#i give my condolences to the great author

[thesillychronicles]

....will it though?

I think I would faint if you responded to this

It will never happen.

[hedgehog-moss]

Writers who use imitative harmony + the movement of their language to evoke meaning are so great to re-read once you’ve learnt this language, if you’ve read them in translation before, it feels like the best reward. I’m reading Annie Proulx in the original for the first time, and so much of her writing style was just not salvageable by French translators (< my condolences), because she intertwines sound with meaning so often, at least in Close Range, and French just doesn’t sound the same! so by translating the meaning you’ll sacrifice a lot of the style... It reminds me of a haunted house book in French that also made me think “haha RIP translators” because it made great use of sound—a lot of “u / eu / ou” to create a sort of sinister howling effect in some sentences, and one sentence about a closed door used “i” and “rr” sounds to give an ominous “creaking open” sensation without actually opening the door in the text...

This kind of thing always makes me reflect despairingly on how many authors I’ll never get to appreciate fully as I can’t read them in the original, but I’m glad to re-discover Annie Proulx at any rate! I mean compare the sound of a phrase like “a hundred dirt road shortcuts” to the French “des centaines de raccourcis, des routes de terre”... First of all the English phrase sounds clippety-cloppy, it sounds like hooves on a dirt road in a way that’s very hard to preserve in a language without syllable stress, but also the French language demands that you turn it into ‘a hundred of shortcurts of roads of dirt’, so it’s best to dilute it into two phrases, and you just lose the clippedness. It sounds less tight, more leisurely.

Same for the phrase “the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts” vs. “la plaine fauve encore marquée des ornières laissées par les chariots des pèlerins.” That’s a 54% expansion ratio and once again you turn the tight clippedness of ‘grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts’ into ‘grooved with the ruts left by the wagons of the pilgrims.’ You just can’t avoid it, French words have to hold hands in a long procession rather than being stacked like pancakes on top of one another. And sometimes it makes for lovely stylistic effects too (*), but it doesn’t fit the style of a text like this one, which uses rhythm and sound in a very un-French way—rhythmicality in French tends to rely on long flowy phrasings rather than the potholed ruggedness this story demands. (I saw a NY Times article describe it as Annie Proulx “mining the ore of language out of a gritty Wyoming rockscape”)

The rhythm of this whole bit is so neat, you can snap your fingers along with it: “hard orange dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog...”

The French version is not finger-snapping material but you can tell the translator did her very best to preserve the author’s intention by creating interesting rhythms in French as well. For “hard orange dawn” she could have kept close to the original with, say, “la dureté orange de l’aube” but instead she chose to turn ‘hard’ into a four-syllable adjective (éblouissante / blinding) to end up with a noticeable rhythm—“les aubes orange, éblouissantes,” one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four (and she made ‘dawn’ plural for the same reason.) She wasn’t able to preserve the g/r alliteration of “GRooved with pilGRim waGon Ruts” (although her translated phrase also has a lot of R’s) but she did preserve the ‘sss’ alliteration of “Smoking Snaking duSt” (“pouSSière Serpentant Sur le Sol”). Even with languages as close as French and English, for every stylistic effect you can save you have to sacrifice a few, or replace them with opposite effects which align better with your language’s notions of literary style (like with the orange dawn bit, doubling the length of a tight phrase so it can sound rhythmical).

You can tell all throughout the book that a lot of thought and care went into respecting Annie Proulx’s writing choices and you still end up with sentences that sound and move so differently. You get to see the limit of translation when authors fully lean on their language’s syntax and melody to help convey meaning, like poets do!

(*) Re: English stacking words and French linking them—this reminds me of an essay I read by an English translator of Proust who despaired of this difference in the opposite direction—saying some long, descriptive phrases in Proust with articles & prepositions linking words, and commas linking phrases with regularity, read like telling the beads of a rosary. And the sensation (or a lot of it) had to be sacrificed because English just does not use as many linking words as French, information is conveyed in a more economical way, so a lot of these sentences with a hypnotic rhythm like “the A, of the B, of the C, whereby the D, of the E, on an F” were often not achievable with English syntax or created redundancy (e.g. having to use ‘that’ or ‘which’ 5 times when French used different tool words). But he said he did try to form sentences that had this continuity, and meditative quality.

I don’t have a conclusion to this post other than to say something precious will be lost if human translation is replaced by AI translation, because literary translation involves creativity and ambiguity and aesthetic considerations and a dimension of instinctual feeling for your own language and the original style, and I don’t think any amount of data and processing power and artificial neural networks will yield the flavour of literary quality that emerges from human sensibility and care, from someone reading a sentence and thinking “this feels like hooves clippety-clopping down a dirt road” or “this feels like rolling the beads of a rosary” and starting from there...

[purriteen]

Ad victor spolia, chapter six

content warnings: incest, manipulation, eventual Stockholm Syndrome, toxic & dark!Coriolanus Snow (as if that isn't his default), named!reader, ANGST, eventual smut, non-con, age gap (5-6 years), somnophilia

author’s note: Tigris my beloved I'm so sorry 😭🫶🏻

BIG extra warning for this chapter!! smut, Coriolanus Snow is fucking insane, choking, non-con (again), he treats reader very badly in this chapter

you are responsible for your own media consumption I have warned you

word count: 4,024

Previous chapter

It had been a few weeks since Romulus and your supposed attacker, a man whom you didn't even recognise, were executed side by side. Everyone had extended their sympathies and condolences to you, not because you'd lost your childhood friend over an accusation that was so obviously false it was painful, or because you had to witness two likely innocent men being fried to death in a surprisingly swift manner, pioneered by doctor Volumnia Gaul herself.

But rather because it took so long for you to get justice. It seemed as if everyone knew more about your supposed assault than you yourself. Once again your brother was ten steps ahead, painstakingly fabricating your entire life and neglecting to tell you until it was already cemented.

You no longer woke up in his bed every morning. You no longer exchanged pleasantries over breakfast, congratulated him or feigned interest in hearing him talk about his day.

Coriolanus hated it. He had intended for the experience to toughen you up a little, make you see the world the same as him, help you see other people for the vipers that they are. But instead it seemed you had turned on him, pinning him as the viper.

Scolding himself for getting impatient with you had quickly grown unproductive, and so he realised he had to solve things elsehow.

That was where Tigris came in.

Although she didn't know it, she would play an important role in pushing you in the only right direction. Losing Tigris would be the last nail in the coffin.

Even if you weren't the same girl you once were by the end of this, Coriolanus would get what he wanted from you. He always did.

To the victor go the spoils.

Being told that your brother had arranged for Tigris to come over for tea was like a godsend, even if it had been arranged by someone you could only describe as the complete opposite.

Romulus' execution had washed away any hopes you had of your brother being a decent human being. You felt like a fool for believing he might actually be anything other than a callous, miserly serpent.

But it was no use crying over spilled milk. You had to get out of here, and your cousin was your only hope.

Unbeknownst to you, Coriolanus had been as meticulous in shifting Tigris' view of you as he was with everything else.

You immediately knew something wasn't right when you sat down with her in the sitting room.

You had never seen Tigris angry, and that wasn't about to change. But there was this unsavoury look in her eyes, one that you could most accurately describe as sorrowful. Every time that she looked at you, it was as if she was mourning something.

You couldn't bear it.

After a few minutes of fluctuating between lukewarm small talk and an agonising silence, you spoke up.

"Tigris.. Please, talk to me."

It was pathetically subdued, your request. Not conveying even half of the desperation you felt, nor the confusion, the disillusionment.

It only takes her a few seconds to respond, but as her golden brown eyes peer into you for those deathly silent few seconds, you feel as if several years of your life have passed by in a single breath.

"You've changed." Is all that she says, and judging by the look on her face, even that takes a great deal of effort. You can feel her eyes trailing down to your blouse, and it takes you a moment to realise why she seems to have latched onto it.

As you clothed yourself earlier that day, you hadn't thought much of the impression your outfit would give. You were used to having your clothes laid out for you every morning, and although you didn't particularly like it, it was undeniably convenient.

But today, you were dressed in a pussybow blouse, a crisp white colour with buttons and the bow itself in your brother's signature deep maroon colour. Your hair, which you had for years insisted on keeping relatively natural looking, was done up into an overly complex updo.

You looked like all those wealthy, prissy Capitol ladies you and your cousin used to secretly poke fun at. Like your power-hungry brother's wet dream. The version of you that he had painstakingly curated to align with everything that he wanted to portray himself as. You were aware that your image, your entire person, was to him an extension of his own image, but you would've never thought that Tigris would be fooled by it.

Your blood runs cold as the truth crashes into you all at once.

You knew your brother was vicious and that he certainly wouldn't hesitate to keep you and Tigris apart if it was in his best interest. But you never considered how all of this would appear to Tigris, what she would make of how Coriolanus had portrayed you.

At least, you never considered that it might be this.

You thought she would always take your side, that she would always be the one to listen when nobody else did.

The realisation that that is no longer the case hits you like a thousand bullet wounds, puncturing your remaining hope like a balloon.

"Tigris.." You begin, your voice trembling, a look of disbelief and pure regret plastered on your face.

"Why did you ask me here, Hersilia?" She asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She too looks like she's on the brink of tears, her lips pursed.

"You were like a little sister to me. Then when Grandma'am died, you pushed me away, you wouldn't even speak to me," She breathlessly chuckles, wiping a stray tear with her sleeve.

"You love your brother, I can't blame you for that. But you didn't have to abandon our relationship for that.." She says, and although her voice is silken and smooth as always, with a tinge more of hurt, it feels as if she's just driven a dagger through your heart.

"That isn't-" You begin to speak, but you're unable to stop a sob from escaping your throat, the distress overpowering your voice.

Through tear-filled, blurry eyes you watch as Tigris rises from her seat, sniffling as she walks over to you. You're surprised when she takes your hands in hers, gently circling your knuckles with her thumbs. You can tell she's struggling to not burst into tears herself.

"I love you, Hessie, and I know there's still good in you. But you chose him, and if you continue like this you'll be stuck with that choice for good. I tried, but I can't help you any more than I already have." She whispers to you, pressing a shaky kiss to the top of your head, before letting go of your hands and leaving you all alone with your lukewarm cup of tea.

The door quietly shuts behind you, and a maid rushes in as you break into violent sobbing, completely unreceptive to her attempts to calm you down. The last thing you remember is Eugenie entering the room, and yourself finally allowing her to hold you as you bawl.

You know she means well, and she manages to calm you down enough to stop your hyperventilating, but you're also painfully aware that the pain you feel now will never truly go away.

The cathartic relief as you stop weeping will never come.

You awake later that day to find Coriolanus sitting at your bedside, your own bedside this time. You're back in your own room on the other side of the presidential palace.

He's still dressed in his woollen coat, his hair neatly styled as it was when he left this morning. He gives you a weak smile when you look up at him, stretching out his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, and the audacity of him to ask such a question in this moment makes your blood boil. Perhaps he's already forgotten how he ruined your life, picked it apart down to the bone, all without even telling you, the deceptive fuck.

You used to think your brother wanted to keep the family together, that you were important to him. You allowed him to ensnare you until he had taken everything you once held dear from you right under your nose. You hate that you allowed him to get away with it, with everything.

You don't even realise what you've done until he has your wrist in a grip so tight you feel as if he might crush it, his eyes narrowed and cheek marred with a handprint so bright red it almost looks comical.

You thrash in his grasp, your free hand balled up into a fist as you repeatedly jab it at his chest. But in a matter of seconds he has you pinned down on your chest, your wrists restrained behind your back.

His hot breath tickles your skin, making the hairs on your neck stand as he whispers, no, hisses into your ear. "Do you really think it's a good idea to pick a fight with the only person left in the world who cares about you? Huh?"

His cruel, taunting words cut deeper into you than a knife, making you thrash in his grasp once again as a string of cries and sobs spill from your mouth.

"You were never on my side, you sick bastard!" You spit out, but he quickly pushes your face down into the pillow which effectively shuts you up, his white-knuckled grasp on the hair on the back of your head painfully tight.

"Just shut up, you ungrateful fucking slut. You have no one left to turn to but me. You should be thankful that I don't cut out your tongue or banish you to the districts," He almost shouts at you, but you can tell he's already struggling to keep his voice down. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears as you struggle to breathe.

You realise once he straddles the back of your thighs what his intentions are, much too late, as always. His bulge presses against your thighs, horror and disbelief taking over you as you make a final, adrenaline-fuelled attempt at fighting him off. You manage to break your wrists out of his iron grip, only for him to release your head and instead force your hands back into place, his free hand rustling with his belt.

You writhe and shout, but nobody comes to your rescue. He must've cleared this wing of the building beforehand. "You're my brother, you degenerate fuck! If you do this you're no better than those district savages you speak so unkindly of!"

Your words are soon followed by an anguished yell as he bends your wrist at a painful angle, only letting up when you feel as if it's about to snap. In the blink of an eye he has you on your back, hands pinned down at your stomach as he leans in close, his face mere inches away from you.

