his head into Oliver and Amanda’s room to make sure they were asleep. Or, if not asleep, not causing trouble. Then he went to his room and simply fell face down on the bed.

Phillip woke up the next morning to his alarm at 6 am in the clothes he had worn the day previous. He cursed under his breath, he was planning to wear that pair of khakis again today, but now they were all wrinkled and so was his shirt. Phillip went out into the kitchen and started making coffee when he heard a small voice from behind him.

“Daddy, you’re not going to wear those clothes to work are you?” He turned around to see Amanda in her pajamas. 

“Don’t I look good?” Phillip joked with her.

“You look like you slept in your clothes,” she said flatly, moving a chair to the side of the cabinet to reach for the cereal that was a bit too high for her to reach on her own. 

“That’s just the look I was going for,” he smiled and took a sip of his coffee, “do you want me to pack your lunch for you?” he asked. He didn’t have to be at the lab until 9:00 this morning. 

“No thanks,” Amanda said passing him to get milk from the refrigerator, “Me and Oliver packed our lunches last night.”

Phillip felt his stomach knot. He was proud that both of his children were self-sufficient, but he hated the fact that they had to be. Ever since their mother died–and frankly, before–they had needed to be like little adults, in spite of being 8 years old. Phillip tried the best he could to be a good dad to them, but working toward a Ph.D. and having the pressure of a research fellowship on one’s shoulders made active fathering somewhat difficult. 

“What did you pack, is it healthy?” Phillip asked, trying to make up for his dead-beat ways.

“Sandwich, apples, yogurt, and cheez-its,” she said matter of factly “I don’t know what Oliver put in his.”

As if on cue Oliver walked into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “I made the same thing but with chips instead of yogurt, because yogurt is gross.” He joined his sister at the countertop and poured cereal into a bowl that Amanda had already set out for him.

“Alright, kids, what’s on the schedule for today?” Phillip said, putting down his coffee, “anything after school that I should let Aunt Gertie know about?”

“I have piano right after school,” Amanda stated.

“And I have a hockey game at 5,” Oliver said with a mouth full of cereal, “can you come, Dad?”

Phillip’s heart sank, he knew he probably wasn’t going to be able to make it, but he decided to try and humor his son anyway. 

“Let me check my book,” he said walking over to his bag. He looked in the brown satchel to find that he couldn’t find the familiar brown leather datebook.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, “shit shit shit shit shit.”

“Are you okay dad?” Oliver asked, once more with his mouth full.

“Yes,” Phillip said with a sigh “I just can’t find my datebook.”

Phillip grabbed his phone to check the schedule he tried to maintain electronically and saw that he had an e-mail.

Dear Mr. Crane,

Hello! I just wanted to contact you because I believe I found your datebook outside the library last night. At least, this is the e-mail that was written to contact in case it was found. What is the best way that I can return it to you? I know I’m personally lost without my planner. Let me know how I can get it back to you and I will be sure to do so ASAP.

Sincerely,

Eloise Bridgerton, B.A.

Student | NYU Graduate School of Arts & Science

ebridge240@nyu.edu

(212)995-3422

P.S. I suppose I should ask you to describe it, just to make sure I’m handing it off to the right person. Once you’ve done that I will promptly return it to you.

[howggswouldreact]

📚 Well-Intentioned Lies | Gahyeon

Request: hi can i request a dreamcatcher gahyeon scenario where Gahyeon has a really late class that requires her to walk all the way across campus in the dark. Reader claims to have a class at the same time and live nearby, and they walk Gahyeon home every night. However, Reader is lying. They live on the complete opposite side of campus and don’t have any classes later than early afternoon.

Plot: Reader walks Gahyeon to her dorm every night after her late class, saying that their dorm is right there close to hers. But Reader is lying.

Words: 1,953

Genre: fluff, college!au

Notes: i almost made a chapter 2 for this one because i like it very very very very much... enjoy your reading!  ♥

Part II

Waiting for Gahyeon on the sidewalk of the building where she was attending class had become so common to you that you knew the exact time that you should stop playing Superstar (SM, JYP, WOOLLIM, etc.) and walk to the entrance as if you were arriving. Some days you even pretended to arrive a little later, saying that the teacher had made you and other students stay a little longer. The truth was that: you didn't have any classes right after 6PM.

You weren't proud of that. In fact, you hated to lie to her. But a small lie on a night a few months ago brought up two things: an even bigger lie and the development of this crush on her.

The door to the building opened and several students started to leave. Many went to the left but you expected Gahyeon, who was the only student who would go straight to her dorm. Apparently the college had done a great job: they had put that student for classes late at night so she would have to walk across the entire campus at 9:30 PM, alone.

"Hey.", Gahyeon said, approaching you. "Today's class was terrible. So many projects for this semester... I don't know if I will have time to breathe."

She was so beautiful wearing that college hoodie. Your heart was weak for her.

"If you need any help, you know you can send me a message, don't you? I'll show up quickly to help you.", you said, smiling at her while holding the strap of your backpack.

"So get ready because I will be texting you and asking for several different snacks."

"I said that I will help with the projects..."

"No problem. Project is to eat as many snacks as I can."

You laughed and put an arm around her shoulders. You started the long walk to her dorm on that starry night.

As you walked with Gahyeon in your embrace, you remember the first time you saw her walking down that worn, gray sidewalk on a Thursday night when you decided to walk around campus to get to know it better. She was so small... You wondered why she was walking around alone, with so many books in her arms and a backpack that looked too heavy.

You knew her from somewhere, so when you focused on her face... Ah, from the cafeteria next to the auditorium, of course! There were two moments you saw her sitting with a girl who took the same classes as you, called Minji. And those two moments you couldn't get your eyes off her, which made Yoohyeon, your friend, make fun of you and encourage you to talk to her, which didn't work.

But what was that girl - that beautiful girl - doing walking around campus so late? It wasn't safe at all! So you decided to do something that could be crazy, but that could also save lives.

You approached her.

"Hey, good evening.", you said.

Her books fell to the floor and she screamed, moving away from you.

"Hey, hey, calm down. I'm not going to do anything to you!", you said, raising your hands.

Slowly, you bent down to pick up her books. She also bent down, still gasping from the shock, and took the books that were closest to her. You got up and handed over the ones you took.

"I'm Y/N. What about you? What's your name?", you asked, regretting having delivered the books to her since she carried so much weight.

"I'm Gahyeon."

After saying your names, it became much easier to get to know each other. She asked if you were walking towards the dormitory that was further east of the campus and not wanting this good moment to end, you just said:

"Yes, yes. Over there.”

And she didn't go into the question any further, understanding that you were also living there. After leaving her at the door of the building, you asked yourself several times why you had lied. You felt terrible about herself and wanted to tell her that you actually lived on the opposite side of the campus and when you both met you just had to walk another five minutes to get there. However, you walked for about twenty minutes just to know she was safe. Maybe more, twenty five minutes. But the conversation was so good that you didn't feel the time passing by and you didn't want it to end.

You told yourself, as you walked back to the dorm, your dorm, which was on the opposite side of hers, how was dangerous to be back so late, it should be already 10PM! But you had no regrets at all. Gahyeon was adorable and when you arrived at your dorm, you had a smile on your face.

She had already won your heart.

You didn't want to lie to yourself. You had promised over and over again that you would tell her. If not today, tomorrow, you said in your own thoughts, but "tomorrow" came and your confession did not. And with time passing by, the bond between you both was strengthening and you could say that you were already moving towards a good friendship. Why was it so difficult to tell her?

You knew why. If you were to tell her the truth, in addition to making her scared that you would go out of your way just to spend time with her, you would have to stop doing so. And you didn't want to stop those long walks to her dorm and then go all the way back to yours. You didn't want to do it because it was so good to be in Gahyeon's company. You didn't want to do it because she had the best laugh you've ever heard and the most beautiful smile. You didn't want to stop walking with her because her voice was too good and you were already completely addicted to it. You didn't want to stop walking with her because... because you were already completely in love with her.

And now, with your arm around her shoulder, while she was laughing at something she told you about the project, you knew you should tell her.

"Y/N?", she called you. "Did you hear what I said?"

You blinked a little and tried to remember the last words you had heard her saying before you were completely immersed in your own thoughts. You didn't know why you kept thinking about that smile fading in front of you while you were telling the truth.

"Hm... I... I'm sorry, I got distracted.", you said, rubbing your face.

"Oh, fine," she said, smiling. "It wasn't important, you don't have to worry. What's up, huh? You've been looking thoughtful for almost ten minutes."

The wind was cold but her smile made you feel warm.

"I think I'm sleepy," you said, using that classic excuse for not answering any questions she might ask.

You couldn't lie to her any further. You wouldn't be able to do that.

"Then you should go to bed. Now. Go, go, go.", she said, pushing you back in the direction you had just come from.

You laughed and turned to her.

"Aren't you going to say bye?"

She laughed and kissed you on the cheek. Your heart pounding, it felt like you had just run a marathon.

"Now, go.", and she pushed you back in the same direction.

Then, laughing, you started walking all the way back to your dorm, still feeling her lips on your cheek, wishing they were touching yours. You were so full of your own thoughts that you didn't notice the path you were taking. Nor did you realize the steps behind you.

"I knew it!"

You were startled by the voice that came from behind you.

"Gahyeon?"

"I knew you had lied to me!", she said in a loud voice.

So that had been a trap and you hadn't even realized it. She was pushing you to your real destination and you just went in the direction, not remembering your own lie. It wasn't a trap, it was just... the ugly truth.

"Okay, I can explain.", you said, feeling your heart sink, hoping she would give you a chance.

She crossed her arms, waiting. She was willing to listen.

When you finished telling how everything happened until you both got there, until your lie was discovered, you let your shoulders down and closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to tell one more truth.

"Look, Gahyeon... I wouldn't do it all for nothing. It's just... I like you. Since I hit my eyes on you at that coffee shop, I found you interesting. Yoohyeon told me to try to talk to you, you know? Try to do something. But I was too much of a coward for that. Coward to say hi but brave enough to hide myself behind a lie.", you sighed loudly. "Ah, I accept if you don't want to talk to me anymore. I think I better go to my dorm. My real dorm."

You started walking again, your steps were dragged, you expected to arrive soon. The moon was high above you and everything had lost its beauty. Not having Gahyeon anymore, even as a friend, it would be very difficult now that you had experienced what it was like to have her with you.

You felt something vibrating in your jeans pocket. It was your cell phone.

Gahyeon's name was on the screen. 

You answered it.

"Just for you to know...", she said, her voice was low as if she were about to tell a secret. "...I-I kind of already knew your name when we met."

Silence. Your steps were a little slower.

"What?", you didn't know if you understood it very well.

"Yeah... like...", you managed to hear her sigh through the cell phone. "I thought you were cute... and I commented it to my friend. Her name is Minji and I think she has some classes with you."

Now you were shocked. Had she really pretended not to know who you were all this time? You smiled and tried to hold back the laugh that really wanted to escape.

"Okay, this is... awesome.", you replied, still smiling.

"And we will talk until you get to the dorm, okay? No hanging up. I need to know if you got there safely.", the tone of Gahyeon's voice was of concern.

"Okay, mom. But tell me... how did you find out that I was lying?"

"Minji is going out with Siyeon. And during a conversation with Minji and me, she said that she was a bit mad at Y/N, her roommate, because they were arriving late every single day, even tho they had no classes nor even parties. It wasn't that hard to find out that the Y/N of the story was actually you. "

"Oh, my god! She snitched on me!"

"Yes! And I snitched myself.", Gahyeon said, laughing.

You were relieved. Calling you meant that everything was fine between you two, right? And she even confessed a secret...

"So... you thought that I was cute, huh?", the question left your mouth without you realizing it.

Were you being stupid to ask?

"Yes. But don't think that lying is okay. Every day, you'll have to take me to my dorm. That's your punishment."

"Well... This is a punishment that I am willing to take, Mrs. Gahyeon."

You smiled at the moon above and, far behind you, in one of the rooms in a building you were heading in a direction increasingly opposite to it, Gahyeon smiled, looking at the ceiling. She was totally into you.

[agirlunderarock]

How I accidentally wrote 20 page paper on Boromir for one of my Final Ever University Papers PART 1

Alright so I theres really no place to start this post other than with one of the research exercises my professor was having us do to build up the paper. Actually I should probably state for the record that this last class I was taking was a Tolkien and Lewis University class I had been waiting to take since my freshman year and dropped a drama minor for. I really wanted to take directing and am still a teeny bit sad about it.  But anyway the professor encouraged us to to just dig around our library’s online resources and just look up basic search terms and work towards the more specific topics from there. A lot of people started with things like “friendship and the lord of the rings” or “colonialism and the chronicles of narnia” or searched by characters.

 I started the class thinking I was going to end up going the feminist route and like a which wore it (it being feminism) better type thing between the books in the movies, and of course that would mean the focus would be on Eowyn, who I’m still surprised no one took the opportunity to write about, BUT I thought Hey why not look to see what academics are saying about Boromir? A complex character like that is bound to have a shit load of articles.

And so I searched

and I searched

I checked the library shelves for references to articles,

I checked scholarly websites

I looked everywhere I could think of for about a week

and you know the only time I pulled up anything on Boromir?

When I did searches for “Samwise Gamgee and loyalty” “Aragorn and leadership” and of course I tried more specific search terms, but again the only time Boromir even appeared in an article was to be the antithesis to Aragorn or Sam or Frodo or ANY OF THE CHARACTERS AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT.

He was never the subject of any academic paper only the shit stain for a paper on Obedience as heroism in the Lord of the rings that focused on Sam- which I have beef with that paper but I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Naturally this meant one thing

I had to write the paper myself

You know those times when you want to read a fanfic and you go looking for a fanfic to fill your oddly specific need need of the day, and you can’t find it, but you find something maybe a little similar, but it either takes a horrible turn or is super out of character and just leaves you more dissatisfied, and you sit there not  sure how to go on, and then you realize you have to write the fanfic yourself. That was the exact feeling I had, except this was like nearly two months into an already short semester and how I did in the class would affect my graduation standings.

So I ended up rereading a few articles, digging through a Tolkien encyclopedia that made me question a great many things including using it as a resource because no one caught that one of the writers called Galadriel Arwen’s mother, and some of Tolkien’s letters, in which Boromir is mentioned a total of 3 times

1. to say that he is Faramir’s brother

2. To complain about how they misspelled his name in I think it was one of the cartoon versions 

3. and in a letter to Naomi Mitchison, “Pardonable, perhaps (though at least Boromir has been overlooked) in people in a hurry…But in any case  this is a tale about a war, and if war is allowed (at least as a topic and a setting) it is not much good complaining that all the people on one side are against those on the other. Not that I have made even this issue quite so simple: there are Saruman, and Denethor, and Boromir; and there are treacheries and strife even among the Orcs.”

That last one makes four but you know what I mean, yes I did pull this quote directly from my paper. I have more context in the paper before just throwing it in, give me some credit-

But anyway, what it came down to at least what I found in the research was the context everyone was examining Boromir.

All day every day, these Tolkien academics were drowning the Lord of the Rings in a Christian lense ( I say this as a Catholic) and read Boromir’s attempt to take the Ring (I capitalize the Ring for reason that I’ll get to later) from Frodo as a grab for power as acting disobediently against the groups wishes or something, Its been a year since I’ve touched this stuff okay, so I kinda tossed that out the window and looked at his character and his character arc from a political stand point- specifically Hobbsian politics. And I actually got asked a question about this- like what would Catholism have to say about this other view I’m taking (I went to a Catholic university go figure) and I didn’t have an answer until I had already taken a picture with my big ol $75 check for placing second. But I basically realized the difference is and really it isn’t a difference, I think it reads or can be read anyway, as someone just giving in to fear and anxiety. It was never about power or self righteousness. Boromir was terrified and desperate, and being in close proximity to the Ring heightens all of that, so of course things are going to happen, of course he’s going to lose his faith in his friends and himself. To compare him and his life experiences to someone like Aragorn, or Sam, makes absolutely no sense, especially when they have different goals and different loyalties. Don’t believe me think good and long about it while I figure out the best way to type up part two, because I haven’t shown you the differences or what some of the articles actually said.

Parts Two and 

Part Three 

[deans-baby-momma]

Mommy’s (Not So) Good Girl

A/N: Here it is guys! My new story, Mommy’s (Not So) Good Girl. It will be posted on Wednesday mornings and Friday afternoons. Hope you enjoy! 

Summary: What if when Lisa and Dean had hooked up all those years ago, she'd had Abby, a pre-teen daughter?Now here it is almost a decade later, Dean is back to try out "the apple pie life" as he put it.

A month from turning 21, when Abby's mom allows an old hookup to move in with the family she realizes her younger brother Ben resembles Dean a lot and wonders if her mom knows this is Ben's father.

But, what happens when she get drunk on her 21st and has to call for a ride and Dean answers?The backseat of her mom's car now holds secrets that they both hope never surfaces. And can they stay away from each other?

“Abigail! Benjamin! Dinner's ready." my mom yells up the stairs. 

I close the book I am reading as I hear my bratty 9 year old brother answer back.

"I'm in the middle of a battle!"

I roll my eyes as I stretch. 'Kids and their stupid games', I think.  I am a college student at home for summer break and my little brother is worried about winning an imaginary fight on his game. Yea, he's going to be in for a surprise when he gets out in the real world.

A junior at Purdue University, I am studying Finance and Economics but while on breaks I work as an aide at the local library on the weekends, to help my mom with keeping food in the house.

My mother, a yoga instructor and single parent, is Lisa Danielle Braeden and we have lived in the same quaint house in the same quaint town of Cicero for my whole life. 

Mom smiles at me as I enter the kitchen, ready to get some sustenance before going back to read next semester's syllabus. What can I say, I like to be prepared.

It is a typical Tuesday evening in our house. I've washed the laundry I brought home, unpacked my bags and kept an eye on my brother while Mom worked and then came straight home to take care of us.

My mom has always beamed with pride at how well I excelled in high school, graduating with honors and being accepted into the finance classes at BU.

"How's it going baby girl?" she asks, handing me a plate.

Benjamin, Ben for short, finally graces us with his presence and Mom ruffles his hair as he begins scooping out his food.

As we are eating, the doorbell rings.

"I got it," Mom says and leaves the room.

Ben takes the opportunity to throw me a glare and I scoff. "What's your problem brat?"

"You are.  Miss goody two-shoes who does no wrong. All you do is study and work. Don't you have any friends?"

"Do you," I sneer. "Other than the ones from your game?"

At that moment Mom walks back into the room with a smile on her face. Behind her is a person who looks familiar. I feel as if I should recognize him, as if I know him. And then I remember.

Years ago, back when it was just me and Mom, this man spent a whole weekend here. I never thought I'd see him again, like all the other men Mom had paraded through in my 20 years.

I was about 14 when I realized all the 'friends' who stayed here for a day or two weren't anything other than Lisa Braeden's flavor of the week. 

Seeing this man reminds me of early Saturday morning, eating cereal in the den and watching-and laughing- at cartoons with him. And the ride to the ice cream store in the sleek black muscle car, the wind blowing through my air and the engine rumbling under my butt.

If any of Mom's conquests were to return, Dean Winchester is the last one I expected. He had actually paid attention to me and hadn’t treated me like an inconvenience. He had been nice.  

And now here he stands, back in our home.

 "I remember you."

“Holy shit,” Dean exclaims as he looks at me. “You cannot be Abby?”

“Sure am,” I smile as I answer.

“Wow, you grew up!” He says as he passes by Mom and comes over to give me a hug. “Guess you probably done outgrew Scooby Doo, also huh?” He laughs as he steps back from the embrace. “If I remember right, you had a major crush on Fred.”

I blush at the thought of a young me gushing to this stranger about how cute I thought a cartoon was. Ah, the innocence of youth.

“Eh, I’m more into Shaggy now.”

Dean laughs and glances across the table at my brother. He does a quick double take and then reaches out his hand. “Hi I’m Dean. I’m a friend of…”

“My mom. Yea I got that,” Ben nonchalantly cuts him off, and goes back to eating. Rude kid!

Mom grabs a plate from the cabinet and sits it down at the end of the table where she usually sits and walks to the fridge. Opening the door, she says, “I only have the light stuff. Is that okay?”

“Yea. Yea,” Dean answers as he takes his place at the head of the table. Mom sits the beer at his side and kisses his cheek. “Dig in.”

As we eat, we catch up with one another. Dean asks Mom if she is still into yoga teaching and asks me all about school. He exclaims that he cannot believe that I am in college already and then brings up some embarrassing thing I’d said and did from that weekend oh so long ago.

Dean tries bringing my brother into the conversation but Ben keeps quiet, scowling across at us,  never saying a word. He eyes this man up and down, this stranger to him, but who is an apparent friend of mine and Mom’s. 

“Can I be excused?” he asks when he is done and Mom nods, not really paying attention. Instead she is hanging off every word out of Dean’s mouth.

Ben gets up and I have to remind him to take his dishes to the sink, which he mumbles hatefully about. He gives one more look at the three of us and then sulks out of the room. What is his problem, I wonder. If he’d just stay here and get to know Dean, I’m sure he would like him. 

They both seem to like taking things apart and finding out how they function. Dean had fixed the toaster oven and the furnace for Mom when he was here. And if I remember correctly Dean liked classic rock, which is the exact kind of music I hear pouring out of my brother’s room sometimes. Also, I can tell Dean still has that same cocky know-it-all attitude…..kinda like Ben.

Realization hits and I start doing the math. I was ten, almost eleven, when Dean spent that weekend here and now I am going to be turning 21 in less than a month. That means that weekend was almost ten years ago. Ben would be turning 9 on his next birthday. 

I look at my Mom with shock. Could it be? They are an awful lot alike, Dean and Ben. Did she know? Had Mom kept this a secret? How had I never thought to ask her who Ben’s father was? How had I not put two and two together before now? 

Was Dean Ben’s dad?!

That night, Mom invites Dean into her bed like it was natural. To me, it was something she used to do all the time. Whoever was at the house got to sleep in her bed, with her. At the time, in my prepubescent mind, I thought that was all they were doing. How naive I had been!

Since Ben came along, though, she hasn’t had many sleepovers with strange men. Actually in the last 10 years there have only been a couple and that was when my brother was still an infant. Was it because Dean had knocked her up and she was hoping and wishing he would return so she could tell him? Would she tell him now? Would Dean become my step-dad?

I have so many questions that need answers and I don’t even know how to begin to get them.

If you would like to be tagged for this series, please send me a message or an ask. I will gladly add you. 

@lostinaseaoffictionalbliss​ @spnbaby-67​ @tftumblin​ @sea040561​ @delightfullykrispypeach​ @larajadeschmidt13​ @atc74​ @vicariouslythruspn​ @squirrelnotsam​ @death-unbecomes-you​ @sandlee44​ @blacktithe7​ @deanwanddamons​ @hoboal87​

[joopiterjoon]

Boy Meets Evil- MiniMoni

Pairing: Namjoon x Jimin

Genre: PG-13, Strangers/enemies-kind-of to lovers?

Warnings/Tags: Kittygang!Jimin, Professor!Namjoon, swearing, mentions of gangs and gang violence, minor threats, bad art history knowledge

Wordcount: 3k

a/n: this started as a short drabble but now I have 3 parts so I think Imma turn it into a series maybe? and thanks as usual to @megahwn​​ for betareading and reminding me I don’t suck at writing~~~

Part of ficswithluv’s #FWLBingo! 

Namjoon rakes back his tawny hair with frustrated fingers. He scratches in bafflement as he circles another misspelling of Da Vinci. When he started teaching Art History, he never thought he’d have to teach spelling, too.

He doesn’t realize how far he’s sunk into his chair, now scribbling away on Renaissance essays with his nose only inches from the table, until someone bumps into his chair. He hurriedly corrects himself and takes the moment to have a break from reading about the same exact art piece again. He’d given his students free reign of the entire Renaissance to choose art from, yet they all chose from the first five google results.

One of those students sat across the cafe. He glanced up as Namjoon spotted him and gave a small smile of acknowledgment. Namjoon tried to give the same, but knew his distress was evident if not on his face then definitely by his haywire hair. He shakes his head, adjusting his glasses.

Jungkook. A good kid, trying to get a minor in Digital Art. Namjoon knows a lot of students have to take his class as a requirement, and he’s come to appreciate the quiet yet studious students like Jungkook. He may not speak in class, but he submits decent work on time. Even now, while several pairs of probable-students sit in the cafe off campus chatting and laughing, Jungkook has his laptop open and camera plugged in.

Seeing a student working hard motivates Namjoon to plow through the last three essays he has. 