"Yes, Hersilia, I am your brother," He hisses, grabbing you by your hair and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. "And I made you. I raised you, moulded you into exactly what you are today. You were no one and nothing, and I gave you everything," He continues, his words coming out strained and harsh as he speaks right into your ear, accentuating every syllable of that last word.

"Do you think I did all of that for nothing? So that you could stray from the future I built for us, for our family, so that you could abandon me?" He breathlessly chuckles, his hand working to undo the buttons of your blouse as you struggle to hold back tears, teeth digging into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

As he unties the ribbon around your neck, he replaces it with his hand, snug around your windpipe.

“Answer me.” He snarls, cruelly cutting off your air supply as he waits for an answer. You meekly shake your head in response, to which he lets out a humourless laugh and lets go of your neck. Within the blink of an eye his hand comes back down, hard, on your left cheek, before returning to slither around your neck.

"Useless." He mutters, taking a moment to burn the image of your dishevelled state into his mind before he lets go of your neck, yanking open the rest of the buttons of your blouse to reveal your bare midriff and bra-clad chest. You start to squirm again and he pins your hands above your head in response, his free hand grasping your chin hard enough to make you grimace.

"Hey, look at me. Quit squirming or I might as well let doctor Gaul run one of her little experiments on your head, yeah? Let her stir around your pathetic fucking brain." He practically growls at you, and with the threat of whatever lobotomy-like operation doctor Gaul had in store looming over your head, you finally stop writhing for a while and let the tears fall freely.

He resumes pedantically undressing you, holding your left hand up and pulling the sleeve off whilst the right one remains pinned over your head before repeating the process with the other. Finally he discards your blouse on the floor, a sly grin on his face as he takes in the sight of your barely covered breasts.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" He muses, his hand tugging at the zip of your skirt. He soon gets impatient, carelessly yanking it down over your hips and finally tossing it aside, which earns him a surprised gasp. The look on his face is amused, clearly pleased with himself, as he takes in the sight of you in only your underwear.

"Didn't know my own little sister liked to dress like such a little whore," He taunts, making your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. You choose not to point out that he's the one who bought everything in your underwear drawer, although this set was definitely among the skimpier options.

"Look at you. Wearing that barely-there bra and those flimsy little panties, and yet you're still trying to hide yourself from me." He sighs, his hand delving in between your squeezed-shut thighs.

"Open." He instructs, and this time the playfulness has entirely vanished from his voice. You swallow hard, trying to brace yourself for the impending humiliation, and slowly spread your legs wider.

"That's better." He pats your cheek almost affectionately, and by god you want to bite his fingers off. You've finally calmed your crying, but when he hooks his digits under the waistband of your panties, you're damn close to starting back up. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So you put on your best poker face, managing to maintain it as he slowly, slowly peels your panties off, revealing your puffy cunt to him. He curses lowly under his breath, and you grit your teeth as you watch him absentmindedly pocketing your panties. Next he hastily unclasps the back of your bra, pulling it off of you and carefully releasing your wrists, now that you're caged in between his arms anyways.

"Don't try to escape, okay? I've got guards stationed just outside. Just let it happen, unless you'd like them to see you naked too." He warns, and you let out a mumbled 'okay'. The fact that his guards know what's happening in your bed in this very moment, and aren't doing anything to stop it, makes your stomach turn.

Even though you were anticipating it, feeling his hands on your naked body makes your breath catch in your throat. His hands explore your exposed tits as his knees settle in between yours, ensuring that your legs stay spread and your sex remains on full display for him.

"Would you look at that, you're wet already," He mocks as he swipes his index finger across your folds, coating his fingertip in your juices. He leans down to whisper in your ear as he slowly pushes his index and middle finger inside.

"You've practically been asking for this, you know. I was going to take you in your sleep that night, when you passed out drunk in my bed, but I wanted you to be awake for this moment." He admits without the slightest bit of hesitation, sending a shiver down your spine. You bite back a groan when he starts to move his fingers in and out at a steady pace.

Without even saying anything about it, he's confirmed what you already knew deep down, that what he claimed lead up to you falling asleep in his bed that night was just an excuse, something he fabricated so he could keep you close to him.

"You're disgusting," You manage to whisper out through gritted teeth, earning you a disinterested sigh.

"And you're much prettier when you're not talking."

His words nauseate you, wondering what it was that everyone else saw in him to earn him the trust of the Capitol citizens. He undoubtedly had superficial charm, but you found it strange that nobody saw past it and saw him for the snake he truly was, even though you yourself had been played for a fool too once.

You're just about to say something in response when his fingertips graze your sweet spot, a whimper falling from your lips before you can stop it. Coriolanus' grin widens at this, starting to repeatedly prod at your g-spot with each thrust of his fingers.

You tense up when he pulls out slightly, pressing his ring finger to your entrance, and before he can push it deeper your own hand paws at his wrist, trying to push him away.

The look on his face instantly hardens, grabbing both of your hands in his and grabbing his previously discarded belt, raising an eyebrow at you as if to warn you that he'll restrain you again if you keep fighting back.

You avert your gaze in shame, mumbling out an 'I'm sorry' in hopes of dissuading him. He reluctantly releases your wrists, tossing his leather belt aside.

"You're on thin ice." He says coldly, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Without warning he pushes all three fingers back inside at once, drawing a whine from your lips.

Coriolanus relishes your mortified and sordid state, taking great pleasure in being the first man to taint your innocence. The first and only man who'll ever get to see you like this.

He goes slow at first, allowing you to adjust and himself not to miss out on any of your reactions, wanting to hear every little sound, study every facial expression you make. If he hadn't already waited so long for this moment, he'd have taken his time, made you writhe and squirm and beg him not to stop before he even considered properly fucking you.

But it doesn't take long for him to get impatient. He picks up the pace as he leans down to trail kisses down your neck, planting a dark hickey that would be hard to hide just below where your left cheek ended.

Finally he retreats, bringing his fingers to your lips and watching as you hesitantly take them into your mouth, licking your own juices off of his fingers. As soon as he deems them clean enough, and you mortified enough, he pulls them out and hurriedly undoes his button-down shirt.

You watch with dread as he unzips his pants, taking them off and leaving him only in his boxers and his open shirt. But soon his undergarments come off too, and your breath hitches in your throat when he bares his shaft. He's both thicker and definitely longer than you thought.

He wastes no time in pressing his tip, reddish and already leaking precum, against your puffy folds, rubbing it up and down a couple times to coat himself in your wetness, before grabbing ahold of your waist with his free hand and starting to guide himself inside with the other. It's a tight fit, and you can't help but cry out as the head of his cock slides past your hymen, providing a painful stretch.

Your hands come up to paw at his chest, but this doesn't seem to deter him one bit, as he simply keeps going, forcing himself deeper inside until you can feel his tip prodding directly at your cervix.

There's still another inch or two to go, Coriolanus thinks, but you'll have to work on that over time.

He steadily pulls back until his tip slides back through your hymen, the sore ring of muscles clamping down around him on instinct as he practically slams back in, burying his cock as deep as it would go. A shameless groan spills from his throat, his hand gripping at and bunching up the bedsheets right next to you as he repeats this motion a couple more times.

Deciding that your legs are getting in the way, he swiftly grabs you by the back of your knees and practically folds you in half, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist for stability. He leans down to press his lips against yours, and you can practically feel his victorious, shit-eating grin on your mouth as he slowly and roughly pumps his cock in and out.

From the outside, the two of you could pass for young lovers, tangled in an intimate embrace and bursting with mutual affection. But in reality, he's a serpent masquerading as a man, slowly, slowly sucking the life out of you.

"You're nothing without me," He grunts lowly as he fucks into you, hand wrapped around your throat. When he receives no response he squeezes slightly, eyes boring into yours. "Say it." He emphasises his words with another, harsher squeeze, refusing to break eye contact as he relentlessly pounds your weeping cunt.

"'M nothin', nothin' without you," You blubber out, looking up at him through teary eyes. You never thought your brother would take it this far, but now it's clear that he'd been waiting for his chance to defile you ever since you first moved into this house of horrors.

You've lost count of how many times he's forced you to cum around his cock by now. With him frequently asphyxiating you, never allowing you to fully catch your breath before his hands reclaim their place around your throat, your mind has been perpetually hazy for the past hour.

You know for sure however that he's came inside you twice already. Enough for his spend to be leaking out of your sore mound and trickling down onto the sheets. You pleaded with him to pull out the first time, but by the time he approached his second orgasm of the night you had given up.

At the end of the day, you knew that Coriolanus would never allow you to get pregnant out of wedlock, especially not with your own brother's child. He would make sure it didn't take one way or another, for the sake of his own reputation. Certainly not for your sake.

He lightly slaps your left cheek, his thrusts starting to get sloppy as his cock throbs deep inside of you. "Look at me. Look up at me, stupid fuckin' slut." He huffs, and even though he's called you worse before, the vulgarity of his words still manage to take you by surprise.

He flashes you a crooked grin when your eyes finally meet his, savouring the fucked out, defeated look on your face. Your beautiful eyes, lined with smudged mascara that trails down the valley of your cheeks, filled with misguided disdain and crushed hope. Your soft lips, puffy and agape as you gasp for air.

Coriolanus had never felt quite this enamoured with you before. On a bad day, you were pretty, but now that he had you splayed out underneath him, your sweet cunt wrapped around his shaft, you were nothing short of divine.

This was the version of you he adored the most.

Tame, vapid and pliant.

taglist: @caffeine-addict-slug, @phoward89, @catesbaroquecasahouse, @priyajoyy, @euphemiaamillais @harvey-malfoy

so likeee... y'all want an epilogue or no?

[thelovelylolly]

Hi first of all i hope youre doing okay, wel best as you can be and i give you my condoleance 💗 please take care of yourself and don't feel obligated to anything.

Tw: school shooting

I was wondering (for when you maybe feel like writing again) You could write Frank Castle x teen reader where she's maybe like his daughter figure (like amy) and he's out doing vigilante shit while she's in school and gets a text from her saying just " i love you" but there is a school shooting and she's shot and just full on panic for context i was in a school shooting a year or two back and got shot luckly the police and ambulance came shortly after but i just wish i had someone like Frank to calm me down or come save me 😅💗

If you dont wanna write this or feel comfortable because of this request my apologies im so sorry just ignore it if that s the case.

I hope you have a great day and thanks for reading anyway.

I've Got You

Summary : During a vigilante job, Frank gets a text from you and he knows something's wrong. He soon finds out what happened and was there for you. Warnings : *please dont read this if any of this makes you uncomfortable, do whats best for you and your mental health!!* mentions of a shooting, injuries, and death. heavy angst, hurt/comfort, fem reader (daughter figure) Notes : thank you for your kind words love <3 im so sorry youve had to go through something like that, no one deserves to go through that, but im happy youre here :) thank you for your request and i hope i did your idea justice <3

'I love you.'

Frank never knew three words from a text could scare him so much. The three words he had said to you when he came to terms with you becoming a daughter to him. The three words you two rarely had to say to each other since you showed your love for each other in different ways.

The three words you said on a whim before going to school that morning, because it felt right and you had a gut feeling to say it.

But now, Frank was terrified. You usually sent texts with all lowercase letter, with little to no punctuation, with acronyms and sayings that he didn't get.

He was in the middle of a stake out when his phone pinged. He quickly ditched his job and hopped in his truck, speeding towards your school and trying to text you at the same time.

'What's going on?'

'Text me back'

'Call me'

'Do something to let me know you're okay'

His stopped texting after a minute and tuned his radio to the police's frequency, a trick he needed for his jobs.

"Shots fired at the high school, two squads already on the scene-"

Shots fired.

Those two words echoed through Frank's mind, drowning out whatever the dispatcher was saying. He had heard those words millions of times between his marine years and his vigilante time, but this time was different. You were in danger and Frank wasn't there with you, ready to put himself between you and whatever threatened you.

Frank was still blocks away when he heard the dispatcher say, "students are starting to be escorted out, threat is cornered in the gym."

Frank took a deep breath. You could be outside already, waiting for him. He could see you clinging to your friends, all of you relieved to be alive. He could see you talking to whatever authority figure would talk to you, asking them if everyone was okay and who was still inside. You were very compassionate, ready to put yourself in danger to help others.

Something you picked up from Frank.

Minutes later, Frank pulled up to your school. He saw ambulances and many cop cars parked in front and around the sides. He usually would stay away from the cops, but he didn't care. He needed to see you alive and safe.

He parked his truck and quickly got out, jogging over to the crowd of crying students, teachers and parents. He scanned the crowd for you, but he didn't spot you. What if you weren't out yet? Were you still stuck inside? Were you hurt and couldn't get out?

What if he was too late?

"Can I borrow your phone to call my dad? I just want him to know I'm okay."

He heard your voice and spun around, his eyes immediately locking onto you. You were sitting in the back of an ambulance, talking to the first responder inside with you. You were holding your side and your leg was bouncing up and down quickly, a nervous habit of yours.

Frank called out your name and started towards you. You looked over at him and quickly got out of the ambulance, wincing slightly when you hit the ground. You jogged over to Frank, letting yourself break the dam of tears you had been holding back.