Before his red pen starts scribbling again, his attention is swept away by a man entering the cafe.

Art.

Namjoon loves art. It’s captured his attention since he was young. He read books on woodwork while his friends read Haikyuu! He took every art elective his senior year instead of taking early dismissal. He managed to get a degree in architecture to appease his parents just so he could also get a minor in art history. He finds art in everyday life. He appreciates unique design and complex color palettes. Art is not only his passion but the way he interprets the world.

The man who just walked through the cafe doors is art.

Soft, pink dusted hair smooths back as the man raises his sunglasses into his hair with a ring-clad hand only to reveal large, almost black eyes. His plush lips are pursed while he clearly looks for something, licking them in impatience. And as he weaves between tables, Namjoon has a clear view of a tight ass in tighter jeans, thick thighs bulging above the slits in the knees. As he rounds on a specific table in the back, Namjoon catches a glimpse of slim, delicate shoulders as the man’s jacket slides to his forearms. Namjoon glances down at the purple feathers lining the shoulder pads, trying to make out the words as the man bends over to place his hands on the table before him.

Kitty Gang

Namjoon’s throat dries. Kitty Gang, a notorious group of gangsters and good for nothings that wreak havoc as they please. Always pushing the law but never quite breaking it, at least, for the activities they get blamed for. Namjoon hadn’t heard that they were also so attractive. Maybe that was part of the man’s aura that drew Namjoon in to stare so long. Just like art, the deeper meaning of a person can shine through how they present themselves. And this man caused people to turn away, to scoot their chairs farther in, to gasp as his boot stomped on the floor.

Why is someone from Kitty Gang inside a student cafe? Namjoon heard about them on the edges of the college town. Were they here to cause an issue? Namjoon glanced around, trying to see if there were any other adults around. If not, he had a duty as a teacher. Especially since one of his students is here.

Namjoon does a double-take. His student, Jungkook, is who the member is talking to. Doing his best not to draw attention to himself, Namjoon tries to switch chairs. He’s not the only one, several girls craning their head to get a look at that powerful, attractive stranger. Namjoon’s not sure what he should do. If Jungkook catches his eye, maybe he’ll give him some kind of signal to help.

But when he catches sight of Jungkook, Namjoon’s surprised, to say the least. The boy is leaning back in his chair, laughing with the man. He seems completely at ease as he points to his screen. The pink-haired man steps around, putting a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder as he leans into his space to watch the screen together. They talk in hushed voices, a dangerous grin growing on the man’s face that regrettably makes Namjoon’s stomach warm, something causing him to squirm in his seat.

Then, the man grabs Jungkook’s jaw, holding him close as he plants a sloppy kiss on Jungkook’s cheek. That warming feeling in Namjoon’s gut grows, his heart racing. He tries to shake it off, adjusting in his seat. He’s always been drawn to the ghastly, to things eccentric that stand out. That’s art. That’s just what’s happening here. Of course he knows this is a dangerous situation that he might need to handle.

Jungkook shoves the man away. Namjoon’s jaw drops. Jungkook said no more than 5 words in class all semester. He always kept to himself, gentle smiles as he left the classroom, and here he is shoving at a… a gangster.

Oh, this is bad. He shouldn’t feel comfortable in this situation. He shouldn’t be locking forearms with the man as he shrugs his jacket back on, closing his computer and following the man out of the cafe. Namjoon watches, dumbfounded.

A feeling of protectiveness wells up in Namjoon, replacing the strange feeling from before. He has to do something as a professor and as an adult. Jungkook can’t go down this path.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the lecture hall empties after Namjoon’s lecture, he watches Jungkook make his way out of class. On time as always, attentive as always, and a soft smile as he makes his exit as always.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon says in a hushed voice. “Please wait a minute.”

Jungkook looks puzzled but pauses obediently, nodding as the others pass. Once the room is empty, he adjusts his backpack and asks, “What’s wrong, Namjoon?”

Namjoon feels a bit relieved for the difficult conversation ahead. He’d offered to all the students that they could use his first name. It helped level the hierarchy of the classroom, and it definitely made conversations like this seem more informal.

“I saw you at the cafe the other day,” Namjoon starts, setting down his paper and walking in front of the table that lines the Smartboard behind him.

Jungkook smiles a bit wider, “I know! It’s always funny seeing teachers outside of class.”

Namjoon chuckles. He remembers being like that, too. Wait, that’s not what this is about. “I also saw your friend.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes turned to the ceiling as he processes the information. “My friend?”

Namjoon narrows his gaze, not sure if Jungkook is playing dumb or really isn’t grasping it. If it’s the latter, it’s a good thing Namjoon stepped in because the boy is more naive than he expected. “Your friend with the pink hair.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap back to Namjoon. His cheeks turn a bit pink as he shrugs his shoulders. “Ah, him. That’s, yeah, that’s my friend.”

Namjoon straightens his glasses and tries to hold his shoulders back. When he practiced in the mirror, this pose looked relaxed yet strong. “Jungkook, you’re a college student, but you’re still young. You have many possibilities ahead of you. Some of them might seem more exciting than others, but you need to think about how what you do or who you associate yourself with now might affect your future. I try not to individualize praise or show favoritism, but you’re a good student. I can tell you’re hard-working. I just want you to think seriously about who you are getting involved with and make the best choices for yourself.”

Namjoon wants to pat Jungkook on the shoulder as the boy sinks in a bit more at Namjoon’s speech, but he refrains. Jungkook fluffs the back of his bedhead, not looking at Namjoon. “Ah, yeah, I appreciate your advice. Especially about me being a hard worker.”

Namjoon nods, giving a sympathetic smile. He was a junior in college once. Very recently in fact. He knows that there is a lot going on and a lot of tough choices.

“But Jimin isn’t as bad as people make him seem!” Jungkook suddenly blurts out. He seems surprised as Namjoon that he just said it, taking a step back like Namjoon might physically reprimand him.

“Who?” Namjoon asks.

“Jimin, my friend,” Jungkook says. Ah, the pink-haired man is named Jimin. It rings a bell in Namjoon’s skull, maybe having seen it in an article or two about Kitty Gang. But the real concern is Jungkook’s deeper than he thought, defending these people.

But there’s really nothing more he can do, Namjoon thinks as he sighs. He’s just a concerned teacher. He has no proof, and the only preemptive precaution he can do is send a notice to the university of potential care. That might be sent to Jungkook’s parents, and Namjoon doesn’t want to get all that involved.

“Look,” Namjoon tries, seeing Jungkook get more and more uncomfortable. “Just know I’m here if you need someone to talk to, okay? And if things get bad, you can reach out to me.”

“Things couldn’t get worse,” Jungkook says to the floor, where his eyes are now glued. 

Jungkook’s word choice confuses Namjoon. He tries to lean into Jungkook’s field of vision. “Has something already happened?”

Jungkook lips part before he’s vigorously shaking his head no. Namjoon takes a deep breath through his nose and heads to the door, letting Jungkook know he can leave now. He can’t press this anymore or it might turn around on him.

“But if they do,” he adds kindly, just so Jungkook knows he’s here. Jungkook nods, cheeks a little red, and heads down the hall at a brisk pace.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Again, Namjoon finds himself in awe of how his students manage to study the material but not really pay attention to the details. Three students in a row wrote 7100s instead of 1700s. Is this the power of test anxiety?

Shaking his head, he makes note of the error just so the students are aware, but continues to read through the passages to check the content. He’s starting to think he may need to change cafes soon. This one is starting to fill with negative energy, too many times he’s been here frustrated, tired, and underpaid.

It’s midterms, so the place is also brimming with the anxiety of students. The chatter that boomed weeks before is now filled with grumbling, complaints, and unspoken stress that somehow rings the loudest in the large cafe. Students mill in and out, some stopping by for distractions or to cheer on friends, so Namjoon just hunkers down and tries to focus on the fourteenth response to how Michelangelo Caravaggio influenced other Baroque painters.

So it’s no surprise that he doesn’t look up when the door opens. Doesn’t bother when he hears hushed whispers and girls giggling. Doesn’t glance when someone walks past his table. He only looks up when the chair across from his squeaks against the floor and someone plops down, elbows on the table and leather jacket fringe spilling onto his essays.

“Heard you’re interested in me,” a voice practically purrs. Namjoon frowns, wondering who would interrupt his work.

When he looks up, he decides he really needs to change cafes.

Soft, plush lips spread so wide across a face that almost looks cherub-like as eyes crinkle from the power of the grin, a head propped by ringed-fingers tilting this way and that. Newly dyed pink hair brushes back and forth over dark eyebrows.

Jimin.

Namjoon’s pen drops from his hand. He watches the barista stare him down in shock, a previous student who must know who Jimin is. Shit shit shit. Namjoon closes his eyes to process, then immediately opens them, not sure what will happen if he takes his eyes off the man.

“Not exactly interested,” Namjoon quips.

“Oh?” Jimin’s lips pull together to pout. Namjoon’s terrified that his first thought is cute. “But Jungkookie said you even pulled him aside to chat about me.”

Namjoon blanches at the man.

“It’s okay,” Jimin sighs, lifting his head to turn in the chair, crossing his legs casually. When he tosses his head over his shoulder and winks at Namjoon, Namjoon balls his fists against the flutter in his chest. He’s not attractive, he’s dangerous. The reminder is right there on his jacket, the edge of a sparkly “K” visible in the creases of leather. “Everyone is interested in me these days. Has to be my cute face. Don’t you agree?”

Namjoon chokes on air. The man laughs at that, doubling over. The sound is similar to glass tinkling in a sink, the sound soft but not quite shattering, but it rings louder than anything else in the cafe to Namjoon. He’s not the only one, several others turning in irritation then immediately going back to their work when they see who it is.

Jimin must be a notable figure in the gang, Namjoon assumes. Even the kids here know who he is.

“I am not interested in you,” Namjoon finally musters when the man’s laughs die down. “I’m interested in Jungkook having a-”

“Oh my god,” Jimin clasps his hands over his mouth before he’s bracing on the table to lean in close. Namjoon gasps at the sudden intrusion of personal space, and the smell of oil and something fruity fills his lungs. “Teacher, you’re interested in one of your students?”

“What? No!” Namjoon hisses, eyes darting this way and that for anyone who might have heard. But the one place he can’t look is in the sharp eyes boring into him, an eyebrow quirked in his peripheral. He coughs and adds, “Mind your distance.”

Jimin snorts. As he leans back, a smirk spreads on his face. He tips the chair back, balancing on the back two legs. Namjoon wishes they would slip on the floor. “No, sir, I think you should mind your distance. Moreover, mind your business.”

Namjoon gives the man his attention again, only to settle him with a cold look.

“Jungkookie is one of mine, you see. He’s like family. Don’t go giving him silly ideas like backing away from me,” Jimin drops the chair to the ground, and Namjoon curses the fact that he jumps at the thud. “He can’t leave me. You hear? So butt out of your students’ lives and mind your own business.”

Namjoon feels his cheeks heat at that, immediately pissed off by this, this punk trying to tell him what to do. But before he can even continue, Jimin’s hand is on his. It’s gentle at first, sliding up, until he’s sitting on the pulse point of Namjoon’s wrist. Namjoon looks down, Jimin’s hand surprisingly small and warm, but the rings feel cold against his palm.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, now would we?”

Namjoon feels the words shock him. Like a bolt of electricity running from where Jimin’s thumb pinches his pressure point up into the back of his skull. He cringes, not sure if Jimin’s actually doing something or if it’s the mere weight of his insinuation making him uncomfortable. He glares at him, but Jimin’s just smiling pleasantly at where Namjoon’s pulse races beneath his thumb.

“Looks like you got the message,” he hums, turning Namjoon’s wrist over. He places the pen back in his hand and pats it lightly. “You should focus on your actual work, teacher. Help all those students fulfill their dreams of working in cafes or an office or something.”

Jimin shrugs lightly as he stands. Namjoon, on the other hand, feels frozen. He even finds himself nodding when Jimin tilts his head in search of a response. When he does, the man smiles brightly and claps a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. Much the way Namjoon wanted to do it to Jungkook to get his point across, the sincerity of his words.

And Jimin’s words had been Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, now would we?

When Jimin’s hand leaves him, the spot somehow feels warmer. His pulse is still racing not only in his wrists but in his ears. He can’t help but turn to watch the man leave, noting the way everyone else watches, too. And damn it all, he’s reminded of how good he looks from behind. More so than the toned figure visible in his loose clothes, it’s the air he exudes. Reckless and brazen.

And even worse, something in Namjoon wants to know what would happen. What that anything could be from a man like Jimin.

This is part 1. Click here for part 2!

[highgaarden]

Lizzie/Landon - "I think I'm the first girl to break a bed with a guy, without even having sex with him while doing so." (pls let them break a bunch of other stuff while actually having sex)

two-shot! read and comment on ao3, please!

where you cast those stones you wear;

rating: explicit chapters: 1/2 characters: lizzie/landon; background klaus/caroline, background hope/landon, background josie/penelope; the whole SS gang.

where you cast those stones you wear

part i

----

“There you are.”

Lizzie’s smile is the fakest ass fake smile he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot of them.

It’s how she smiles when Wade asks her for donations to his Anime club. Or when Dr Saltzman caught all of them at the Old Mill trying to make moonshine (Kaleb’s idea). Her smiles are especially at their fakest when she wants to pull Hope away from him for some magical assistance to whatever trouble she’s managed to get herself—

—and Josie, and Alaric, Raf, MG, (himself, though she’ll never count him) and probably half the school along as well—

—that week. “Just the person I wanted to randomly bump into in study hall.”

“Really,” he deadpans, not believing her one bit.

He shifts his book just a little closer to his chest. He’s not nervous, but her energy is full of it sometimes, and sometimes it’s just energy personified that bounces off the calm he tries to fill his study hall with.

You know, where they’re supposed to study – in silence, preferably – but with Lizzie, there’s never much of silence.

It’s with a bit of a niggling discomfort that Landon realises he’s learned her tells: Lizzie can talk up a storm, always, but it’s in tense moments that she can’t seem to shut up. Not that he’d ever tell her to shut up; he doesn’t know why he always just wants to be nice to her, despite her printing out posters of VOTE ARTISANAL JAR OF MAYONNAISE FOR HOMECOMING KING last semester and sticking them all over school.

 —

 “Well?” Lizzie prompts, clicking her tongue.

Landon’s just sitting there, and for all his humble bragging about being at the top of their classes he’s just… sitting there, with a look that tells her he’s not quite registering what she’s just said to him.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” he finally says.

Lizzie sighs loudly enough for the entire study hall to send glares their way. Landon attempts to tamp down on their aggression, but all Lizzie does is just sigh louder.

Sorry, Landon mouths apologetically again, raising his hand at Wade, who looks close to crying over exam revision.

“Landon,” Lizzie says with finality.

“Lizzie,” Landon matches her tone. “I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to repeat yourself.”

Murder is the only word that comes to mind with the glare she sends his way. But she decides to humour him.

“Wow, that’s so weird. I feel like I’m just mishearing you. Again, please—hey, I said please.”

Lizzie’s mouth moves around the words she’s telling him.

Landon continues to stare at her blankly. “Sorry, there’s just this weird ringing in my ears. It sounds like you just asked me to be your boyfriend?”

 —

 Elizabeth Jenna Saltzman.

Asking him, resident emo-boy, a marginally competent bird as she always ‘fondly’ calls him, to be her esteemed partner.

“Am I hearing this right?”

Lizzie hisses right through her teeth, “Do not insult me, you moderately competent bird.”

See?

He lifts his book as if to deflect the blow of her mighty glare. “Look, I’m not! I’m just – are you feeling alright? Been getting enough sleep?”

“Two weeks have passed since my mom’s come back, and I have thoroughly exhausted every single mother-daughter bonding activity ever, and she’s moved on from Oh Lizzie, my favourite daughter, I’ve missed you so much snuggling to Who is this Sebastian your father keeps mentioning lectures.” Lizzie adds flippantly: “I’m not vibing with it.”

“Sebastian?”

“Super sexy perma-teen vampire but a complete misjudgement of character on my end.”

“And this isn’t?” Landon mumbles.

“I need to get my mother off my back, keep up.” Lizzie inches forward in her seat. The ends of her hair graze the table with how much she’s leaning towards him, making him look her in her wide, blue eyes. Always with the theatrics. “You’re just about at the exact opposite end of the Sebastian spectrum. Mopey, dependable, not obviously good looking, but your other qualities probably can make up for that. And you’re the kind of guy would probably wake up super early to get me a coffee and croissant before school, because that’s just how cheesy you are.”

“Thanks?”

“Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, it’s not just for my benefit either.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Lizzie’s smile widens just a touch. “Heard your little crush on Hope just went up in flames.”

So is his face now, all puffed out and embarrassed. He lowers his voice and hisses, “How do you know about that?”

“Oh Landon. My sweet thrift store hobbit,” Lizzie sighs. “Everyone knows about it. You wear it like a badge of constant glumness. You didn’t speak to Jed for a whole week after he bought her a sandwich last week.”

“I could’ve bought her a sandwich too, big deal,” Landon mutters.

Lizzie raises a sharp finger and looks smug. “Ah, but you didn’t! See, my boy, you’ve got no game. Now imagine how much cooler your image would be if you were seen with resident popular girl,” she gestures to herself. “Your reputation would shoot up the ranks.”

“There are ranks?”

“Duh,” Lizzie says like it’s the most obvious thing. “And you, being a phoenix without actually possessing any unique phoenix qualities other than resurrecting – ”

“That’s not unique enough?”

“—looking like a pale artichoke in gym class doesn’t help, either. I am your salvation!” Lizzie finishes, hands on her hips and jaw raised like she’s standing centre-stage at their annual talent competition.

Landon narrows his eyes. “You think people will like me more if it looks like I’m dating you?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Move a little.” She takes a seat next to him gracefully, tucking her skirt under her thighs. “Listen. I need my mom to stop breathing down my neck. She’s been looking at me like she wants to give me the birds and the bees talk, with visual aid, flash cards and mini-theatre and I’d rather not go through that again. Once was more than enough. Pretty sure Dad wants her to exact power over my social life, since he doesn’t really have any say in that, and I’m looking at two semesters of constant surveillance. Or a twelve-step programme. And Professor M isn’t helping either—”

Landon shuts his book. “How does Professor M know about your love life?”

“Everyone knows about my love life, Landon. I’m interesting.” She rests an unwilling hand on his shoulder with a grimace. “And soon you will be too.”

“Because I’ll be dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Lizzie corrects primly.

“And you think Hope will like me, even though I’ll be unavailable?”

“There’s something to be said about wanting the unattainable, Landon. And trust me, you will be unattainable once you’re standing by my side.”

“Yeah, because everyone will think I’m nuts.”

“I resent that. Say yes.”

“Lizzie, I—” a panicked, helpless sort of look crosses Landon’s face. “This is really dishonest; I don’t think we should be…”

“Let me do the thinking for both of us, alright Little Bird?” Lizzie snips. “Getting back in my parents’ good books, the teachers off my backs for any sort of inevitable breakdown, and you… get to be Professor M’s potential son-in-law one day.”

“This is extremely coercive, you know,” Landon points out, but the protest is feeble at best. “And making me really uncomfortable. Nobody will buy it.”

“We’ll just have to put on a really good show,” she swears. “Say yes.”

 —

 Two things happen the next two days:

Landon attempts to say hi to Hope, who looks right through him to greet MG a good morning.

During lunch break, by some kind of miracle, he joins Hope and Lizzie for lunch just in time to hear Hope say, “You were right about the bio homework, by the way. Your ideas aren’t that bad, Saltzman.”

Lizzie cocks an eyebrow at Landon. “Welcome, Kirby.”

“Oh, hey Landon,” Hope greets warmly.

Landon takes all of thirty seconds to make up his mind.

Lizzie’s phone vibrates in her bag. When she checks it, it’s from Landon.

Just one word.

Yes.

 —

 Every Friday evening, the rag tag group of upper-secondary students meet for some dumb study group Emma had made them all participate in, in an effort to like, ‘bond’ as ‘one’ ‘community’ or something.

It’s astonishing that all of them consistently make it every single week, but no one will admit it’s because they appreciate each other’s company. They’d chalked it up to Stockholm Syndrome.

Rafael comes when he feels like it, but he’s usually stuck in detention helping Dorian jar newton eyes or something, but even he tries to be on his best behaviour so he doesn’t miss much of these.

It’s during one of these study groups that MG, having been not-so-discreetly been spying on Lizzie and Landon whilst they all parroted off chemical equations to each other, demands: “Why are you touching him?”

He’s probably been watching them really closely since the Bomb had Dropped.

Lizzie makes sure to have Josie walk into them in the courtyard one day with her hand placed very carefully on Landon’s thigh, and shocks her twin so much she goes running through the hallways until she bumps into Penelope, and blurts out the scene she just witnessed, swearing her to secrecy.

Penelope, of course, tells everyone else.

Lizzie pretends to fidget with the hem of her shirt. “Excuse you?”

MG narrows his eyes. “You just… keep putting your hand on Landon’s arm. Willingly. Why.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Penelope smirks, whilst Josie turns red and avoids Lizzie’s glare, “they’re the Salvatore School’s It Couple right now.”

“Fake news,” Jed coughs into his notes, and Kaleb guffaws.

Hope doesn’t do anything but watch the entire exchange with curious eyes.

“Look, Penelope, you don’t have to believe it,” Landon begins, but he’s making mopey eyes at Hope, so Lizzie decides to cut in.

“As devastated as I am to admit it, Frodo’s been growing on me,” Lizzie sighs, the vision of a woman distraught. “Who knew I was into nerd porn?”

MG’s ears might as well be whistling, and Jed’s cough sounds like a choke now.

“Girl, say what,” Kaleb says in one disbelieving breath. “Tell me you’re not serious. You okay? Been getting enough sleep? Is this a breakdown thing, ‘cause Emma said we have to like, show solidarity and help you visualise your inner child and shit—”

Lizzie smarts at that, just a little. Her lips part to shoot some of her automatic sass bullets, but surprisingly nothings comes out. Landon secretly puts his hand on her knee in a secret show of solidarity.

“Kaleb,” Josie says sharply. “People can change.”

Lizzie eyes Landon curiously. He shoots her a small smile, which she looks away from.

“Exactly,” Penelope nods, but she’s smirking in a way that says she doesn’t buy a single thing, and is enjoying every second of watching Landon squirm under everyone’s scrutiny. “Who’d you lose the bet to, Lizzie?”

Lizzie, despite herself, starts to feel annoyed. “I’ll have you know, Penelope, Landon isn’t the short end of an already short bunch of sticks—”

Landon tries to figure out the compliment there.

“Then – then prove it!” MG blurts out. “Kiss. If you’re really a couple, then – Kiss!”

That stops Lizzie short. “Milton. Ew.”

“Really gross, MG.” Hope shoots him a look of distaste.

“Voyeur much?” Penelope smirks.

“Nah, I’m with MG,” defends Kaleb. “This is really entertaining and all, but it’s kinda starting to weird me out. Suck his face. No way you’d do that willingly.”

“You’re all wrong,” Lizzie tells them politely. Or as politely as she can. Things are a-movin’ and she’s excited; she can already feel her legs tingling when she accidentally siphons some of Landon’s magic from his hand on her knee under the table. She swallows down the smugness in her voice, because this is exactly where she’d hoped the day would go. She turns to Landon, and wills him not to look so pale.

“Pucker up, ‘90s,” she coos.

Keeping her face as forced-smiley as possible she leans forward and gives Landon a peck on his lips. A small little one. A peck really, bird to bird.

Landon, to her discreet pleasure, kisses her back.

When they part their chaste, publicly-acceptable form of display, everyone is looking at them, shell-shocked.

Penelope steals Jed’s can of Coke just so she could do a spit-take.

 —

 “That plan worked out awesome. Score one to Saltzman,” Lizzie sighs victoriously as she plops down onto her bed. “Now on to Phase 2.”

“I really don’t want to know what Phase 2 is,” Landon mumbles. He’s got his arm slung over his eyes as he slumps three inches down into Lizzie’s plushy pink armchair.

“Phase 2 is Mom walking into us. She’s about to start baking downstairs. I know. It’s Tuesday. Ready?”

Slowly, Landon removes his arms. He stares at her. For like, a really long time. “What do you mean,” he widens his eyes, “by walking into us.”

Lizzie smiles deviously. Without warning, she lets out a very soft moan.

“Lizzie,” Landon hisses harshly.

“Yes, exactly, keep doing that,” Lizzie responds in a breathless voice, whilst she grins manically at him and flaps her hands, motioning for him to go louder.