The moment Frank's arms wrapped around you, holding you as close as possible, you let a sob rack your body. You were too tired to hug him back, letting yourself sob in his arms. He started to rub soothing circles on your back, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Shh, it's okay, sweetheart. I've got you, I'm here."

His words made you cry more and wrap your arms around him, holding him tight to make sure he's real.

You were terrified and had no idea if you were going to see him again. You texted him 'I love you' to make sure he knew just in case, then you shut it off so it wouldn't light up or make noise. You then dropped your phone as you were running out of the building.

Frank pulled away from you, looking at you and wiping your tears away.

"I thought I lost you, kid. I-I thought you were still inside," he said, choking up a bit. He glanced down to your side, seeing the bandages wrapped around your stomach. "What happened?

You followed his gaze down, sniveling a bit as you took a deep breath. "I g-got hit, but th-they said it wasn't bad. I g-guess I got lucky."

Frank wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to kiss your forehead.

"I love you," you murmured.

"I love you, too, kid," he replied, leading you to his truck.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Spoiler for Jujutsu Kaisen

I'm sorry it's so long and looks like a vent post. I'm sorry for those of you who had great luck in avoiding Jujutsu Kaisen until now. With that, let me give some context before the assholery.

Jujutsu Kaisen has a breakout character, Gojo, he is unique, flawed, well written, well loved, overpowered, and the most misunderstood character in this series. He recently met his end in the most infuriating way possible. It was an unceremonious death, off screened, after the biggest most violent battle in the series. Before he was brutally offed with just meaningless exposition detailing how he was killed and him uncharacteristically justifying the death in an afterlife scene that's written to appease a large part of the fandom (shippers- he's gay coded, no waifu here). His death completely destroyed his legacy and the future of this manga.

Problem: This is a popular series with disproportionate numbers of haters, casual fans, fans who get their information from tiktok or fanworks instead of the manga, fans who did a surface level reading of it, opinionated fans who didn't read after a certain point but discuss every new chapter like they're experts, people who hate it because they compared it to their favorite series and Jujutsu Kaisen didn't go that way, people who harass the readers and wish bodily harm on the author for not conforming to FANON, the works.

Gojo was MIA for almost 3 years which made fanon takeover the fandom, when he came back the author was accused of mischaracterization and bad writing because he didn't match 3 years of fanon. Reiterating, I mean fanon not headcanon, the headcanons here are almost all fanon based too and you will get nasty anons if you say you dislike FANON or praise CANON but I believe in people's right to headcanon.

My relationship with this: I've been a fan since 2019, this character of Gojo resonated with me like no one did in my 20+ years in fandom, he is my specialest blorbo, his relationship with his best friend has moved me etc. I'm autistic and this is my special interest as well. Needless to say depression has hit me like a freight train.

MY problem: My friend of 7 years who's currently deeply into yuri and danmei, who shared many fandoms with me, has been through the thick and thins with me, has decided to make me an enemy. When the chapter came out he chatted with me sent his condolences. Then he in his own social medias started talking about how he knew it was going to be a bad series, how he's glad he quit after struggling through 50 chapters, made all the jokes in the world about this death, discussed every little thing he hated and mocked this with his other weeb friends who are like the people I mentioned in the Problem section, validated all their complaints based on their reading of the FANON. He has had many discussions with me about this manga and very rarely did he express any of this negativity.

My assholery: I got frustrated, it was like he wanted me to see how much he could hurt me. I messaged him saying, "Hey what are you saying here, that's not how this character is written. The chapter is bad but this criticism is baseless and in bad faith" He laughed it off, "It's not that deep, this is fiction." I argued that's a shallow thing to say, he said it should have been like FANON since that makes more sense. I said that's conventional writing I thought we wanted different things than the same old nice characters in found family and such.

Then I said something about his favorites and hypocrisy, he said he's not so into it that he couldn't take criticism. I said that was a lie he's always writing essays about those characters. I also said criticize it for the right reasons damn it. He kept denying his own love for his fave so he could keep criticizing mine, because he at least had the sense to not fall for a shounen series. I asked if he was enjoying hurting me. He said are you for real, get a grip and stop justifying your behavior for fiction, they won't giving you cookies for defending them, if you can't bear to see negativity then feel free to mute or block. I snapped and said this is why no one likes casual fans, you can't keep your mouth shut about things you don't know. Have fun with being a two faced friend to everyone. Then I blocked him everywhere.

Some of my friends said I should have muted him long ago, I said this was inevitable if he was just going to validate everyone in vicinity, he had to pick a side. Others said I was right to tell him off. I regret some of the comments I made now.

AITA for the way I handled it? He is right, I could have muted him, I could have not spent my time doomscrolling and seeing all the bad takes he agreed with. I could have waited it out and not dropped an old friend over fiction. I could have done many things.

Please don't comment about touching grass, that's the least helpful thing anyone can say on blorbo the website. It's not a real advice we all know that. Therapy is also there for the depression and it will take years for me to get over the death, you don't need to remind me.

What are these acronyms?

[madhatterbri]

Bond Beyond the Battlefield | Wardlow

Summary: Just wondering if you would write an historical AU, with wardlow, about the story I told you about my 3 x great-grandparents and the civil war?

Author's Note: Squealed when I got your request. Thank you for entrusting me with your family's story and for their service. ❤️

Requested by: @plentyoffandoms

Y/N's house shook from the force of the cannons that shot out of the ironclads in the river. Her hand clasped over the rosary that hung from her neck as she prayed. A quick end to another senseless battle and the safe return of the brave men to their families, that was all she asked. With a sad glance, her eyes locked on the picture of her husband killed in battle in 1861.

Michael Wardlow sat on his horse, lost in his thoughts. His mother warned him about getting involved in American business. Always reminded him that money isn't worth a life. He didn't listen.

He was denied enlistment the first time. Dismayed, yet not defeated, he was able to sign up with the New York regiment. Adjusting to life away from home was hard, yet he managed to make it work. Life in the army camp was a different story.

The lack of resources and basic care made injuries near fatal. He lost countless friends due to illness and injuries. Many letters were sent home to their families with the grave news of their loved one. Michael would always offer his condolences in the end. He vowed never to get injured and make his mother know of his passing with just a letter.

A loud whistle from a cannon caused the horse to get spooked. He whinnied loudly and started to stand on his hind legs. Michael petted the horse and urged that they were okay. When he knew the horse wasn't going to calm down, he grabbed the reins and prepared for the worst.

The rider remained in his saddle to not lose his horse. Horses were hard to come by, and many were lost in battle. The horse stood on his hind legs once more and fell over. It happened so fast that Michael could barely register what was going on until it was too late.

He yelled in pain as he lay on the cobblestone ground. The horse stood up on his own accord and took off running. The now injured rider laid back on the ground. He was done for. He just knew it. No amount of strength could help him stand up.

His vision started to darken. Deep, shallow breaths forced from his lungs as he felt himself start to lose consciousness. Michael placed his hand over his heart and prayed. He hated that he wouldn't give his mother grandchildren of her own to spoil and love. There would be no woman to call his own. As his vision tunneled down, he saw a group of people looking down on him.

"Mercy," he pleaded with his head raised. His heavy head fell back to the ground as the darkness engulfed him.

"And that is how you met Mama?" His eldest son asked while he sat on his knees. A toothy grin appeared on his face. A warm fire burning in the fireplace to keep warm from the harsh winter. His two other children sat around his feet. Michael bounced the fourth youngest on his lap while Y/N held their youngest in her arms. The smell reminded him of the same stew she made when they officially met.

Y/N stared at the man who lay in her bed. He was unconscious the moment the townspeople helped bring him to her home. The man appeared malnourished despite his long stature. There was a lack of food in the camps, no doubt. She stayed by his side and waited for him to wake up.

The smell of food stirred Michael from his slumber. He shook his head slowly from side to side. His eyes were too weak to open until his body registered the pain radiating up his leg.

"What? What happened? Who are you?" Michael asked in a panic. He tried to move, yet the pain proved to be too much. "Where are my men?"

Y/N stirred the spoon in the pot. She turned to look at him. The glow from the fireplace is the only lighting in the tiny wooden farmhouse. His brown eyes were completely on her, but at least he calmed down. She seemed to be kind.

"My name is Y/N. You fell off your horse. I had some men bring you here to take care of you. I mean you no harm good sir," she assured him. He visibly relaxed at her comforting words.

"Where are my men?" He asked urgently. His platoon needed their leader just as much as he needed them. Michael couldn't leave his men to die.

"The Union surrendered to the rebels. They suffered many casualties," she spoke in a grim tone.

"Those damned rebels," he sighed and balled his fists.

"Dinner is ready. You must be hungry. Do you want me to assist you?"

Michael paused for a moment and nodded. His body was too weak from the injury and life at the camps. He took comfort of the aroma of the meal. The smell reminded him of home and his mother.

"What is your name?"

"Michael Wardlow. Proud officer of the 12th New York regiment,"

Y/N sat on a chair by his bed. He watched with interest as Y/N took a spoonful of the contents of the stew and blew on it. A small smile cracked the serious mold of his face. His eyes gleamed. She noticed him watching her.

"What?" She asked with a blush. "Do I look a fool?"

"No, my mom does the same thing back at home, in Canada. Your generosity reminds me of her," he smiled.

Y/N smiled in return. Michael admired the glow from the fire behind her. She appeared like an angel. An angel sent from above to watch over him during his greatest time of need.

The rest was history. They fell madly in love during his time there. Once he was fully healed, he had to go back to fight for the Union. Michael promised to return to her once the war ended. He kept his promise.

In April 1865, after the Confederates surrendered in Virginia, she was his first stop. His tales about the beauty of Canada convinced her to take the long journey up North. They married and made a little family of their own. Five sons and a daughter.

"That is how I met your mother," he smiled.

[nile-the-empathy-cleric]

Hello! I am just starting my journey on reconnecting with my traditional roots as an Italian practitioner. My great grandparents came from Italy in the mid 1900s, but unfortunately passed before I had the pleasure of asking about their practices. Can I ask a good starting point for someone who is trying to reconnect all on her own?

Hello!

I am so happy that you are wanting to reconnect with your roots! I'm sorry you didn't get the opportunity to ask your grandparents, my deepest condolences for your loss.

In terms of resources, my recommendation for anyone starting out is to go to folklore sources or to read books by authors who don't simply reference other witchcraft authors. I highly recommend reading Italian Folk Magic: Rue's Kitchen Witchery by Mary-Grace Fahrun. It's mostly her personal experience with Italian folk-Catholicism and magic with plenty of anecdotes, recipes, superstitions, and various rituals. I think it's probably the best widely available source out there. She also has a youtube channel! In a similar vein, the website Italian Folk Magic has some great posts about Southern Italian and Sicilian magic.

Other online resources I've found useful are Gail Faith Edwards' writings on Southern Italian healers and folk medicine (it's split into 2 parts–– there's a lot of great information if you're into herbalism/ green witchcraft). I also love this article detailing witchcraft history, superstition, and more throughout Italy. It goes into a lot of detail and has some information about herbal properties and their uses as well.

Here are some festivals and traditions from across Italy tied to folk belief: Focara of Novoli, The Campanacci in Basilicata, The Feast of San Domenico and the Ritual of Serpari of Cocullo, Naca Procession in Southern Italy, Dance of the Devils, Celebration of Santa Lucia, The Feast of Mamma Schiavona––There are many others (mostly Saint feasts) that have pre-Christian roots or have significant rituals attached.

Most information that I have collected comes from anthropological and folklore sources that aren't very accessible. There are some videos available of documentary footage of Italian anthropologist Ernesto de Martino's work detailing folk tradition: here's a clip of La Taranta. This documentary isn't in English, however you can still get a lot out of it even if you don't speak Italian (unfortunately there are no subtitles). The documentarian that worked with de Martino, Luigi Di Gianni gives some of his recollections here. Here is a clip documenting the Feast of Mamma Schiavona. Otherwise, everything else is behind a paywall on sites like jstor, sagepub, and other academic publishers. I would recommend reading anything by anthropologist and folklorist Sabina Magliocco (I have copies of her work), as well as de Martino's Magic: A Theory from the South (which I also have a pdf of). The academic texts can be a little dense and daunting, but they're worth the read.

I have uploaded some of what I have to WeTransfer, but it will only be up for 1 week (until July 10th) so if anyone else would like to download them, you can for a limited time!

[internetgiraffekid1673]

I Had Miraculous Ladybug Thoughts, Specifically the Chloe Lila Alliance Situation, and I'm Making It Your Problem! I am So Sorry!

Just. Read the title of this post. I am the most biased person you could have on this topic. You've been warned.

Okay, so. Chloe. If you are in the ML fandom, first off, my condolences, we shall suffer together. Second off, you know that Chloe is incredibly divisive. On the one hand, she's an absolute a**hole to everyone around her at any point in the series that is not season 2 and parts of season 3. On the other hand, it is clear that she has no adults teaching her how to not be an a**hole or regulating her behavior because the only people who have the necessary authority should not have ever been parents.