“Lizzie,” Landon groans now, completely exasperated. “It’s barely been two days, I really doubt we’ll be having sex right now—”

“Yeah, keep talking dirty to me!” Lizzie all but bellows and jumps up on the bed, the mattress squeaking. She glares at Landon, who sighs, and very reluctantly joins her.

They jump up and down, and every so often Lizzie punches Landon in the arm so he lets out a believable grunt.

The mattress springs keep squeaking. Lizzie keeps up her panting.

After four more minutes of that, Landon’s a little out of breath, puts some spring in his jump, and lands in a pile of Lizzie’s haphazard pillows.

“Give it up, Lizzie,” he says, resuming his previous moping position of arm-over-eyes. “I think I pulled a muscle.”

“Sexy,” Lizzie says the way one might say ‘rancid foot’, but drops down next to him anyway. She stares at the ceiling, and they let out a long sigh.

After about another four minutes of moping, Lizzie turns to her side and swats Landon’s arm off his face. “Enough! Tomorrow night is another day.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he points out, before propping himself up on one elbow to face her. “About that kiss just now—”

“They totally bought it,” Lizzie can’t resist interrupting.

“You sure you okay with this?” he mumbles in that Landon way of his. He studies her face. She notes the dark circles framing his obsidian-blues.

“Getting cold feet already, Kirby?”

“No, it’s just that—”

Her door swings open. “Elizabeth, do you remember where your mum put the…”

Lizzie and Landon whip around to see a very livid Professor M, staring at them, at the space between them, at the sweat beading on Landon’s forehead, at Lizzie’s once-sleek French braid that has now shaken loose, at the two of them again, at the space between them, and once more at Landon.

“Professor Mika-Mikaels—” Landon squawks, turning white as a sheet.

The growl that emanates from Professor M seems to make the room tremble, and Landon all but stutters to a stop. Lizzie, however, is coming up sunflowers. She practically bounces to her knees and throws her hands up, eyes crinkling warmly, exclaiming, “What did you need of me, my beloved stepfather!”

“Well, darling, I was looking for your mother’s ridiculously expensive sea salt but now I’m looking for something else entirely,” he grits out through clenched teeth, despite being slightly mollified by Lizzie’s welcome.

“And that is?” Lizzie all but croons, making a very conscious move towards Landon. “We’re kind of in the middle of studying right now.”

“Banishing objects, hm? Your books are missing.”

“Invisique,” Lizzie sings in reply. Landon just wants her to shut the fuck up, right now.

Landon’s head disappears, which is a good thing, because he looks like he’s holding in from puking his guts out, the way Klaus observes him like he’s a piece of meat.

“You’re the phoenix, yes?”

“Yes,” Landon says squeamishly.

“Alright,” Professor M seems to deliberate, before flashing over to Landon, grabbing him and throwing him out the room and right down the stairs.

“Niklaus Mikaelson!” comes her mom’s furious bellow.

“For FUCK’S SAKE, KLAUS!” She hears Dad yell. “WE JUST TALKED ABOUT THIS.”

Screams erupt, there’s a clattering of feet, and Lizzie falls out of bed in a perfect traumatised swoon, back of her hand rested delicately on her forehead. “Stepfather! Can we not with the dramatics!”

“We’re going to have a talk about this later,” he warns with a finger wagging her way, his undisguised rage making his accent thicker.

“I’ll miss you when you’re suspended again,” Lizzie pouts.

He groans, already hearing Mom’s boots stomping up the stairs. “As shall I, my sweet.”

 —

 At least Landon’s gotten used to resurrecting. Cause of death: the ire of Professor Klaus Mikaelson.

Lizzie’s waiting for him with a warm blanket when he starts to stir, her head facing the sky like she’s enjoying the sunset. Blinking groggily, he turns onto his stomach and rubs the back of his neck. He feels the weather-worn wood of the docks pressing into his face and he groans. That’s going to leave a mark.

“Welcome back,” Lizzie quips.

“Just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate some sympathy, Lizzie,” Landon mutters, throwing her a murderous look. “So what’s your damage.”

“Let’s see,” Lizzie says as she drapes the blanket over Landon’s crumpled heap of a body, face and all. “Two weeks of grounding. Mom suggested making it three weeks, but Dad intervened and said he’d rather us be on library duty instead for the rest of this semester.”

“Us?”

“Professor M also suggested throwing you out the window and have me try to levitate you before you hit the ground—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“—but Mom was all Oh, maybe that’s a little too harsh,” Lizzie continues thoughtfully.

“A little?” Landon squeaks underneath the blue and white embroidered quilt. “Literally dying wasn’t enough?”

“But on the plus side, they were yelling so hard the entire school now knows we were caught post-doing the dirty.” Lizzie shoots him a grin. “On to Phase 3!”

“No!” Landon yells and clambers to his feet. “Lizzie, so far all your plans have kind of sucked for me, you know? How the hell is Hope supposed to like me now that she thinks I’ve slept with you!”

“Easy, lover boy,” Lizzie says, frowning. “This is the 21st century, she’s not a prude.”

“You don’t — you don’t know her like I do,” Landon says, burying his face in his hands and turning towards the water. “She’s not like y…”

He whirls around, hands already halfway lifting up like a gesture of apology but Lizzie’s already standing up, facing him squarely. Her eyes are narrowed as she takes him in coolly. “Not like?”

“Nevermind,” Landon says quickly. “Let’s grab some dinner, I’m starv—”

“Finish your fucking sentence, Frodo,” Lizzie says in a voice that is low and dangerous. Is it weird that he’s seeing some Klaus in the shadows of her face right now?

“Lizzie… let’s drop it.”

“No. Let’s hear you say it. Not like what? You were saying she’s not like me,” she hisses. Her fists are bunched into tight fists and he’s so glad she doesn’t have anything to syphon right now. He really hasn’t tried dying twice in the span of 12 hours.

“Look, I’m sorr—”

“Invisique,” she whispers.

“Lizzie!”

He hears the wooden boards squeak as she runs away, and when her feet hit grass there’s no telling where she might be.

“Fuck you, Landon!” he yells and heaves a rock into the water with a loud splash.

 —

tbc

[whitehotharlots]

Liberal cruelty has consquences

This semester is winding down. As I am desperate to avoid grading student papers, I’ve spent the morning reading longish-form online articles. I just came across one that I feel very conflicted about. The online reaction to it as been troubling. So I don’t know if I have anything particularly coherent to say, but I’d like to talk about it.

The anonymously written piece is titled “What Happened After My 13-Year-Old Son Joined the Alt Right.”  It documents a young man’s journey from a garden variety, liberal-leaning goon to a frothing neo nazi mutant.

The piece is understandably sympathetic, seeing as it was written by the boy’s parent. The writer’s whiny and heavy handed tone caused me, and most of my e-pals, to dismiss it. If anything, the essay showcases an immense failure of parenting. If my child were to ask me to take him or her to a “Traditional American Culture” rally, I would slap the everloving shit of them. Lord knows how many times the kid’s parents had dropped the ball before it ever got to that point.

But then I re-read the start of the article, in which the parent identifies the trigger point for their son’s downward slide:

One morning during first period, a male friend of Sam’s mentioned a meme whose suggestive name was an inside joke between the two of them. Sam laughed. A girl at the table overheard their private conversation, misconstrued it as a sexual reference, and reported it as sexual harassment. Sam’s guidance counselor pulled him out of his next class and accused him of “breaking the law.” Before long, he was in the office of a male administrator who informed him that the exchange was “illegal,” hinted that the police were coming, and delivered him into the custody of the school’s resource officer. At the administrator’s instruction, that man ushered Sam into an empty room, handed him a blank sheet of paper, and instructed him to write a “statement of guilt.”

No one called me as this unfolded, even though Sam cried for about six hours straight as staff members parked him in vacant offices to keep him away from other students. When he stepped off the bus that afternoon and I asked why his eyes were so swollen, he informed me that he would probably be suspended, but possibly also expelled and arrested.

If Kafka were a middle-schooler today, this is the nightmare novel he would have written.

At a meeting two days later with my husband, Sam, and me, the administrator piled more accusations on top of the harassment charge—even implying, with undisguised hostility, that Sam and his friend were gay. He waved in front of us a statement from the girl at the table and insisted that Sam would need to defend himself against her claims if he wanted to prove his innocence. But the administrator refused to reveal the particulars of the complaint (he had also blacked out identifying details, FBI-style) and then hid the paperwork under a book. He declared that it was his primary duty, as a school official and as a father of daughters, to believe and to protect the girls under his care.

Eck… who edited this? It would have worked so much better without a fucking Kafka reference.

So, maybe it was the tone. I dunno. But most readers seem to regard this section as exaggerated, possibly fabricated.  The takeaway was “boo hoo, the nazi kid got punished for sexually harassing  a girl.” Heck: If a reader is truly dedicated to the #BelieveAllWomen mantra, then this description doesn’t warrant sympathy even if it’s entirely true. The kid said something that upset the girl. It wasn’t directed to her and it wasn’t about her. But still, he upset her, and she’s a girl, so he is bad and deserved whatever punishment was doled out to him.

And this got me thinking about my experiences in high school, as a student in the late 90s and a teacher in the mid-aughts. Administrators seemed to always be adopting some or other policy of harsh punishment for bad behavior: zero tolerance toward weapons, drugs, hats, disrespectful posture, electronic devices, swearing, Simpsons t-shirts, and mentally unhygenic reading materials. During dances and social gatherings, my middle school allowed students to bring in CDs from home. That was a decent policy, but anyone who attempted to play a “hip hop” track would receive an immediate suspension for “endorsing violence,” regardless of the track’s lyrical content. My high school adopted a firm anti-bullying policy, but once a boy came to school wearing a gothic dress as some kind of vague transgressive statement, and two separate male teachers called him a fag--out in the open, in front of everybody, as part of the official business of teaching.

Once, in 8th grade, two kids were caught taking over-the-counter caffeine pills. They didn’t get sick or anything; a girl saw them and she narced. They were arrested by the school resource officer, taken in a cop car to the hospital to have their stomachs pumped, and then summarily expelled, their young lives effectively ruined over 50 milligrams of a safe and legal stimulant. At an emergency assembly held the next day, the frog-faced principal croaked out a dire warning that the use of such drugs was strictly forbidden and we would all be subjected to the same fate, should we attempt to sneak in any No Doz. As he issued his stern warning, he slurped gluttonously from a 22-ounce mug of gas station coffee.

The point is, zero tolerance never really means zero tolerance. Rules are always--always, literally always, without exception in the whole of human history--enforced arbitrarily. Harsh policies rarely make anyone safer. They are employed instead to further humiliate and brutalize those who have already been rejected by the system. In my last two paragraphs, I cited the dumbest and most conspicuous examples of arbitrary cruelty that happened to pop into my head. This doesn’t cover the everyday, petty cruelties that teachers and administrators would exact upon kids they simply didn’t like. Without exception, these were the kids who were already marginalized: effeminate boys, masculine but unathletic girls, kids who dressed poorly, kids who spoke with accents, black kids, kids with learning disabilities or behavioral problems. These kids would be given detentions or even suspensions for minor infractions--looking away from the chalkboard, slouching, sneaking in candy, laughing at importune times, etc. It wasn’t the teacher’s fault, of course: zero tolerance and all that. But, strangely, the zero tolerance policies never seemed to apply to the popular, athletic, and/or well-connected kids. If Suzie Creamcheese was caught sneaking some Starburst during Algebra--well, she’s probably hungry, seeing as she works so hard. If Raul, Roofus, or Sheena were caught doing the same? God help them.

Some teachers were nicer than others, of course. Some were downright supportive. Others were simply evil. There was one, when I was in 7th grade, who was particularly repulsive and cruel--no kidding, his admiration of Rush Limbaugh was formative in my early-adopted hatred of American conservatives. He had matted red hair and teeth like a cracked picket fence and would wear a leather jacket out to lunch. Anyhow, he would prattle on about his hatred of kids who “Just. Refuse. To. Learn.” These kids were almost always black. Pure coincidence, I’m sure. He’d make a show of tossing them out of class--sometimes physically--for infractions as minor as getting an answer wrong when called upon. One time, a twitchy white kid who wore the same t-shirt every day called him out: It’s unfair, he said, that I’m getting thrown out of class for getting an answer wrong, when right before me another kid got several chances to respond.

The teacher turned beet red. He got on his knees and put his face two inches in front of the twitchy kid’s eyes. 

“I’m not throwing you out because you got the answer wrong,” he explained. “I’m throwing you out because you are you.”

Again, these are the conspicuous examples. The everyday stuff is harder to describe twenty-five years after it happened.  Most people were not brutalized and they didn’t have a single moment that ruined their life, but they were still exposed to a deeply unfair and cruel system, and such exposure naturally engenders feelings of betrayal, hopelessness, and anger.

Here’s my story--it’s particularly stupid. 9th grade. One day,  I walked into Spanish class, and the large woman who teaches in that classroom before my section grabbed me by the collar, physically lifted me out of my chair, and shoved her moist biscuit of a hand into my face. “What is this,” she demanded.

This was all very sudden. I could see nothing but her hand, which had a distinct fecal aroma.

“I don’t know,” I said.

She removed her hand. I looked down toward desk. She stood silently. I had no fucking idea what she was talking about.

“You’re gonna tell me what you did, right now, or I’m gonna double the detentions.”

I was still silent. Seriously, no idea what was going on. This enraged her. She began to count upward, starting at 3 detentions and stopping at 10, by which point tears were welling up and my face was flushed. I said I seriously did not know. She pointed to a small pentagram someone had engraved into the desktop. The desks, by the way, were movable. Anyone could have done it. She blamed me because she didn’t like me. I served 10 detentions and had to pay over a hundred dollars (a shitload of money for a 13-year-old) to get the desk refinished.

This isn't the end of the world, obviously. But it really, oddly broke me. Before, I had thought that so long as I did was I supposed to and didn’t break any rules, I’d be okay. Now I realized that was bullshit, that any vindictive cunt with a few ounces of power could punish me for any reason, at any time, and I wouldn’t be allowed to mount a defense. That’s the sort of thing that fucks with a kid’s head.  I mean, christ--it’s 23 years later and I’m still kinda pissed about it. I hope that woman is dead.

I regained a sense of control by stealing books from the woman’s classroom. A few times a week, I would grab a textbook when I came in, use it during class, and walk out with it. At the end of the school year, some friends and I burned them in a glorious bonfire along the banks of the Mississippi.

My response was petty and destructive, but I don’t feel any pengs of guilt or shame in remembering it. I had to do something to reassert agency, to feel like I had some control, and I managed to find a way to go about doing it that didn’t hurt anybody or get me into trouble. Regardless of the morality of my particular response, we can agree that kids are now much more surveilled than they were 20-odd years ago, and that minor mischief is now much more harshly criminalized. If a kid finds themself on the outs within their school, there’s really no way they can push back. Their only available avenue of asserting control over their lives is to wander into welcoming communities elsewhere…

One more anecdote then I’m done….

My sister was in high school during 9/11. The attacks were on a Tuesday, and the whole rest of the week was assemblies and talking circles and other such activities meant to assuage fear and gin up the hatred of the dirty brown bastards that done this. Two of my sister’s friends, older boys, were the sort of kids who read Howard Zinn and listened to Jello Biafra’s spoken word records. During one meeting, they expressed exasperation at a girl who was sobbing because she just, like, didn’t know why anyone would do that. The boys certainly didn’t approve of the attacks, but they tried to explain the whole concept of the US being an unhinged and murderous imperial power that had done much worse stuff all over the globe. The audience gasped. The boys were hauled into the principal’s office. They were charged with verbally assaulting the crying girl. One was suspended. The other expelled.

So, I dunno… go ahead. If you think due process is evil, that all victimhood claims are valid and should be taken at face value, and that kids of lesser social status should be demonized and made into criminals for upsetting members of the fair sex, then you do you. That’s fine if that’s what you believe. But please don’t be so naive as to think that the bulk of these newly criminalized behaviors are going to actually be malignant, or that the genuinely malignant behaviors of secure kids will be curbed in any way. Please respect yourself enough to realize that school admins aren’t magic sages with mature moral compasses--a plurality of them were business majors in college, for fuck’s sake. And most importantly, don’t be surprised if the kids you dismiss wind up doing some crazy or awful shit in response.

[lifeisbooksandcats]

Since posting on tumblr feels like just screaming into the void; where maybe someone might throw a glance your way to see if maybe you’re both screaming about the same thing, but at the end of the day, no one is really paying attention to you..and I feel like that’s what makes me feel like I can post this. Because it’s not something I can say out loud, not really, not yet. Except to my fiancée because it’s something we’ve talking about for a while. This is going to be long, I’m certain of it, and it’s going to be rambley because I’ve been trying to put my thoughts into words and those words into coherent...anythings...and it just isn’t going to be in any sort of order. I’m not expecting anyone to read it and I’m hoping the read more button actually works on mobile. If not, then I’m sorry, you’ll be scrolling for a while.

I don’t know how valid people feel self-diagnosis is, but I honestly feel like I fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. And that’s something I’ve thought about myself since my first year of college. Someone in a communications class I was taking did a presentation on autism, and throughout the entire thing all I could think was how much everything resonated with me. So that’s, since the fall semester of 2009, this has been something I’ve quietly thought about myself and wondered and honestly just been pretty sure of. That’s 12 years this fall, and I still can’t bring myself to say it?? And I think it’s a good bit because I’ve been asked so many times throughout my life if I’m autistic - by family members, by friends, by a college roommate, by people living on the same floor as me at college - and it’s ALWAYS been (or at least felt like to me) in some sort of negative way. And I don’t want to apologize for being myself, but fuck it’s just hard sometimes???

When I walk into a room, especially one I’m not familiar with, my first instinct is to look for the exits and figure out how I can get out of there if it gets too loud/too hectic/too EVERYTHING and I start to panic. And if I’m in a situation where I can’t leave, I have this little clear stone that I play with in my hand, just something to focus on to help keep me just a little bit calmer. When that doesn’t work, it’s like my mind just...goes. I don’t know how to explain it; physically I’m still there, but mentally...even if I wanted to pay attention to something, I literally could not. It happens the most when there’s too many sounds/voices/conversations happening at once, they all blend together, I can’t understand anything and after a second it feel like it’s all just muffled and I’m not there anymore, I feel so disconnected from my body, like there’s someone else controlling my brain and I’m just there watching. It happened at the zoo just recently, when we went into one of the restaurants for lunch. I was already panicked because of the number of people inside without masks on. From the second we walked in, everything from the number of people inside, to the volume, to the lights being too bright (but looking back, I feel like they were probably an appropriate brightness? It just felt too bright with everything else going on), to the lack of masks, everything was too much. My fiancée and I stood in line with one of our friends, waiting to order our food, and I stood there rocking slightly on my ankles and fidgeting with that little stone, just trying so desperately to calm my internal panic and to not “check out” mentally and to just appear “normal”. I stood there waiting for our food, rocking on my ankles, running my thumb along my fingertips, listening to the conversations all around me merging into one unintelligible mess and on the inside, full on panicking while hoping that from the outside, no one could tell. I got our food, set it on the table, and stepped into the bathroom to wash my hands, the quiet welcoming me like nothing else. I closed my eyes and just stood there, breathing, letting the warm water run over my hands like some kind of magic balm bringing me back down. I opened my eyes again, a woman with a toddler smiled at me like she knew - which made me worry again because it’s not something I want people to know because I don’t want to be different, I don’t want anyone to look at me differently. But at the same time, I do. I want to be able to stand up for myself and say “I literally physically cannot go into this loud, crowded restaurant because I’m autistic and it is so auditorily overwhelming in there.” And maybe that wasn’t even what her smile meant. Because I literally never know how people are feeling and I try to figure it out but honestly 90% of the time it’s just guesswork.

But it’s not just that. It’s not just the panic that sets in when it’s too crowded and the sounds are too much. It’s the fact that as a kid, I was never “just” a fan of something I liked. I either didn’t care, or it was an all-consuming obsession that basically became a personality trait. I was a fan of Aaron Carter, but god forbid anyone ask me a question about his music or anything — because whether or not you were interested (and unless you flat out told me you were uninterested, I literally could not tell), I was going to info-dump everything onto you. I could tell you what time he was born, how many minutes were between him and his twin sister, which concerts his sister Leslie sang at (because she also had a small music career), at what point in his career he actually started singing live instead of lip syncing most of the time...

And speaking of info-dumping. If I couldn’t info dump to someone, I would write it. As a child - second, third, fourth grade...- I wrote essays upon essays on things I was interested in just because I could. Just everything I knew on the topic, thrown out into words either handwritten as a younger kid or typed as I got older. When I was in about fifth or sixth grade, when Harry Potter was HUGE and all my friends were also into Harry Potter, I couldn’t tell everything I knew to my friends because they already knew a lot of it...and so as a kid, maybe a fifth grader, I wrote a six (maybe seven?) page essay - single spaced - with everything I knew about the series/the author/everything. Before the last book came out, I filled an entire spiral bound notebook with my theories for how the series would end and WHY I thought what I thought.

My first NOW That’s What I Call Music CD was Now 14. I was in 7th grade and I could tell you exactly what order the songs were in. That was something I did to calm myself down back then; listing the songs on that album over and over and over again, always in the right order.

From about 7th grade until high school graduation, I brought and ate the exact same thing for lunch every single day. I said it was because I liked it, but I really didn’t. I didn’t like the Oscar Mayer precooked bacon that I would put on my BLT. I didn’t like the texture, half the time I couldn’t bring myself to eat it and picked it off my sandwich. But the thought of changing it??? That wasn’t even something I would have considered because somehow in my mind, changing it was worse than eating it. Make that one make sense.

I love routines and schedules and things staying the same, and get annoyingly stressed out when things/my schedule changes. One little change or one little thing out of the ordinary and it’s like I forget how to function for the day. Everything seems off. And I hate it. Because I KNOW that it shouldn’t matter, but it does. Half days and two hour delays at school growing up?? Those stressed the FUCK out of me because the order of the day would be different. I loved school and loved learning, but those days I felt physically ill over the thought of going to school. Field trip days were okay though because I knew they were coming and I had plenty of time to mentally prepare myself. I remember as a child asking my teachers (on multiple occasions) for the itinerary for a field trip so I could memorize it and know exactly what to expect and when for the day.

There are times that my fiancée will turn on the tv for “background noise” while she watches videos on her phone, and I wish I could describe what I mean when I tell her that there’s “too many sounds”. Because between the tv, her phone, the hum of the refrigerator in the other room, the neighbors, cars driving by, the cats playing, the ceiling fan...I don’t know how else to describe it other than exactly that — too many sounds. And it gets to be too much. So I have to put headphones in and listen to music to drown it all out and refocus.

I’ve only just recently been able to put a word to what I now know is poor executive function. As much as I loved school, I could NOT do assignments until the day they were due. I could start on something days before it was due, but I couldn’t work on it. I couldn’t focus on it. I couldn’t get myself to work on it. But the morning it was due??? I could whip up a paper that I knew would earn an A just hours before needing to turn it in. I prided myself on that ability, but looking back it was most definitely poor executive function. If I couldn’t finish something that morning, which was a rare occurrence, I would lie - I’d look “everywhere” for my assignment and “panic” because I “couldn’t find it” and because I was a good student, I got away with it. Every. Single. Time. Even with the hard-ass teachers who no one could get away with things on. And magically by the end of the day, I would swing back by that teacher’s classroom to give them my assignment that I had finally “found”.

I remember sitting on the kitchen floor of our apartment as a kid and tracing my fingers along the lines on the floor where the tiles met. I remember the pattern was brown/white/brown/white, but there was one spot on the floor that made me so irrationally frustrated because two tiles were swapped; instead of the same pattern as the rest of the floor, this one spot was brown/white/white/brown/brown/white. I remember pointing it out and my mom asking me why I had even paid any attention to that. I didn’t know why, I just did. I remember her telling me that it was stupid to let it bother me and to just let it go, but I couldn’t. I stopped mentioning it, but right up until we moved out of that apartment, I couldn’t even look at that spot on the floor without getting frustrated by it. There’s more than that. But that was one of the first things I thought of.