And then you have that whole thing in season 2 where they started to explain her awfulness and gave her the bee miraculous and she started getting better and developing a support structure, and then she stopped being allowed to have the bee miraculous and dove headfirst off the deep end. This frustrates pretty much the entire fandom. On the Chloe hate side, you wonder why they were wasting time with this. On the Chloe love side, you just got baited, and you're annoyed as heck, and you also are wondering why they wasted your time with this.

But fine, okay, it's dumb, but whatever, the fanfiction can work with this. What the fanfiction has a MUCH harder time working with is Chloe and Lila forming an unholy alliance over their mutual hatred of Marinette and Ladybug. Because the problem here is, it's redundant, it doesn't make sense, and makes Lila even more of a Mary Sue.

Tangent warning: YEAH I SAID IT! I think Lila is a Mary Sue. You don't have to think that. My definition of a Mary Sue is "a character that warps the fabric of the story around them without it making any sense because the author likes/hates/pities/has other strong emotion about this character/ too much to care about a coherent narrative." Not everybody defines a Mary Sue this way, but by this definition, Lila is a Mary Sue. Everyone immediately loses their brain cells around her despite being compassionate and sometimes intelligent individuals who will kill for Marinette in most other scenarios. Nonsensical story warping just because the author said so. Tangent aside:

What this alliance does is it gives you two manipulative lying b*tches who willingly get akumatized to further their petty schemes and are out to destroy Marinette and Ladybug and are weirdly possessive of but don't actually seem to care for Adrien. There's really no point in having two. They occupy the same narrative niche and it is awkward and stupid and I DO NOT LIKE IT. Neither does most of the fandom it seems, because this alliance rarely appears in fanfiction.

There are a couple default solutions in fanfiction:

1. Redeem Chloe. I like this solution. I like Chloe, I think she's entertaining, and I think her interactions with other characters as a good guy are especially entertaining, I think she brings a lot of valuable skills and perspective to the cast as a good guy, I think she has a lot of reasons for being an a**hole that should be properly addressed, and I think the reasons her redemptipn arc got aborted were stupid. Most fanfiction goes the route of having redeemed Chloe viscerally hate Lila too, because Chloe goes after enemies with passion and her whole heart. This is a clean solution, but not great if you don't like Chloe all that much or are trying to make it canon compliant (best of luck to you, canon is all over the place).

2. Only focus on one as a villain and yeet the other out of the story. If Chloe is the villain, set the story during the time that Lila was off being Cerise or wandering around Paris or whatever, or before she showed up. If Lila is the villain, give Chloe an unrelated reason to decide she's not dealing with that today, thank you very much. Usually used in salt fics to dunk on whichever character grinds your gears more without unwanted interruptions. I like salt fics, and this is also a good clean solution. Having both of them is redundant, so just remove one. For Lila, it makes sense because she's a Mary Sue and writing her is annoying, so pretending she never existed is a great fix to that. For Chloe, it makes sense because "lying manipulative ladybug hating b*tch" only really starts being her archetype after the writers screwed up her character with a million inconsistincies. Before that, she was more of a "comically loud, bossy, really obssessive fangirl b*tch," so Lila just works better for certain plots. Downside is that you can't focus on Chloe-Lila interactions, and you sometimes have to do a bit of finagling to figure out how to remove them from a situation they would ordinarily be VERY invested in.

3. Make them hate each other. This is one of my favorite solutions because I have a weakness for villain rivalries that are equal parts comedic and dramatic, but bias aside, this absolutely works. They both want Adrien's sole, undivided attention, and, prior to aforementioned screwing over of Chloe's character, Chloe is the world's biggest Ladybug stan, and Lila is her number 1 hater. They also both have a weird power over the adults in the story that two 14 year old girls really shouldn't have. All these factors make it very easy to guess they would clash. Watch as they try to destroy each other! This plays into the "they both suck, but it's different flavors of suck," and makes those flavors mix BADLY together. The one downside is that it is hard to not make this the central focus of the story, because both of them are so over the top that they're absolutely going to drown out most other going ons, and this is technically supposed to be about Marinette and Adrien. It also erases some of the storylines you can get from an actually thought out alliance.

4. Redeem Lila. I have only seen this in one place, but it is a prominent place and that's more places than my suggestion on this whole ordeal. The prominent place being the Scarlet Lady AU by the very talented and lovely ZoeOneesame. Her take on it was basically:

"Chloe in this AU has the ladybug miraculous, and Chloe sucks at her job, so Lila's ladybug hatred is justified. Marinette is in love with Chat and isn't involved in the ladybug drama, so Lila has no reason to hate her. Adrien is both much smarter and much more active in this AU, so he wouldn't deal with Lila in the same hands-off way. Everybody else is also smarter in this AU and would probably know Lila was lying and also not care because they are forgiving and compassionate. So Lila's lies would most likely get called out, she would have the freedom and desire to figure out who she is beneath the lies, and she would have a justified hatred of Scarlet Lady matched by other characters in the AU, and would probably band together with them."

And thus, no filter, vindictive good guy Lila was born! Again, I have only seen this in Scarlet Lady, but it is amazing over there, so I had to talk about it. Redeeming Lila is an unconventional choice for sure, but I think if you arrange for circumstances where Lila would rather ally with the heroes than the villains, then you can get a lot of mileage out of her people-reading/manipulation skills helping out the heroes while possibly scaring the crap out of them at the same time. This has basically all the same downsides as the Chloe redemption though. It's not fun to do if you're here for Lila salt, and it's ABSOLUTELY not canon compliant.

Now. You may have noticed that nobody who writes fanfiction for this show does the canon Chloe-Lila alliance. This is for a myriad of aforementioned reasons: it's redundant, it continues the confusion of Chloe's character arc, and Lila is a Mary Sue, so anything that involves her tends to be frustrating. But, I think there is a way to make it work, so I'm writing about it.

First of all, don't do what canon did where 6 just have Lila teach Chloe how to lie. Take full advantage of the fact that they are two very different types of a**hole. They can ally for the same reasons: they both are super possesive of Adrien and are raging about him getting together with Marinette. And while I don't like the arc of Marinette being a trash and controlling guardian who shows inordinate favoritism to Alya and Zoe and literally nobody else because she's gay for them, you can still do that and have them both hate Ladybug too. I don't like that plot beat, mostly because it's never really addressed that Marinette is in fact a bad guardian outside of some light sulking from Chat, but it can work. She's a 14 year old girl in way over her head with no adults left to help (except the kwamis, but they don't really count because they are very unhelpful). It makes sense that she wouldn't do a good job at first. But whatever their reasons for teaming up, lean into the fact that Lila is a two-faced secretively awful person while Chloe is an in-your-face publicly awful person. From there, it depends on the tone you're going for.

Chloe is a great villain for humor because she's so loud and dramatic. She can get away with saying and doing really insane and rude stuff on the grounds that she's insane and rude (and also rich and powerful). People don't have any expectations for Chloe to be nice or rational, so she can do stuff like try and write a Queen Banana character into the class film and be met with annoyance and frustration rather than outrage and shock. So if you're going a lighthearted route, let Chloe be the one who does all the public legwork for their schemes, and let her be absolutely over the top about it.

On the other hand, Chloe can also be threatening in a far more tangible way than Lila. Lila can make people think you're a bit of a jerk, but it takes a lot of work for her to come close to getting Marinette expelled, even with all her Mary Sueness to help. Chloe can just look at the principal and say "My dad will fire you and remove all school funding if you don't expel her." Chloe won't make people dislike Marinette because nobody likes her, but she can physically hurt Marinette in ways that Lila can't. So if you're going for drama, you can lean into that. Chloe is in a completely different social class than everyone else and has actual power.

Either way, let Chloe be a complete drama queen who is publicly out to get Marinette, because there isn't anything anyone can do about it.

Meanwhile, let Lila work in the background. Lila has never been a comedic villain, only getting introduced after the show had taken a turn for the more dramatic, so don't bother. Leave that to Chloe's antics. Let Lila be the actual threat who is driving their plans. A lot of the reason Chloe was manageable while Lila never was is because Chloe's rage tends to be directionless and impulsive. She has a short temper that can easily be triggered, but also easily soothed, and she doesn't have any thought out plans or long form schemes. She just does whatever she thinks will make her happy in the moment. Have Lila be the one who convinces her to think in the long-term, and who comes up with an overarching plot to get rid of Marinette, adding a sense of real tension to the situation. Sure, before Chloe could have you expelled on a whim, but she also would have stopped bothering the second Adrien paid attention to her. Lila will help Chloe drop that boundary.

Lila also has the advantage of people actually liking her and being willing to do things for her without threatening or bribing them. Lila can do things like make it so Marinette doesn't have any of her friends around to help in an emergency. She can make it so people believe Chloe might actually be justified in her crusade against Marinette this time. She can plant seeds of doubt and distrust and she can socially isolate Marinette in ways Chloe can't. Make people love and believe in her instead, slowly destroy Marinette's support system, and so on. It not only is really dramatic and upsetting, it basically leaves Mari with just Adrien and Chat to rely on, which is FANTASTIC ship fuel if that's your jam. This can also let you have some other prominent characters come to the fore. Have some Kagami focus. Have some Luka focus. Bring in Socqueline and Felix and see how that changes things.

Point is, between these two, you could have a genuine, non-redundant threat that you can get emotional mileage out of. Lila is on one side turning all of Mari's friends against her and scheming to destroy her in the long term. Chloe is on the other side threatening Marinette's lifestyle---her bakery, her school, her fashion career, her public image, her existence in Paris---anything that can be damaged by the Mayor and the Style Queen is under attack. And then you have Hawkmoth on the other end, throwing akumas in her face and forcing her to make impossible choices. I would imagine Lila also gets akumatized on purpose whenever she needs a little extra help, while Chloe just gets egged on and pushed off the deep end by Lila whenever Lila thinks it'd be advantageous. So that trifecta is super genuinely threatening. But you can also have Chloe being a really stupid drama queen whose fits of rage can still be silly and poorly thought out, even with Lila helping her. And you can have some really heartwarming stuff as the people left in Marinette's support system band together and become even closer to get rid of these two once and for all. I just think this plot beat has a lot of untapped potential if the writers didn't make then fulfill the same narrative role, and I haven't really seen it explored yet.

Feel free to use this idea in fanfic, tell me that it sucks and would be bad, or ignore me, I mostly just needed to write this down!

If the mood strikes me or multiple people express interest (yeah right), I will make a (probably much shorter) post explaining how you can redeem both of them effectively and also why I think that would be bad in most circumstances.

Congratulations if you read this whole rant, now please go to sleep. Please. So much please.

[ace-disgrace-on-the-case]

(I'm placing this here so as not to clog the rp blog, but it is relevant to the events unfolding there)

@is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not I know you expressed interest in the events that have been going on for the past few days (and will continue for a while longer) eventually becoming something of a group-authored fanfic. I decided to take a crack at what that might look like and concatenated the events of one of the scenes from a few days ago (the bar meeting) into a single, readable chapter. It's a bit difficult given the mediums are different, and there was some overlap to untangle between conversations different characters were having at around the same time, but I think I've put something together that makes it cohesive and contains as much as possible of everyone's writing.

If this works, it should be a great way to bring everything together! I've included it below the read more for your reading pleasure.

This is still a rough draft, so I do apologize for that, but let me know what you think!

Melissa, in her SLDF dress uniform, walks into the bar of the Unity City Grande alongside Karrie DeLacey. The Marten-Steiner siblings notice an immediate commotion as every SLDF soldier in the bar stands instantly to attention, remaining so until Melissa salutes the officer nearest her and says, "At ease."

She shakes her head in amusement as the two newcomers walk over to Theodora and Dieter at the bar.

"We are here," Melissa says to the two possibly-former Steiners.

Theodora stands, offering a handshake. She's wearing her LCAF uniform, but with any patches and insignias removed. Without it all, the uniform looks empty; nothing more than a cobalt tunic and white pants, with empty rank epaulettes on the shoulders.

"Greetings, Melissa. It's good to see you."

"Good to you two as well," Melissa says. "I apologize for causing this to occur," she says solemnly.

Theodora waves her hand, as if to swat aside the general’s words. "You made this happen no more than I did. The Archon chose to revoke my nobility, so the blame lies with her, and her alone."

Dieter, however, merely nods, eyes fixed on Melissa's new rank. He's obviously distressed, but he's trying to hide it. After a moment, he snaps out of it, looking to Karrie.

"And you'll be Ms. DeLacey, I suppose?"

"I should be Ms. DeLacey, last I checked!" Karrie quickly adds. "And I do offer you my condolences again. Fucked up that they decided to hit you like that for doing the right thing." She shrugs. "Nobles."

Dieter chuckles, shoulders sagging.  "Indeed. My cousin has always been... a stubborn woman, but I hoped I could make her see sense. I maintain my noble status for now, but news of my involvement will reach her sooner rather than later, then it will be done for me." A savage gleam enters his eye. "Lucky for me, I've been preparing for something like this to occur."

“I don’t know what kind of promises I can make but if you ever want some help with that sort of thing, ha… you know how to find me is all.” Karrie pats Dieter on the back in a rough gesture of affection. “But cheer up, my noble friend! That’s tomorrow’s nonsense! Tonight’s is drink.”

Dieter holds up his half-empty glass, giving a wry grin. "Amen to that. What's your flavor? I'm buying tonight."

"Oh! Right, thanks." Karrie glances over at the bar for a moment. "If they do those here I like a Dark and Stormy. Bit of rum, bit of ginger beer, and a lime. It's a nice change of pace." She points at Dieter's glass. "And you? Someone of your means's gotta be drinking something interesting."

"Tonight? No," he says, taking another drink. "Tonight the only objective is get shit-faced, and do it quick. To that end, I've got the bartender coming over with a new glass of Glengerry Reserve every five minutes. Eventually, I fear I'll just have to buy a fucking bottle service, 'cause he came two minutes ago and I'm already done with this one."

"Does being a Lyran come with an iron liver or is that an acquired skill?"

"An acquired skill, gained over years of dealing with politicians, morons, and a sister with a death wish."

Theodora nods and gestures to the empty chairs at the table, opposite her and Dieter. "Please, sit, order something. We must celebrate your promotion, no?"

"I suppose we should," Melissa says, sitting next to Theodora. "But before we do that," she says, smiling with her voice, as even her somewhat modified beak makes that expression physically difficult, "here." She pulls out two small grey velvet boxes.

One she places in front of Theodora. Theodora pauses, poking at the box as if it's likely to explode. "Thank you for this gift of... a box? It's not going to blow up if I open it wrong, yes?"

"Neg, Theodora," Melissa giggles. "Just open it." She places the second box in front of Karrie.

"Shit, me?" Karrie says, taking it. "Damn, I must be magestrix of the universe or something the way everyone's being so nice tonight." She flashes a sly grin, looks to Melissa one more time, and opens the box.

Inside are the twin sapphire rank bars of an SLDF Warrant Officer.

"They are yours, should you want them," Melissa smiles. "You would be both a MechWarrior as a member of my Command Supernova Trinary, and the Chief MechTech for the Regiment.

 "I have seen enough, and heard enough, about your handywork and 'Mech skills to know you would excel at both at once, let alone either on its own... You need not say aff immediately, Karrie. But do think it over tonight. It would come with more than just rank, of course."

Karrie stops trying to cheer up Dieter for a moment and stares in shock. She's hard to read; her body is tense, but her face is pensive, almost wistful. Finally, she manages to speak. "I...I don't know what to say, Star Captain. That's a big offer for someone like me. I'm flattered. Just—completely floored flattered." Her drink arrives along with another of Deiter's glasses of liquor, and she takes a steadying sip. The expression on her face is strange; Melissa can’t quite tell if she’s crying, but she’s certainly staring at the sapphire bars like her life depends on them.

Theodora opens her own box, though she does so carefully, still not entirely convinced of the box's non-explosiveness. Dieter also braces somewhat, as if he expects the box to spontaneously combust.

Inside are two sets of twin emerald "bar and dot" rank devices - the rank of SLDF Major.

"They are yours, if you wish," Melissa says. "And technically, it's a promotion. I cannot have my prospective Nova Captain outranked by actual Captains, quiaff? It would come with more than just the rank, of course. You may not be Lyran nobles any longer, but you can be Star League nobles."

For a moment, Theodora, too, is silent, eyes fixed on the emerald insignias, running her hand through her hair. Before the moment becomes awkward, however, her training kicks in, and she straightens, snapping a crisp Lyran salute.

"I'm honored, Commanding General. I accept."

Melissa salutes back, the casual salute of an officer returning a subordinate's gesture. "Now then, Major Marten-Steiner. Theodora. We have several things to discuss. Firstly, you'll need a new paint job on your Atlas. How does SLDF Green and Black Watch tartan sound to you?"

"It'll suit me just fine, sir." Theodora pins the rank badge in place, straightening it to parade-ground perfection. "So, what's the plan? Given your shiny new rank, I suppose it's to be total war?"

"Indeed. I am told the First Lord will be issuing our orders within the day. The SLDF will deploy. Before that, however, we must attend to more personal matters," she says. "We need to refit, reprogram, and re-serial your Atlas, get you your new uniform, and most importantly, get you your new citizenship. You and your brother," she says, looking over to the still drunken Dieter, before smiling and looking back at Melissa. "And please, Theodora, just call me Melissa."

"Yes, sir. Er, Melissa."

Dieter points at Melissa, brows creased. "First, we're drinking. You're a damn general, now. And that's worth celebrating," he grins. "Unless, of course, the great Commanding General is too good to drink with us lowly soldiers and diplomats?"

"Absolutely not, Dieter," she says, sitting down at the bar. She waits for a bit, letting Karrie think, sipping her own pint of Timbiqui Dark, conversing with the bartender, who seems at once terrified, starstruck, giddy, and incredulous at just who he's suddenly serving beer and bar snacks to. Eventually, looking over at the still staring Karrie, she chuckles.

"Terra to Karrie? Terra, calling Karrie... Are you all right, Karrie?"

Karrie starts. “Blake’s sake! Scared the shit out of me.” Her face immediately twists into a shape of regret as she remembers where she is. “Oh! Shit, that’s…that’s not proper decorum at all, I’m so sorry about that.” She takes another sip from her drink and shudders.

“I’m…gonna have to think about it, Star Captain. It’s a lot to take in, is all.” A half-hearted look of mischief crosses Karrie’s face. “Tell you what: we both survive this, Star Captain? I’m yours,” she says, draining the last of her cocktail and looking around for someone to ask for another.

"Very well, Karrie," Melissa says. A look of contradictory, dead-serious mischievousnesa crosses her avian features before she continues, "I'm still making it temporarily official, though. I need a good MechTech and pilot to back me up. And you're much better than just "good", from everything I've heard. We'll need to talk about getting your Awesome up to SLDF standards. That means a full teardown and rebuild if needed. And she will get a new paint job. We will need jump jets as well."

"And it's General now, Karrie," she chuckles, switching to a more lighthearted tone. "Great Father's bones, don't make me remind you every time, quiaff?" she continues, mock-exasperated, handing her new cocktail.

“General! Agh, I—sorry about that. Won’t forget again!” Karrie laughs. “In that case, General, I just hope I’m every bit the woman you’re counting on.”

She lifts her glass in the air. “I think we’ve all got something to toast to, then,” she says, elbowing Dieter out of his drunken stupor. “To…something new! Whatever it’s gonna be. And to friends!”

"To new adventures, and new friends!" Melissa toasts.

[scotianostra]

10th December 1824 saw the birth in Huntly of George MacDonald, the church minister, writer and poet.

His father, a farmer, was one of the MacDonalds of Glen Coe and a direct descendant of one of the families that suffered in the massacre of 1692. He grew up in household that embraced education, one of his uncles was a notable Celtic scholar, editor of the Gaelic Highland Dictionary and collector of fairy tales and Celtic poetry. Both his parents were readers, his father had likings for Newton, Burns, Cowper, Chalmers, Coleridge, and Darwin, to quote a few, while his mother had received a classical education which included multiple languages.

Known particularly for his poignant fairy tales and fantasy novels, George MacDonald inspired many authors, such as W.H. Audent, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, E. Nesbit and Madeleine L'Engle. It was C.S. Lewis who wrote that he regarded MacDonald as his “master”: “Picking up a copy of Phantastes one day at a train-station bookstall, I began to read. A few hours later,” said Lewis, “I knew that I had crossed a great frontier.” G.K. Chesterton cited The Princess and the Goblin as a book that had “made a difference to my whole existence.”

Elizabeth Yates wrote of Sir Gibbie, “It moved me the way books did when, as a child, the great gates of literature began to open and first encounters with noble thoughts and utterances were unspeakably thrilling.”

Even Mark Twain, who initially disliked MacDonald, became friends with him, and there is some evidence that Twain was influenced by MacDonald.

Since we are on the run up to Christmas it is only right to post this poem by MacDonald.

A Song For Christmas.

I.

Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death! Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing! Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith!

Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining- Moaning, and murmuring, ‘Life is bare!’ Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining, Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer!

Toll for the burying, sexton tolling! Sing for the second birth, angel Lark! Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling! Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark!

II.

Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow; I will give freedom to mine in song! Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow; I will go watch in the dawning long!

For I shall see them, and know their faces- Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more; Clasp the old self in the new embraces; Gaze through their eyes’ wide open door.

Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness; I am ashamed-but you pardon wrong! Smile the old smile, and my soul’s new gladness Straight will arise in sorrow and song!

With so many admirers it is only natural that George MacDonald has his own web page, where you can read loads more of him and his work http://georgemacdonald.info/poetry.html

[astrovian]

So I was curious about the picture of the Geneva book with a blurb from AJ Finn, which is so prominent in that cover? I had never heard of him and like why wouldn’t they go with the blurb from Coben? Which led me to reading THE WILDEST story about Finn in the New Yorker. And Finn and RA follow each other on insta and now I’m very confused/intrigued. I don’t think they share a publisher (although who owns what imprints is very confusing to me) so why did Finn give the blurb? Do they know each other ? Does RA know Finn is (a con artist of sorts?) Anyway just needed to share this with someone lol

answer under the cut because, frankly, I always write answers that are way too long

(if you make it to the end - well done, and you also have my condolences on reading a bunch of rambling nonsense)

I presume you're referencing this article? I won't lie, I didn't read all of it because it's quite long & you get enough of an overview of his character/what they're talking about by the time you're a third of the way through

but like... yikes my friend

also, I assume you're talking about the paperback cover?

the thing to keep in mind with this white UK paperback cover is that it may not be the final copy but an early draft that was put together for the press event - the person who attended Faber & Faber's publishing event & took the photo admitted on Twitter that as far as they knew, it is probably an early proof (and therefore not the final design)

so that screams to me that they just needed a quick temporary cover for the event done up, and slapped a long quote on to fill up space, regardless of the source

that being said, perhaps it is the final cover - no one knows for sure at this stage, and I certainly won't pretend like I know anything about publishing or the publishing world

both hardcovers (US version on the left, UK version on the right) feature Coben instead of A.J. Finn which, as you say, makes a lot more sense

in regards to never hearing about him beforehand & therefore why did they make that choice over Coben: In all fairness, I hadn't heard of him either BUT I have heard the name of his book before in passing, The Woman in the Window. So even though it doesn't seem like he has a great personal reputation, his book is well-enough known in the genre so it's not a huge surprise to me he would have a quote there

idk maybe Faber & Faber thought he might have more name/brand recognition in the UK than Coben (who, from my understanding, is very US-centric in basically all his works)

I'd also say that most readers don't really follow the personal lives of writers as intensely as we do with other categories of celebrity - only if the writer is very openly just an extraordinarily shitty person to others online (*cough*J.K.Rowling*cough*). so it kinda sounds like Finn has a reputation within his industry... but I doubt that translates to most readers/the general public (e.g. the target audience of the quote)

it is, I do have to say (despite his questionable personal life), a good 'entice the person into picking up the book' quote though - much more attention-grabbing to a passer-by than Coben's "Outstanding" on the hardcovers

re: why Finn would have been passed the manuscript... idk either. though tbh I always kinda assume all companies are inter-related somehow - kinda like how there are basically a tiny handful of mega corporations who own most other companies in the world

yikes.

I obviously know nothing about the publishing industry, but I do vaguely recall reading that there was a lawsuit in the US in recent years trying to prevent this sort of monopoly happening in the publishing world (and failing)

tbh even if they aren't under the same publishing house, my non-publishing-knowledgeable brain assumes that RA's publishers probably just sent the story out to all the prominent publishers with the equivalent of a sticky note on it saying 'reviews by any of your authors in the thriller genre pls'

who knows - there may even be a link between them at Audible. idk, I haven't looked into it at all & I'm sure you could prove me wrong easily, but it's a possibility?

as to them following each other on social media... who knows. I will say, the only real connection between them that I see (in terms of them knowing each other in real life) is that they both live in NYC and/or were possibly introduced in passing at a publishing house/Audible etc.

tbh this is what I assume happened:

Faber & Faber (maybe Audible?) send out the manuscript to all major publishing houses asking for a generic review from a medium-to-well-known thriller author that they can use in the book's press -> Finn is handed it by his publisher, writes a short review, possibly gets paid for this -> RA gets shown said reviews, follows Finn on social media as a result (because hey, he just said something nice about your book, maybe DM him to say thanks?) -> Finn maybe messages him back to say "hey, no problem, congrats on the book" and follows RA back because... why not?

alternatively you could play through a bunch of different scenarios re: how they exactly know each other, but if I had to put money on it, I would assume that the reason they follow each other is exactly the same as in the scenario above no matter how they met/haven't met. RA's extremely polite & reaching out online to say 'thanks for the review' is 100% him

as to RA's knowledge about Finn's poor reputation... my guess is that he doesn't know (but does it really matter that he knows in this context?) and even if he does, if the man wants to publicly throw his weight behind a good review of Geneva... well, he's shitty, sure, but it's not like Finn's an equivalent to JKR

OR who knows - they may be best mates going back decades. no way to tell for sure.

but tbh I don't think it really matters... I doubt they know each other except on a purely passing-ships-in-the-night-purely-profressional basis

[thebookbin]

Star Wars The High Republic: Cataclysm - 57%

I am so overwhelmed and disgusted by this plot line, and part of me is wondering if the Powers that Be had Lydia Kang write this installment just to fend off accusations of sexism.