I’ve been watching a lot of Yo Samdy Sam’s videos on YouTube, and especially her videos “Autism symptoms in GIRLS” and “Could YOU be autistic? (and not know)” and I just... I feel that. Everything she says, I feel that. I watch them just thinking “that’s me. That’s me.” the entire time. She mentions sucking on her hair as a kid, and I did that CONSTANTLY. My hair was forever in my mouth. And now that I’m an adult, I don’t suck on my hair, but my sweatshirt strings are always in my mouth. Obviously there’s more than that, but that was one that hit me hard because I didn’t realize that wasn’t just something everyone did as a kid. I didn’t realize not everyone couldn’t stand still and always had to be fidgeting or moving slightly, whether it was rocking on my ankles, running my thumb over my other fingers, crossing and uncrossing my toes inside my shoes. I didn’t realize not everyone had the same shitty executive functioning skills as me.

And it’s like... I’m so sure that’s me. I’m so sure that I am autistic. I know it. But it’s like...is getting a diagnosis at this point in my life going to change anything? I mean no, probably not, other than giving me that validation that I crave. I would feel valid when the world is too much/too big/too loud. I would have a reason for feeling the way I do and doing the things I do. So much of my life would make sense. But. I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll try to get a diagnosis and have someone, some doctor or therapist or psychologist or someone tell me that I’m not. And then what? Then what is everything I’ve felt throughout my life? That’s what I’m afraid of, really. Because if I’m so sure of this and then some professional says “no that’s not it”, then what?

[prorevenge]

Got my nightmare professor fired, might've indirectly gotten him deported too

Before this tale even begins, this is obviously a throwaway account. This is a big bitch of a story spanning two semesters, so I'm putting the tealdeer at the beginning and at the end for those who are short on time.

TL;DR - My French professor was so terrible that I decided to get him fired on behalf of my classmates. After he got fired, my partner that I worked with to do this tipped him off to an immigration agency to get him deported.

Last semester, I enrolled in an introductory French course at my university. This was to learn at least a little bit of French so that I could read French papers about French filmmaking techniques since I'm a pretty hardcore film student and I really love film as an art form. Plus, I needed some gen ed credit for my degree, so it made sense to take the course.

I went to the first lecture kind of dreading the course. I was in 19 credit hours, which is taking six classes in a single semester, and the class was 4 credit hours, meaning we met four days out of the week, every week. Very overwhelming schedule, indeed. Needless to say, I didn't work a single job that semester.

The professor, who will be referred to as Baguette because it's one of the few French words I actually know, began to go through the syllabus and I watched as the excitement that is usually present in students on the first day slowly left everyone's faces. Before I explain why, I have to address that this is the most basic French class that the university I go to offers and is really meant for people who never took a lick of French in high school. Like me.

Baguette announced that not only would he be teaching the entire class in fluent French with no English whatsoever, he wouldn't be answering questions in English at all, and if you asked him a question in French but got even a word or a conjugation wrong, he wouldn't answer you either. Attendance was mandatory as well, and you could only miss 4 class periods before he started dropping letter grades. Now, this attendance policy is unfair bullshit because we met for class just under 60 times that semester, meaning you would fail the course if you missed 8 class periods, which is only about 7% of the total course. I was looking around the class and people looked like they couldn't drop this class fast enough.

Then, he announced that not only would we not be using a physical book, we'd be using a free website online, a site called Francais Interactif. Now, this got some excitement back in the air. Textbook prices suck, and anything to lower the cost of education for students is great. You can even use the site yourself to practice your French skills, if you want. It's open source, knock yourself out.

That said, the site isn't meant to replace a textbook. There's a free workbook and audio files to help with aural comprehension on it, and that helped me and some of the other students pass some of the exams, but the site's equivalent to the part of a textbook that actually teaches you the material is extremely lacking, sometimes only having a couple of paragraphs about a really important concept in the language. In short, it gives you a ton of ways to practice concepts but almost no ways to learn them in the first place.

This would have been totally fine if Baguette would have explained things better in his lectures. But, as you'll recall, he gave them entirely in French, and in fast fluent French. So, picture this; you have to sit through four classes a week that you understand literally nothing of for an hour at a time while the professor rambles on in a language that you don't understand but are desperately trying to learn, and on top of all that, you can't even ask him any questions in English because he won't answer you and you can't ask him any questions in French either, because you don't know how to do that properly yet, and you won't for 3/4ths of the semester, because the unit that covers question words and phrases was arbitrarily put a few weeks after midterms, and on top of all that, you can't even really do your homework or study for exams because you have no fucking idea what any of this nasally shit means. Naturally, we, as a class, slowly started to get more and more frustrated as time went on. A few of us decided to band together and be friends and study partners to weather the storm. I'll call the important ones to the story R and S.

S was a foreign exchange student from Spain who spoke perfect Spanish and was taking the class to learn French for when she goes back to Europe. Now, we dug into what all other classes Baguette taught and found out that he taught Spanish, too. Perfect. We found a loophole. We could ask S a question in English, and she could ask him in Spanish, since it wasn't asking him in English, and he could answer in Spanish and she could translate that back to us in English. Now, you might be saying to yourself that this a fucking stupid and no self respecting educator should teach in this broken, shitty, ass-backwards way. You're right.

This worked for a bit, but he started answering S's Spanish questions in French to combat our little exploit of the rules. We were defeated and back to square one. We needed to devise a new plan, because most of us were failing at this point and we were stressed beyond belief.

R, a frat lad, and I, decidedly not a frat lad, became unlikely friends. He was a pretty naive kid, and he was a hardcore drinker. It visibly took a toll on him. He had a beer gut at 22 and addiction kind of mentally hollowed him out and made him flippant and emotional. The guy was super easy to piss off and he overreacted to everything. I felt bad for the guy and even outside of the struggle in class, I tried my best to be there for him. We were talking one day and we decided to meet up at the library and just theorize ways to crack the class to get at least a 60.

At the library, R was playing around on Francais Interactif trying to find the videos the professor would use for the aural part of the exam (basically, you'd listen to the video and copy down whatever the person was saying for credit. problem was, it was hard as shit and it was easily the part of the exams that took the biggest chunk out of the class's grade). He couldn't find them on the site anywhere and he got frustrated and gave up, so he started filling in the slots where you put answers on the homework pages of Francais Interactif with random words.

That's when we realized that when you do this, the site gives you the right answer regardless, no matter how wrong you are. Essentially, we now had access to the entire course's answers for the homework section and all we had to do was put one character into the answer boxes and, since all we had to do for the homework assignments was copy and paste our answers into a Word document and submit them online, we could theoretically do all the homework while knowing zero material whatsoever if we just changed the answers in Word. We sat for about 45 minutes and did the rest of the homework for the entire course this way in one sitting.

We agreed to not turn it all in at once so we couldn't get caught and we agreed to keep our mouths shut and only share this with people who wouldn't rat on us. Obviously, we told S.

One of the things I'll never forget about that first French class was that, during the final, one of the students started to quietly weep. Then, the weeping got louder, then louder still. The student was clutching his head in his hands and you could feel the palpable impotent frustration at his inability to do French correctly. After I finished the final, I saw him outside the class staring out a window in the hall. I asked if he was alright and what he was crying about and he told me he couldn't answer even the most basic questions asking for words for things like left and right and up and down and that was thing that finally broke him. That got to me, man.

Most of the kids failed the course, even some of the ones who used the homework exploit. R and S passed with a D and I passed with a C, surprisingly. The professor actually liked me, for some reason, and graded my exams a bit more fairly. Even still, I'm an A/B student, one in the Honor's Program at my university, so a C kind of stung my GPA. But, seeing as more than half the class failed, I counted my lucky stars that I got off easy.

I went to enroll in my classes for the next semester, and I had completely forgot that I still had to take another French class for my degree. I checked the class list and the second class you're supposed to take in the progression was only taught by Baguette. No other professor taught Beginning French II, apparently. This struck me as kind of odd, so I checked the rest of the French classes that were available. All of them, all 6 courses in the French department, were taught by Baguette. He was the only fucking teacher the department had. My stomach dropped as I realized I had locked myself into yet another class taught by the worst professor I've ever had, to this day.

This is class where the revenge begins, and I'm sorry if that preamble was too long, but I had to give context as to how horrible Baguette was. Even still, I'm frankly not doing him justice. His class was an artful trainwreck of incompetence, in the slowest slow motion available over nearly 60 class periods. And I had to do it again, only this time with harder material.

I had been keeping up with R and S over the winter break and S was going back to Spain, so she wouldn't be in the next class with me. But, I got R to enroll in the same section of Beginning French II as me.

Baguette passed out the syllabus to Beginning French II and it was the exact same as French I, down to us using Francais Interactif again, just in the higher chapters instead of the basic chapters. Now, here's the thing about learning a foreign language; you have to build from the basics, or else none of the other stuff makes sense. None of us in that class, not one person, knew any of the material past maybe Chapter 3. Most of us didn't even know how to ask questions. I did, so I asked questions for people who didn't, since S wasn't there.

Well, if you thought we bumbled through the basic material, no harder bumbling took place then when we started on things that have no direct English translation like y and en. When he asked students questions in this class, they'd just kind of look at him dumbfounded and shrug.

We got a study guide for our first exam and I was going to study my ass off so that I could get a better grade than a C. Besides a brief stint with depression my first semester that made me not be able to go to classes and fail one of my courses, a C was the lowest grade I had gotten at university. I must've studied for twenty hours over the course of a week before the exam. I hadn't even put that much effort into classes for my major. I got into class on the day of the exam, and nothing that I had spent all that time studying was on it. I bombed that test spectacularly, getting a 30%.

At this point, I was pretty much done. I was willing to go to my professor's office hours and ask him how I was supposed to study for his exams effectively, and his response is what began my quest to get revenge on him. He told me to watch YouTube videos. I don't know what it was about this that got me so pissed, but I was fired up.

But, that wasn't all that drove me to take the revenge I took on this fucker. No, what drove me to go after this guy was R calling me up crying after getting his exam back. He did worse than I did. He got a 15%. He kept repeating through sobs that he just wanted to be a good student and that he didn't want to disappoint his mom again. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried at this. I thought back to that kid in French I after the final, about my peers and about R and something inside me snapped. I was going to get this guy fired and peacefully do anything else I could to ruin this guy's life one way or another, and R was going to be my Right Hand Man.

We met at his dorm and started brainstorming. It was about halfway through the semester, after our midterms. We both had a job, a significant other, extracurricular activities and I was taking 19 hours again this semester. We were going to need time on our side, a commodity that neither of us had, and we were going to need it quickly. We knew that the professor was going to be gone for a week at a conference right after spring break, so there was a two week window there. But, even still, we needed more time for what we started planning to do. I faked a doctor's note for two weeks absence and R agreed to use all four of his absences to meet at the same time French was supposed to occur and plan our peaceful academic coup.

Now, I knew I was eventually going to get caught from word go. But, I was so confident that I could get this guy fired before I would have a disciplinary hearing that I took the gamble, and Baguette took the bait. He excused me for two whole weeks.

So, you're probably wondering what we actually did. Well, the reason we needed so much time is that we needed time to both conduct interviews from the class as well as collect data on scores. We got a total of thirteen out of the seventeen students to make a statement about Baguette's performance in his Beginning French II class and all of them were negative. This was just in one section of the course.

Then, we asked if we could have their exam scores so that we could have some hard data to nail this guy with. All but two complied. We did some quick maths, and determined that more than half the class failed the exams, with most scoring between 30 and 50.

But, as it turns out, we didn't even need the exam scores given to us. We figured out that the online grade database site that our school uses so students can monitor their grades without asking their profs has a built in feature that shows the class average of every assignment that's put into the gradebook. Not a single assignment had a class average above a 50 except for the homework, which had a class average of around 80, no doubt thanks to the stupid exploit in the website.

Sure enough, I got tagged with a notice that I broke the discipline code of the university because obvious shop is obvious. But, it didn't matter. I had everything I needed to go to the Foreign Language department chair and sort this shit out. So, I did.

I showed the department chair all the data, let him listen to the audio from the student testimonies as well as gave my own testimony on the course. After showing him all this, he was dumbfounded. Not only did the chair not know that Baguette was a shitty teacher, almost nobody did course evaluations for French I, so he thought that Baguette was doing a decent job. He took all my evidence and gave it to the dean of arts and sciences and a couple weeks later, I get an email saying that Baguette was Bag-gone and that I was going to be withdrawn from the course along with everyone else who would've likely failed. Those who would've passed got to get a Credit Received grade without having to take the final. He got fired one semester before he qualified for his tenure.

But, that's not the juiciest fucking morsel of this tale. You're probably wondering how he got deported and how I found out that he got deported because of his firing. Well, after my disciplinary hearing got thrown out because the complainant was no longer affiliated with the university, I got more than I bargained for.