I'm currently a little past halfway.

First of all, Gella went from a Jedi who was strong and resilient, someone who was going to forge her own path as a Wayseeker to a bumbling idiot in the face of a pretty boy who gets her partner killed. Misogyny is already so rampant in Star Wars everywhere, it felt like an actual punch in the face.

That, and the fact that if Axel's story was a corruption arc, I would be totally behind that. He is irredeemable at this point. And yet, I know that this is not what the author is intending. There is still tension between Gella and Axel. I'm still supposed to believe, what he can be redeemed enough that Gella would betray her Jedi vows for him? It's insulting.

Also, the entire "Jedi aren't supposed to feel" storyline is so overdone. It's like the franchise keeps making these incredible characters and they have such great bonds and then they say "just kidding, these bonds aren't as important as one (1) pretty bourgeoise dickhead."

I swear, Gella continuing to "be confused" and needing to "clear her head" around Axel has set feminism back 10 years.

Also, I saw someone try to compare Axel Greylark to Wei Wuxian and I wanted to laugh so hard. Like please, I'm begging you, learn media literacy, and not every story is improved by a shallow "enemies to lovers" concept so that people can use that to label a book in a 15 second tiktok. (Also, Axel is not Wei Wuxian, Axel is Jiang Cheng if instead of luring the Wens away from Wei Wuxian's hiding place he gave Wei Wuxian up to be tortured, and joins the Wens. Axel has no motivations other than pure selfishness).

If there is any attempt at a redemption arc for Axel Greylark, I may just give up on Path of Vengeance and wait for Phase III instead.

I don't even know how I feel about finishing this. Part of me wants this story to just descend into full tragedy, and Gella can't forgive herself (she should feel horrible, Orin Dargha's death was 100% her fault) and goes into contemplation. My only condolence is that this is the final installment in Phase II, so I won't have to deal with this shit for much longer.

[dankusner]

Richard Val LeClercq

Richard Val LeClercq, 63, died July 29, 2005, from complications of acute alcoholism. He is survived by his son Noel LeClercq, San Marcos; daughter Desiree LeClercq, Austin; stepson Glenn Ross, Austin; brother Leon LeClercq, Los Angeles; and a host of ex-wives. Val was born in Los Angeles and received his Ph.D. from UCLA, where he swam butterfly and sang tenor in the Opera Workshop. He was hired by the University of Texas Department of English as their authority on poet John Milton. Val taught for almost 30 years, switching specialities to literary criticism and directing the dissertations of many bright English majors. Val was a talented pianist, and had a sweet tenor voice. He was a golden-ear hi-fi enthusiast who designed and built stereo systems. He brought enthusiasm and intelligence into each of his many projects, and somehow talked his friends into participating in each outlandish invention. His family thanks the English Department for its patience with his disease. The family plans a wake to celebrate his life and introduce his old friends to his children. Please call Terri for details of the Final A-B Test. The family hopes each reader will make out a will, right now. Memorials should be sent to Alcoholics Anonymous, North Austin 24-Hour Group, Austin 78758.

Published in the Austin American-Statesman on 8/6/2005.

Richard Val LeClercq ("Val") was by far my favorite college professor at UT in Austin.

One of the reasons I get so pissed off when people say "drugs are bad but alcohol is fine" is because the only person I've ever seen destroyed by a substance addiction was Val--alcohol killed him. After a while he could no longer teach, so he sat at home and I, along with my friend Mike, were the only two people who would spend any time with him.

Unfortunately, after a while, he made it clear that he no longer wanted anyone to be around and while it was incredibly sad, there was nothing more we could do for him and we eventually lost touch.

The last time I saw him, which was sometime in 1999 or maybe early 2000, he seemed to be on the verge of death.

I remember sitting by his hospital bed giving him kumquats, which is all he could eat for some reason.

Cheap vodka did him in. Nonetheless, even with a BAC higher than that of a date-raped sorority girl, he was still the best teacher I've ever had. I always wondered how he was doing.

Val will certainly be missed. I give my condolences to his family, his many ex-wives, and "the Lac", his polish wife who he could never quite seem to get entrance to the US (that's assuming the Lac was still his wife at the time of his death last year).

Val was a nutty guy for sure. But he was also a genius, and made me realize nothing is above scorn, and cynicism trumps all. His Lit-Crit class consisted of taking scholarly writings by well-respected academics and tearing them apart. Truly a great class. We'd spend most of class time in his office drinking cheap coffee or lapsang soushong tea, making fun of the other students in the class (who were wondering where the teacher was) and the staff of the English department. Since he didn't feel like doing it, he would let me grade the papers of students in his other classes (not my fellow students, as that would probably be somewhat of a conflict of interest). I only failed a few people, for the record.

I'll always remember Val, and I wish he didn't force me and Mike to leave him alone in his last years. Alcohol destroyed the life of a great man, and I witnessed it first hand. I can't say the same for pot, cocaine, meth, heroin, or any other drug. If you believe in drug prohibition, you're a worthless hypocrite if you don't also support alcohol prohibition (which, like drug prohibition, we know doesn't work). Of course, even if alcohol had been illegal, Val would have distilled moonshine in his back yard and nothing would have been different. But tonight, I'll drink a glass of cheap plastic-bottle vodka and store-brand cranberry juice in Val's memory (okay, it will be Gray Goose). Cheers, Val.

374L, Earlier 17th Century: Donne, Jonson, and Their Contemporaries

Poetry and prose, 1600 to 1660: the metaphysical and other leading traditions in poetry; the early poems of Milton; the essay, the character, and other prose forms. Three lecture hours a week for one semester. Prerequisite: Nine semester hours of coursework in English or rhetoric and writing.

Milton’s Paradox of Grace in Sonnet 7 

From conflict to composure, John Milton’s Sonnet 7—“How Soon Hath Time” (1632)—illustrates two life philosophies and the psychological ramifications each one may offer the individual. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arriv’d so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu’th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure ev’n To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n: All is, if I have grace to use it so As ever in my great Task-Master’s eye.

The poem’s speaker makes the successful transition from one philosophy to the other, describing the process in three quatrains and a couplet. 

In the first four lines of the sonnet, he is the victim of the struggle between determinism and his own expectations. 

By the end of the poem, he has found a peaceful release in the resignation that he may only control his response to life, not the course or even the content of it. 

The first quatrain of Milton’s Sonnet 7 presents the initial circumstances of our speaker’s quandary. 

Thematically, he feels in conflict with the passage of time, exasperated by its adroit and speedy progression. 

He is surprised by Time’s ability to act independently of, and with little regard for, his self-admitted immaturity as it steadily takes possession of his youth. 

Despite the speaker’s apparent sincerity, we are made aware of the true nature of the conflict through Milton’s ironic structure and word choice.

There are obvious disparities between the physical existence of the speaker and the abstract “Time,” as well as the tone of hopelessness inspired by the speaker’s relatively young age.

These incongruities reveal that the conflicts arise from the speaker’s own assumptions and expectations for his life.

The first indication of Time’s control is given in line one.

Personified, it terminates the first two iambic feet and is followed by a medial caesura in the form of a comma.

This strong termination and short pause emphasize the description that follows.

A metaphor is employed to describe Time as a subtle thief, this concept mimicked by the unaccented syllable cluster in the center of the last three iambs, “stealing” the line with an increase in metrical pace.

This metaphor is extended into the next line as Time becomes a flying creature.

The metonymy of “on his wing” heightens the sense of swift action.

Time—in this animated, masculine form—seems to outshine the speaker himself, whose only presence is indicated in the thrice-repeated adjective of possession, “my.”

This is curious incongruity, for despite the speaker’s ability to recount the circumstance, he is unable to act upon it.

Time is the active party here, stealing and flying beyond the speaker’s control.

With a preponderance of th and f consonant clusters in line one, there is the impression of a sputtering delivery of the exclamation as Time steals the speaker’s very breath.

The ironic personification of Time, and the inability of the speaker to control it, points up the speaker’s preoccupation with the concept of control.

Why is “he” so frustrated when faced with a basic element of the natural world?

The first quatrain illustrates an Aristotelian viewpoint that can wreak havoc in a young man’s life—and, indeed, it does cause problems for the speaker.

Implicit in his accusations are the clear traces of particular expectations.

First, the exclamation that Time is passing is the result of the assumption that it would not.

The speaker is chagrined as Time steals his “three-and-twentieth year,” flying as it goes.

An interesting shift occurs here as Milton introduces an inconsistency.

The “my” of line three claims the flight of “hasting days”; whereas, in lines one and two, only Time assumes the tenor of the bird metaphor.

With this in mind, the irony of “on with full career” is even more poignant.

Even though his days pass by at full speed, flying “on” instead of “off” (away from the speaker), he does not claim control of them.

It is the last line of the quatrain, however, that reveals the Aristotelian tendency to make plans, to anticipate their fulfillment, and then to draw conclusions based on assumptions.

“But” indicates the speaker’s disappointment as he muses upon his unsatisfied expectations and his wasted youth.

The progression of “bud or blossom” displays a distinct desire to advance through stages to some kind of tangible, evident goal, this desire explicitly articulated by “shew’th.”

Assisting this Aristotelian concept of expected progression is the specification of the speaker’s age.

He makes a point of stating the particular odd year (23rd) that marks his point of despair.

Again, Milton seasons the predicament with irony.

“Late spring” marks the end of childhood, but it also is the beginning of adulthood, a point the speaker cannot imagine.

He can only perceive the “subtle” thievery of Time, enervated by its elusiveness.

This is given formal, mimetic enactment as the masculine end-rhymes of lines two and three descend from sharp high vowels (“year,” “career”) down through “no bud or blossom,” to the despondently low ew of “shew’th.”

Appropriately, the moments of metrical incoherence occur at the points of doubt and frustration.

The “subtle thief of” unaccented cluster is matched by an even more uncontrollable stressed cluster in line three— “hasting days fly on.”

These are followed by the hesitant unstressed foot beginning line four, which consolidates the attempt to thwart the speaker’s rigid iambic pentameter.

A shift from an a posteriori stance to an a priori position of questioning provides for thematic, structural, and tonal changes in the second quatrain.

For the speaker, these four lines are an aporia following the hopeless feeling in the first quatrain.

He is not sure what to make of the situation.

Allowing his mind to survey the circumstances and distinguish the elements of his conflict, he moves into a more balanced state of mind.

This reflective yet passive stance is enacted both verbally and formally.

“Perhaps” and “might” of line one indicate the speaker’s reluctance to once again impose his hasty conclusions as he reflects.

His “semblance” provides him with a self outside of himself whom he must confront.

This is not unlike his relationship to Time, which serves nicely as a scapegoat in the first quatrain.

This duality is embellished throughout the rest of the sonnet.

It introduces the important concept of multiplicity as a means to achieve balance and self-understanding.

On the one hand, the speaker’s “semblance” reflects a boy nearing manhood.

However, inner contemplation reflects immaturity—“ripeness doth much less appear.”

Recalling the premature expectation of “bud or blossom” in line four, the actual reflection “might deceive the truth” by convincing the speaker that he has become a man.

Milton effectively creates this sense of prematurity by inverting the natural subject-to-verb order of line six, “I to manhood am arriv’d so near.”

Again, the notions of anticipation and frustration are heightened by the phrases “to manhood am arriv’d” (an ideal) and “so near.”

On the contrary, “inward” contemplation reveals a green, hopeful state that neither thwarts nor frustrates maturity but, rather, promises to endue/endow at the hands of “timely- happy spirits.”

It’s important to note that these two reflections, though distinct, are conjoined.

The “and” of line seven brings the two reflections into a balanced composite portrait of the speaker, appealing to the sense of sight with the words “semblance” and “appear.”

Formally, this multiplicity transforms the cranky pace and tone of the first quatrain.

Lines five, six, and seven, instead of medial caesuras, place unstressed feet at the third foot, creating fluid but strongly polarized lines.

Their aural rhythm mimics the thematic duality of the quatrain.

The rhyme similarly mimics this new symmetry by achieving the abba scheme, correcting the abbc variation of the previous quatrain.

The calm tone of these second four lines allows Milton to alter the relationship between the speaker and his conflict.

For the first time, the first person pronoun “I” is asserted, the paradox resulting from this acknowledgment of multiplicity.

Likewise, Time is no longer an elusive, thieving personification but, rather, a descriptive aid, “timely.”

Although his self-criticism is harsh (“inward ripeness doth much less appear”) the speaker arrives, inadvertently, at new conclusions that are not, in this case, fatalistic.

The metaphysical “happy spirits” that will ripen the speaker’s character are both generous and opportune, but they are also independent of the speaker.

Has he learned his lesson?

He does not attempt to distinguish their ranks (as in his articulation of age), choosing instead “some” (happy spirits).

Nor does he try to discern the “bud or blossom” of their assistance.

The shift from desire for external evidence to internal observation seems promising.

The formal aural lightness of line eight seems to indicate such a progression as the accented “timely-happy spirits endu’th” replaces “no bud or blossom shew’th” from line four.

At this point, Milton’s irony becomes paradoxical.

Inner contemplation, not external “semblance,” reveals the truth: passive reflection, not external activity, brings disparity into balance.

The last quatrain synthesizes the sonnet’s first eight lines.

Beginning with “Yet,” the tone of resignation, of unquestioning acceptance, is immediately established with the volta—that is, the turn in thought or argument in the sonnet form.

Thematically, Milton projects the concepts of multiplicity and passivity into a religious context.

Giving them a religious breadth, he also alters their previously individualized application.

Our speaker seems to represent every Protestant, if not “everyman.”

The point, however, is not pushed to its extreme.

God remains rather ambiguous, as does the role of the divine, in salvation through multiplicity and passivity.

Just as the first quatrain has a distinctly Aristotelian bias, the last quatrain displays a definite Platonic viewpoint.

Binary oppositions abound, a syntactic ligation stringing them together  indifferently.

The four inclusive instances of “or” combine the many facets of the speaker’s maturing character into a veritable, and variable, cynosure of possibility.

The speaker knows not to attempt their distinction, thrice referring to the options as “it” and leaving the decisions up to Time, which has reassumed a personified stance.

The reconstituted entity seems to be a “comic” hybrid of the metaphorical thieving bird and the “happy spirits.”

As an afterthought, Milton’s phrase “and the will of Heav’n” gives Time divine inspiration.

Medial caesuras after “more” and “lot” help to break up the four lines, emphasizing the multiplicity effect.

“To” and “Toward” offer multiple meanings for the concept “approach,” becoming a combination of spatial movement and movement towards similarity of kind.

Of the three quatrains, the third is the least coherent, metrically.

It contains the only enjambment (“ev’n/To that same lot”), but, as if “in strictest measure,” it is accepted with its disparate and overreaching patterns.

The themes of resignation and passivity, however, are the foci of lines nine through twelve.

With the reintroduction of the personified Time, “I” is replaced by the once-mentioned first- person object “me.”

This submission, in reverence to the divine, is encouraged by the certainty and confidence of the “shall be” prophesy of line ten.

“That same lot” embodies the essence of the speaker’s resigned indifference.

Completely turned around, he no longer has expectations of his own but, rather, offers the amorphous “lot” of his life to Time and “the will of Heav’n.”

Ironically, the two “shall be still in strictest measure” if this resignation is sustained.

The power of the volta and the binary oppositions allow for the notion of “lot,” or a multifaceted future.

This is quite a departure from the very specific “three-and- twentieth year,” at which time “bud or blossom” are the only options.

With resignation comes the acceptance of multiplicity RVL – Yes, of course, you needed to elaborate further, especially But what you did do with the formal is quite good! And your thematic discussion is clearly the best in the class!

Richard Val LeClercq, 63, died July 29, 2005, from complications of acute alcoholism.

He is survived by his son Noel LeClercq, San Marcos; daughter Desiree LeClercq, Austin; stepson Glenn Ross, Austin; brother Leon LeClercq, Los Angeles; and a host of ex-wives. Val was born in Los Angeles and received his Ph.D. from UCLA, where he swam butterfly and sang tenor in the Opera Workshop. He was hired by the University of Texas Department of English as their authority on poet John Milton. Val taught for almost 30 years, switching specialities to literary criticism and directing the dissertations of many bright English majors. Val was a talented pianist, and had a sweet tenor voice. He was a GoldenEar hi-fi enthusiast who designed and built stereo systems. He brought enthusiasm and intelligence into each of his many projects, and somehow talked his friends into participating in each outlandish invention. His family thanks the English Department for its patience with his disease. The family plans a wake to celebrate his life and introduce his old friends to his children. Please call Terri for details of the Final A-B Test. The family hopes each reader will make out a will, right now. Memorials should be sent to Alcoholics Anonymous, North Austin 24-Hour Group. — Family-Placed Obituary, Austin American-Statesman, August 6, 2005

on the verbal. and the paradoxes of fate.

The speaker accepts passively his lot, willing to follow Time and an ill-defined destiny.

Completing the transformation from obsessive control to passive resignation, the couplet is, itself, a binary opposition.

At the end of the poem, it presents a promise and a warning to the speaker.

“All is,” isolated by an initial caesura, restates the “lot” concept of a multiplicitous future, setting it apart as the stake in the balance.

In regular iambic pentameter, the speaker evenly states, “if I have grace to use it so,” revealing a dependency on “the will of Heav’n” and the leadership of Time.

The last line of the sonnet breaks up the rhythm, stressing “great Task-Master’s eye.”

This is appropriate, considering that the appearance of “inward ripeness” is to be evaluated with the inner eye, and not the deceptive, outer reflection.

The speaker of Sonnet 7, over the course of the poem, moves from anxiety to inner peace.

This transformation is achieved through the acceptance of a passive role in relation to Time and Heaven.

Milton’s conclusion, however, poses several questions.

Fittingly, these concern the duality of the speaker’s redemption. If inner peace is contingent on the grace of God, why is the speaker’s own self-evaluation made to seem so important?

Likewise, if the speaker has achieved this transformation of attitude from the volta in line nine to the end, why is there a lingering question as to the certainty of “if I have grace”?

Punctuating these questions is the uncanny duality of “I” and “eye.”

Placed in such close proximity in the text, the distinction between these homophones is difficult to discern if heard aloud. Milton leaves us, ultimately, with a perplexing conclusion. Is the giver of grace just as multiplicitous as the life that receives it? A passive response, we have learned, keeps those questions at bay.

John Ewing

The Poetry of John Milton,

ENG 363

Prof. Richard “Val” LeClercq University

of Texas at Austin 1989

RVL – Yes, of course, you needed to elaborate further, especially on the verbal. But what you did do with the formal is quite good! And your thematic discussion is clearly the best in the class!

[1-800-wakanda]

𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 | part three

summary: on the anniversary of the day you dread, an unexpected visitor shows up at your home to console you.

word count: 1108

warnings: death of loved ones, implied depression 

authors note: I'm not going to lie, I have no idea what happened. I started writing this immediately after I published the second part and then just left tumblr completely. i didn’t actually finish this until yesterday when i was writing on my computer instead of listening to my English lecture. + also this might be one of the saddest things I have ever written + + I just realized I have 80 followers!!! Thank you all so much!!

It's been a year since your parents passed, so it goes without saying that today wasn't the greatest for you. Despite the several calls and texts you've received by relatives giving you their condolences, you were alone. You didn't mind though, you wanted to be alone right now. Even if you knew how unhealthy it was.

So, here you are, lying in bed in your gloomy apartment, contemplating what has come of your life. You couldn't believe it had been a year; it only felt like a couple of days. You definitely remembered it like it was a couple days ago. The fleeting memory of receiving the news of their deaths replayed in your mind daily, like your conscience wouldn't let you forget it, no matter how hard you tried.

Soon enough, an endless cloud of sadness washed over you, and you found it increasingly difficult to get out of bed every day. You missed them terribly, and it didn't help that the guilt of their deaths was eating away at you.

The way you saw it, it was your fault.

After receiving an unexpected promotion at work, you'd decided it was time to take a much needed vacation. You'd been out of the country a couple of times for college, but it was always for academic reasons; but now you were going to enjoy yourself. And you did. In fact, it was the best time of your life.

But unfortunately for you, all good things have to come to an end.

The night you landed you asked your parents to meet you at the airport to pick you up but you had forgotten to tell them that your flight had been delayed and that you would be landing later than you had told them. According to the police, it was a robbery gone horribly wrong and both of your parents were killed on the scene.

So now here you are a year later, trying to drown out your sorrows by sleeping all day.

You rolled to your side and took your phone from your nightstand to check the time.

The brightness of the screen nearly blinded you, but you made out "10:04 AM."

So you hadn't slept all day. Great.

You were contemplating on going back to sleep and ignoring reality for the rest of the day but as soon as you started to drift off to sleep, a soft knock at the door woke you back up.

You wanted to ignore it but when the knock came again you knew that the person behind the door wouldn't go away. So with a groan, you roll out of bed and make your way towards your front door.

Too tired to look through the peephole to to see who was behind the door, you figured if it was a murderer you would just want to get it over with, you unlocked it and pulled it open, surprised to see the familiar face you were met with.

"Wanda?" You say, completely flabbergasted.

However, the brunette woman smiled. "Hey, Y/n"

You quickly straightened your slouchy posture and attempted to appear as unbothered as possible. "Hey, Wanda. What are you doing here?"'

Wanda's gaze briefly shifted to the floor before returning to yours. "Well, I dropped my boys off at school a little while ago and I remembered you telling me when anniversary of your parents passing was so I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing"

Despite your friendly relationship with Wanda, this still caught you off guard.

You and the brunette woman had grown close in the past year. You were both dealing with grief when you joined the support group last year. However, after one particular session of having to share your experiences with each other, you and Wanda quickly found comfort in each other. Gradually, you noticed that Wanda was opening up more, and that dark cloud that you knew was looming over her began to lift.

While you were overjoyed for her, you couldn't say the same for yourself.....even now.

Even though you knew she knew about your parents, the fact that she remembered warmed your heart.

"Oh," You blankly respond to Wanda's consideration, unsure of what to say. It takes you a second moment before you can muster up a "Thank you."

Wanda nods, "Of course." She fumbles with her fingers for a second and if you weren't solemnly focused on her you would've missed it. "May I come in?"

You simply take a step back and open the door wider to let her in. She takes this gesture as a 'yes' and steps inside. You close and lock the door behind her before throwing on the best smile you could conjure up.

"Thank you for coming to check on me, really, but I'm fine" You tell her, trying to lighten the mood. But by the way she inspected your living room and looked back at you, you could tell she didn't believe you.

"What?" You chuckled nervously as she stared at you, worried that she could see through the facade you put up.

And she did.

Her stare towards you softened, as though she could see the pain that you were trying to hide behind your eyes, and spoke, her voice soft; "Y/n...."

"Hmm?" You ask, trying to keep yourself from crying.

“Y/n, I know you’re not okay” She tells you, gently placing her hand on your arm like she wanted to talk all of your pain away with a simple touch. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to hide from me”

The thought of saying something to deceive her of your burgeoning grief crossed your mind but instead you stayed silent. A single tear slips down your cheek and that lets Wanda know everything she needed to know.

Not knowing how you’d take it, but fearful that you were going to break down, Wanda engulfs you into a hug. Her warm body heat was twisted with your cold one as you hugged her back, continuing to cry into her shoulder. She pets the back of your head, reassuring you that she’s here and that you don’t have to go through this alone.

Not anymore.

In that moment, you wished that, that hug would last forever. And you wish that even more now.

“Wanda…” You mutter as your eyes fluttered open. For a moment, you're at peace, feeling the woman you long to see again still in your mind. But when you realize where you are, the feeling fades.

Instead it’s replaced with fear. Fear of being trapped with Wanda.

But not your Wanda.

The Scarlet Witch.

taglist - @coollemonsaresour + @thelittlewolfofaretuza

[hunxi-after-hours]

Which do you think is more tragic, Yi City arc or BeefLeaf arc or the Fallout between Shen Jiu - Yue Qi?

you come to me with this question, me, whose first CQL fic was songxiao-centric, me, the person whose literal favorite arc of CQL is Yi City, and you expect me to be unbiased and reasonable? a bold, bold presumption to make

so actually in a surprising turn of events, my answer is still going to be Yi City, but not for reasons of favoritism (I mean, yes for reasons of favoritism, but also for reasons for personal preferences when it comes to characterization and narrative writing)

so, here's the thing when it comes to reading tragedy — nothing hits me harder than immense promise and potential that has been unceremoniously cut short. it is one thing for a character who has reached the end of their narrative arc to smile beatifically and walk into the fires of sacrifice, limned with an otherworldly halo and remembered with worshipful reverence; it is another thing entirely for a character, just barely at the beginning of their journey, filled with optimism and courage, only now daring to take that first step, or the second, or the third and yeah okay so Stormlight veterans know exactly who I'm thinking about right now, into realizing the vast potential who they could become, only to be cut down cruelly and unreasonably by the hand of fate (the author)

which is to say, death in narrative isn't necessarily tragic — the wasted potential of a person is. what could they have done? who could they have become? and how much of their greatness will we never see? that, I think, is loss — that is what characterizes tragedy in my media consumption, renders it separate from grief or sorrow or injustice

(which is not to say that other character death isn't impactful or evocative, and boy howdy do I have Strong Feelings about how grief narratives are handled in literature and media, but you asked for my thoughts on tragedy in particular so here goes)