During his lectures, one of the few times he spoke English was after he introduced the syllabus on the first day. He had everyone introduce themselves and he started the exercise by introducing himself. Well, in his introduction, I remember him saying something about him being an immigrant from Venezuela. I live in the States (Etats-Unis for you Bonjour Bois), and some of you might know that we have pretty strict visa policies.

Well, R is pretty conservative. After our work got Baguette fired, we celebrated by getting some beer and shooting the shit. We talked about random aspects of the course and the fact that he was an immigrant got brought up. Apparently, R didn't know this and he was pretty upset about it. I tried to calm him down, but he went on a rant that I tried to politely nod along to while tuning out since I'm not really about that. I didn't think anything of it until a couple of days later.

He called me up and told me that he tipped Baguette off to a certain immigration agency for a "visa check" (his words, not mine) and that now all we had to do was wait. I was shocked. I didn't think this would go this far. I feigned that I was pleased with this but in reality, I was kinda bummed. Since he was probably here on an academic visa since he was a professor, he probably is going back home to Venezuela. I am glad, though, that he won't be teaching any more of my fellow students at my uni, because I wouldn't wish his classes on anyone.

TL;DR - My French professor was so terrible that I decided to get him fired on behalf of my classmates. After he got fired, my partner that I worked with to do this tipped him off to an immigration agency to get him deported.

edit: formatting

(source) story by (/u/ouiouirevenge)

[sarahhlauren]

Okay. Here we go. I’m really not sure where to start so I guess I’ll start from the beginning of all this madness. It was May 18, 2019. My mom’s birthday. I headed to work in the afternoon. I always closed on Sunday nights. My favorite bartender was working. We had spent the night making stupid jokes and making each other laugh until the last customer walked out the door. I closed at work like I usually did, not trying to stay too late because it was a school night. Monday morning comes, I wake up and for the first time, my body was not mine. It was not my own skin, it was not my own legs, my own hands. I couldn’t tell you what my face looked like because it was maybe 2 weeks until I could look at myself in the mirror. But, the world did not stop. There was work to be done, right? I had my first therapy session at 9 am, because prior, I had been dealing with severe depression, a final at 11, and my last final at 2. I had to focus on doing well and finishing out the semester, putting aside the fact that I felt like a ghost in my own body and mind. For the record, I got a 4.0 that semester, for the first time ever in college.

So it's late afternoon, I made it through my finals. I text my best friend, saying I need to come over and talk. As soon as I laid on her bed, I burst into tears as it took everything in me to say the words, “He raped me.” Even now, a year later, I hate that. It will never not make my stomach hurt. Within an hour, I was talking to three police officers, going over the incident in disgusting detail over, and over, and over again. Being asked questions a young woman should never have to be asked, especially by three young male officers. A few hours later, I was at the hospital. I went through the entire questioning process again from the nurse. A few moments later, I found myself standing there, naked. Being photographed, touched by a stranger, poked and prodded. I will never forget the posters of puppies with silly hats they have on the ceiling, as if that’s supposed to distract you from the flashes of the camera as you lay with your legs in the air. She forgot to mention that the hospital’s Plan B would have me in bed for 2 days. It felt like my insides were being scraped out with a rusty fork.

A few days later I eventually came home, and my mom was eager. She knew something was wrong but wanted to let me tell her on my own terms. The look in her face as tears streamed down her face fills me with so much anger I could punch something. That she had to hear those words and understand the gravity of the situation, and that I was pursuing legal action.

It was exactly one week after I saw him again. Not only did I see him, but I worked with him. Not just this one night, but for months. Because the investigation was active, I couldn’t say anything to my managers. This was the hardest part. For weeks, to act like everything was normal. To act like I wasn’t having multiple panic attacks throughout my shift. To act like I wasn’t getting alerts on my apple watch that my heart rate was pushing 120 bpm for hours. To act like I wasn’t in the presence of my rapist, as he was still approaching me. To act like I was listening to customers talk, when I was blacked out. If I didn’t act like things were normal, it could jeopardize the investigation. I am fully aware that some people may be questioning my actions. I don’t feel I have to defend myself to anyone. It was an impossible and unimaginable situation. I did the best that I could at the time, and I am so proud of myself for it. I chose to not take the easy way out. I chose to not quit my job. I chose to fight.

About early June, I was finally able to tell my GM what happened. I told them, “I do not feel comfortable working with him, ever again.” The very next shift, a few days later, my GM told me he was working that night and asked if I would “be okay.” What was I supposed to say? If I said no, I would get sent home, and in my mind at the time, that was letting him win. He took so much from me and I refused to let him take any more. So I worked with him that night, and for months. Being retraumatized over and over and over again. It wasn’t until months later that I could see how toxic that environment was for me. In the moment, I truly thought that I could just tough it out and I would be okay. I couldn’t see how much worse those months made my PTSD. Solidifying dozens of triggers, some still unknown to me until I face them.

About 5 months pass by, no news on the investigation. I had heard nothing from the investigator. These months were such a cycle of torture. My job wouldn’t do anything about him without a police report, and the police weren’t giving any updates. Nothing was moving. Meanwhile I am working with him a few days a week, retraumatizing my brain and body dozens of times over.

Trauma, anxiety and depression are really weird. Yes you have the common symptoms of lethargy, no motivation, sleep or appetite issues, but I feel like nobody talks about the blackouts and the memory loss. I have such little memory except for anything trauma related for those first few months. I can tell you every little detail about the following days, and weeks related to the incident. I can tell you what kind of car he has, his license plate, the exact parking spot that he parked his car in. I can tell you exactly what time he drove to work, which days he worked. I checked his schedule every week so I had time to mentally prepare myself to work with him on a given night. Do I remember my college visits? Not really. Do I remember anything I did that summer? No, unless I look back at photos. The memory loss is real, and it's weird.

Finally, my job transferred him to a different store. I felt a sense of freedom. Freedom to turn around at work without fear that he was looking at me. Freedom to walk to my car at night without a manager’s escort. Freedom to feel comfortable again, or at least try to.

Around mid-October, I met with the investigators again about the progress of the case. This time, it was two women investigators and I in a small room in the Sex Crimes Investigation Department in Orange County. It felt like they were on my side, or at least they were supposed to be. I didn’t anticipate being thoroughly questioned again. The same intrusive questions felt different coming from a woman, almost worse in a way. We got to the point where the investigators told me straight up, “it's your word against his, we have no proof of his guilt and without it, can’t move forward.” That was it. It was over. There was nothing I could do.

I did my best to move on, whatever the heck that means. There’s a lot I could say about my healing process, that is still very much going on and will be for a while. I’ll try to keep it limited. The most important thing I want to say about it, is that it is not linear. From May-August I thought I was fine, I was in denial. Then, someday it hit me and I understood the situation on a different level. One of the things I learned is how depression can impact memory. I have little memory of that summer, outside of events and emotions related to my assault. Each day brings something different. Similar to grief, some days are better than others. Triggers that once upset me, no longer upset me. Triggers I didn’t know existed last August, send me into a panic now. I still live in constant fear of seeing him, knowing that he is out there, living his life. Working through PTSD on top of preexisting mental health conditions was more than I ever could have imagined. It’s hard, it sucks and I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. I don’t have much else to say about that right now.

One of the most interesting concepts I read about in a book about trauma is called “learned helplessness”. I remember learning about this maybe junior or senior year in psychology class, but it never stuck until it applied to me. “Learned helplessness, in psychology, a mental state in which an organism forced to bear aversive stimuli, or stimuli that are painful or otherwise unpleasant, becomes unable or unwilling to avoid subsequent encounters with those stimuli, even if they are “escapable,” presumably because it has learned that it cannot control the situation.” Essentially, it explains why traumatized individuals tend to stay in the environments or climates that harbor the trauma. For me, it helps to explain why I stayed at work instead of quitting.

At the risk of sounding cliche, I would not be where I am today without the support system that I have. I am grateful every single day for my family and loved ones who support me unconditionally and have been with me at any point in this process.

I want to recognize how lucky I am, because I truly am. I am lucky to have been in a position where I could go to the police for help (regardless of the outcome), because many victims do not have that luxury. I am lucky to have had access to medical care. I am lucky to have continuous access to mental health professionals. I am lucky to have friends and family who believe me, who never questioned me. I am lucky that it wasn’t worse than it was. I am lucky to be alive, because not everyone is as lucky as I am.

I have a lot of reasons as to why I wanted to share my story. I want to make very clear that pity and attention are neither of my reasons. One of the main ones, is that I want to contribute the conversation about sexual assault and sexual violence. A big part of what motivated me to pursue legal action was the thought of me not being his last victim. Almost immediately I felt a sense of responsibility. Responsibility to do something about this, because again, I am lucky enough to have access to resources to do so. I hope this can spark conversations about the necessity of affirmative and continuous consent, regardless of circumstances.

Another big reason is to highlight the series of injustices throughout this process that have nothing to do with my rapist. I will not name names, however many of you will know the people that I am talking about. In no way am I attempting to slander them, I aim to simply draw attention to where I felt they failed me. I just want everyone to do better. To try harder. To do the right thing, regardless of company policy or whatever hardship it might bring them.

The first one, I believe was on behalf of the police. I understand the need to secure the privacy of the investigation, but they told me to “go back to work and act like everything is normal.” This was, and is wrong. I felt like I had to, because the police told me, and I’m supposed to trust them, right? Wrong. I feel they could have come up with a better solution, providing me more support than that.

The second one, would be by SO many people within the company that I worked for. My GM, the senior HR manager, and the 2 regional managers who were aware of the situation. All of them had the ability to not only relocate him, but fire him at the snap of their fingers, but they didn’t. I have my thoughts on why they didn’t, and all of them put my wellbeing at the bottom of the pile. The senior HR manager called me every so often to check in, and see how I was doing. It was made very clear that he didn’t give a shit about me and this was just a routine part of his job when he told me over the phone, “Thank goodness I don’t have a daughter, only sons.” This HR manager ultimately ended up telling my rapist the police were involved, which is very much illegal for a few reasons, and is ultimately responsible for ruining the investigation.

The third one was the investigator within the Special Victims Unit assigned to my case. Take this one with a grain of salt. I don’t know if I just got a subpar investigator or this is how they all are, but Olivia Benson would put them to shame. Without going into too much detail, I never felt heard. I felt like they couldn’t wait to get this case out of the way and never put in any real effort.

I would absolutely be lying if I said that I didn’t have any anger. I am so angry. I am fucking angry that this happened. I am so angry at all the ‘adults’ that I went to for help, and didn’t receive it. I am angry that I’m not the first girl that he’s done this to. I’m angry that I can’t prove it. I’m angry that in a court of law it’s his word against mine. I’m angry that he admitted he heard me say no, but it was the one time I didn’t put my phone in my pocket and take a voice recording. I am angry that a year later, I am still suffering every single day. I still have nightmares. I still have panic attacks. I still think about it every damn day. I am angry that he gets to live his life as he wishes. I am angry that I am filled with petrifying fear that it will happen again. I am angry that I’ve spent months, now a year, in therapy talking about him. I am angry that I am angry!!

20% of women will experience rape in their lifetime, and 1 out of every 10 rape victims is male. This is real and it happens. It happened to me. But it didn't have to. And it doesn’t have to keep happening. We all hold the power to make it stop. Start the conversations. Don’t laugh at jokes about sexual assault, because it’s not funny. Correct your friends, family, coworkers, bosses, and neighbors when they make jokes that contribute to rape culture. Stop supporting that behavior. If you see something, DO SOMETHING. Be the one to stop it. Be the one to step in. Be the difference. Break the cycle, do better, be better.

Again, thank you to all of those who have stuck by my side at any point in my journey. I appreciate you all more than you know and I love you all so much more than my words can possibly express.

Thank you, and you know who you are, for showing me what it’s like to be respected, to be loved. That it's possible to be comfortable in my own skin. To let your light shine through to the darkness that existed within me. To show me how strong I am, what I am capable of, and what I am worth. I am forever grateful for you and your grace.

For those of you who aren’t as fortunate, I am here. I am here to listen, to confide in, to help, to advocate, to love, to protect you. I am here for you.

For those of you know someone who has experienced sexual assault or violence, believe them. Be there and listen to what they want and what they need. Love them and remind them of the good, because there is so much more good than bad in the world.

For those of you that have read this far, thank you. Thank you for taking the time to hear my story. I hope to have impacted you for the better.

-sb :)