I also must confess that I, as a person, with my particular preferences, am perennially unimpressed by the miscommunication trope. don't get me wrong, I can enjoy a moderate amount of angst, drama, clownery, et cetera based on miscommunication or lack of communication in a plot, but after a certain point I do lose my patience with it. as a very wise friend once told me, awkwardness is the price of clarity, so at some point you've just got to get over yourself and say the thing and clear the air

all of which is to say, I am unfortunately not as sympathetic to Yue Qingyuan's plight as I, ah, could be. oh dude, you cultivated too hard and ended up grounded for more time than you were expecting while you were forced to rebuild your cultivation from the ground up, and on top of that got stuck with a sword that eats your life? genuinely, that really sucks to deal with, my condolences on becoming a glass cannon in a world of stupidly OP characters. but your inability to tell Shen Jiu that you actually had very legitimate reasons for coming late to rescue him, for believing that he was dead and not looking for him for all those years? sorry mister peak lord, that's all on you. I know that attempting to reason with Shen Jiu is like trying to give a murderous cat a bath, but like. the man can't forgive you if you don't give him a chance to forgive you, and he won't have a chance to forgive you if he doesn't know that there were extenuating circumstances involved, seriously, in the ten seconds it takes for him to storm off angrily you could yell at least one (1) sentence of explanation at his back instead of bottling it all up and keeping it there until you die

anyway the whole Yue Qi - Shen Jiu business to me is like. tragicomedy at best because their inability to communicate reads as absolute clownery in my book rather than tragedy. have you met two people who wanted to forgive each other more but simply could not open their mouths about it. peak clownhood by the peak lords, rip to Yue Qingyuan but I simply would give in and start yelling because my doormat hours are finite

as for the fall-out of the Black Water Arc, the foundering of He Xuan and Shi Qingxuan's relationship on the shoals of their centuries-long blood debts is... it's not so much tragic to me as, er, "that's rough, buddy?" because here is the thing that strikes me about the Black Water Arc — there is a startling amount of agency involved on all sides, yes, even for the guy who gets his head ripped off his shoulders. Shi Wudu knows that he's committed a crime of cosmic scale, and when the reckoning comes, he owns it, claims it, declares that he does not regret it, even manages to take the shape of his death into his own hands. Shi Qingxuan freely makes the choice to befriend Ming Yi, despite Ming Yi's best attempts to push him away, and even after He Xuan reveals his true identity and purpose to the Shi brothers, Shi Qingxuan still chooses to appeal to their friendship, still chooses to believe in some deeply buried kernel of mercy. likewise, He Xuan makes the choice to seek his revenge to the utmost, despite various opportunities to give it up altogether, or to soft-pedal the consequences, especially in light of Shi Qingxuan's kindnesses

any tragedy in the Black Water Arc, I think, comes from the inevitability of it all, the house of cards that Shi Wudu built around his brother that was always doomed to collapse, but I don't find the Black Water Arc that tragic because... looking back over the narrative, I don't think any of the characters regret their choices. I think, given a second chance, Shi Wudu would still choose to protect his little brother at any cost, He Xuan would still choose to exact his revenge, and Shi Qingxuan would still choose to believe in friendship and kindness and warmth. if they regret anything, I suppose it was that it had to turn out this way, but I don't know what could be changed. and, at the end of the day — a reconciliation is not impossible. there's a hell of a blood debt stacked against it, but the ending of TGCF does leave that door deliberately open

but Yi City Arc? oh boy, now there's a masterclass in tragedy

remember what I said up there, about tragedy being by fueled by unfulfilled/truncated potential? yeah so that goes for every single character involved in this absolute trainwreck of an arc:

Xiao Xingchen: a student of the legendary Baoshan-sanren, was destined to become at least a legendary jianghu figure, only to dwindle into obscurity and a misunderstood legacy

A-Jing: the fact that she died so young is both a crime and a tragedy

Xue Yang: Song Lan's arrival caught Xue Yang in the middle of his heel-face turn; the man wasn't exactly working towards a redemption arc, but Xue Yang was just beginning to become someone more human and less monstrous before he backslides suddenly and decisively

Song Lan: I will allow the miscommunication/lack of communication trope here because it's done well — Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen split because of Song Lan's rage and grief leading him to cast misplaced blame on Xiao Xingchen, and now, years later, Song Lan is searching for Xiao Xingchen precisely to apologize. the man has every intent to resolve the miscommunication of years past! he is going to say things to Xiao Xingchen! songxiao are poised on the literal cusp of reunion and forgiveness and the narrative. denies them. this closure

because what is unfulfilled potential if not the eternal lack of closure? we'll never know who A-Jing, with her cleverness and charisma, could have grown up to become. we'll never see the sect that Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan dreamed of founding, one built on ties of belief rather than blood. we'll never know if Xue Yang could have learned to build with his hands as well break, if his genius could have created something good and right and lasting

you take all of this unfulfilled potential, this lack of closure, and then you sharpen this tragedy to a moonlit edge with sweet agony of time. how close all of them were to fulfilling their potential, to achieving their goals. songxiao were so close to reconciliation, just a name and a voice and a swordstroke away

yeah. now that's a tragedy

[random-of-random]

The Secret

Chapter 2 - Just One Day

Authors Note: Thanks for reading and favoriting, and for commenting. You guys are great!

Y/N Y/L/N and Percival Graves had met four years earlier, in 1921. She was new to MACUSA and he was already a top Auror. It was a tradition in the department that new employees learn from close observation of people who had been there longer. Y/N had been assigned to shadow Percival and she was given several words of condolence from her new co-workers.

“Don't let him push you out of here.” Arnold had warned her as he gave her a cheeky grin. He was being shadowed by Lovell. From the little she had gathered Percival Graves was a good guy, however he was also shrewd and some described him as single-minded.

When she went to his office and knocked on the door, she could feel her nerves building. His office was smaller then, and this one he shared with Arnold.

"Come in." His voice called and she hesitantly opened the door. Two desks were crammed into the tiny space, filing cabinets seemed to overflow. There were files covering the desks and piled on the floor. It was easy to see that it was a time-consuming job. Behind the desk to her right sat Percival. He didn't even glance up at her, at first, and he continued writing on a piece of parchment, the quill scratching on the paper reminded her of school.

"Mr. Graves?"

"Yes. You must be Miss. Y/L/N." She moved toward him slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"Graduated from Ilvermorny?" His hair was slicked back and black. She couldn't see the color of his eyes.

"Yes sir."

"One of the top students in your year." He still hadn't looked at her.

"Yes sir."

"What house?"

"Horned Serpent, sir."

"Did you always want to work in magical law enforcement, Miss. Y/L/N?"

"Frankly sir, no." That seemed to get his attention. The quill stopped and he turned to slowly look up at her. His eyes were a chestnut brown and seemed to be looking through her.

"What did you want to be?"

"A stage actress." She admitted and it garnered a small smile.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, why are you here?" It wasn't a rude question, nor intense. Just inquisitive.

"If I was going to be on the stage then I would want to be somewhere big. Considering the Rappapport Law, I wouldn't be able to achieve that properly. So, I turned to the next best thing."

"From being an actress to catching criminals?"

"Yes, sir."

"And they sent you to me." He stood and placed the paper he was working on in an already full filing cabinet. "I suppose you've heard the stories." She could have lied, kissed a little ass, but that wasn't her style.

"Yes, sir, I have."

"And? How am I living up to them so far?" When he turned to look at her again she couldn't help but catch the smile he was trying to hide. Percival was handsome and she had a feeling he could be very charming if the mood struck him.

"A little lacking, sir." He chuckled.

"Welcome to the department, Miss Y/L/N. Now, if you wouldn't mind, we had a big bust if illegal imports yesterday and most of that needs sorted."

"Fine. Not a problem." She said putting on a smile. As soon as she left his office, she knew she was in trouble. Girls talked about plenty of other men in MACUSA, but Percival Graves was something special.

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

Y/N shadowed him continuously. Yeah, he was tough. Yes, he could be distant and cold. However, he was the best Auror she had ever seen. He was quick with a wand, his spells were powerful, and he had even mastered a few spells without the use of a wand. Every morning she would arrive at the Woolworth building by 7 AM. Every night she wouldn't leave until 8 PM. He stayed the same hours.

People constantly asked her when she was at lunch, "don't you hate this?" Her answer was always the same.

"Of course not! Are you crazy?" And she wasn't lying. She wasn't being insincere. Working as hard as she was had already improved her skills. There was so much Y/N thought she knew that was now being challenged. In her mind, she was working for the best.

The hardest part was Percival himself. She was enjoying being around him entirely too much. The way his eyes followed her suddenly didn't feel uncomfortable. It was welcome. The way he was studying her, she almost dared him to figure out her secrets.

Within three months she had stopped eating with the rest of her co-workers and started eating in Percival's office. Sometimes they would go over files, talk about the goings on in the magical and non-maj governments, and on rare occasions they would talk about personal things.

The personal conversations became more frequent over her year of shadowing him. He talked about the long line of Aurors in his family, and how he felt obligated to follow in their footsteps. However, it turned out that it was a field he was good in and enjoyed. He asked her about her family and seemed to want to know anything she was willing to share. She found out when he attended Ilvermorny he was in the Wampus house. Three had turned for him, the other two being Horned Serpent and Thunderbirds, but he went with the house based with warriors. It suited him.

"When I was in school Wampus beat Horned Serpent every time they played." He joked with her one day.

"That is not true." She said with an accusatory tone, though her eyes were alight. It was almost closing time, but they were still sitting in his office - the same place they had been talking for the last hour.

"It is." He insisted.

"If I waste my time going back through the records to prove you wrong..." he laughed then and the sound was beautiful. The door opened quickly and all signs of the levity were gone in that instant. Arnold walked in carrying yet another file.

"What's that?" Y/N asked.

"Dark wizard from Germany has landed in the US. He's a bad one. Already responsible for seven deaths. We have to catch him." Percival was on his feet in a second.

"Where?" He asked pulling on his coat.

"He was spotted in Central Park." Arnold answered.

"Let me come." Y/N suggested.

"No." Percival answered quickly.

"Why not?" She asked and he seemed to ignore her. "You were the one who said I was doing really well."

"I did say that." He admitted as he walked out of his office. Y/N was in tow.

"Then I should be able to go and prove myself."

Percival let out a tense sigh. “Y/N..."

"Come on, Percival. You know I can do this."

"No!" His shout made her take a step back in shock. The department was suddenly quiet as they all looked on at their head Auror. Granted, most of them were surprised this was the first time they heard him yelling at her. He took a few steps closer to her and lowered his voice so only she could hear. "Not this one. Just, trust me on this?" She merely nodded before she watched him walk toward the elevators. Turning on her heel she headed straight back to his office and shut the door after her. She was so mad it was hard to think of anything else. So, she did what she had been wanting to do for ages. She organized. Everything. Three hours later she was still putting papers into the last cabinet. She modified everything magically so it could fit five times the space is previously had. Any loose papers were sorted and put in their proper files which were then put in alphabetical order in one of the filing cabinets. A work of beauty. She allowed herself a moments rest as she looked over the office. It looked as if there was twice as much room as there had been. When the door opened she stood to smugly see his face, but it was Arnold who walked through the door. His normally styled hair was hanging loose, his tie was completely off, and she saw what looked like blood covering the arm of his white button down.

"Arnold, are you-" She moved toward him, but he put his hand up.

"It's not my blood." Her stomach turned and her breath hitched in her chest.

"I-is Mr. Graves... alright?" She dreaded the answer.

"I think so. He's with the healers now." Arnold took a seat at his desk and leaned back.

"What was he hit with?"

"A spell we had never seen before." Arnold answered her, his voice slightly shaking. "He just started bleeding." Y/N looked at him in shock. "It stopped when we got him subdued, but Percival lost a lot of blood."

"Are you alright though, sir?" She asked.

"I'm going to be fine, Y/N." She nodded and stood awkwardly. "He's in the healers room down on 20. In case you were interested."

"Thank you, sir." She took off, trying her best to look calm and inconspicuous. A few people had started to suspect something was going on between Percival and Y/N. How wrong they were despite how much she wanted them to be right. The rumors seemed to die down quickly. Something about Percival not being the type to settle down, let alone with someone like her. Y/N liked to joke, she was a little more lax about rules, and she didn't mind a little dancing every now and again. People in the building just decided that the two were never possible. Arnold, however, seemed to know how she felt about Percival. He would catch her looking at Graves as he scribbled a sentence on parchment or read quietly. As soon as Y/N would realize he was looking, Arnold would give her a kind smile or a wink. Though, he never told another soul about what he saw.

When the elevator stopped on 20 she stepped out and into a whole different world. She had been to a healing floor before, but not like this. It was bustling with healers running all over the place.

"Can I help you?" A young woman behind a desk asked.

"Yes. My boss was brought in: Percival Graves. I wanted to check and make sure he's alright."

"Your name?"

"Y/N Y/L/N."

"Alright, thank you. Have a seat in our waiting area and someone will be right with you." The woman indicated a small alcove filled with chairs. She hesitantly sat, but within a minute felt that she may stand up and demand an update. It was an excruciating hour before someone came out.

"Miss. Y/L/N?"

"That's me." The man who was now standing in front of her was older, maybe late 50's, with a kind smile.

"I am Mr. Graves healer."

"Is he okay?" She asked.

"Yes. He is going to be alright." She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding and she allowed herself a small smile. "He lost a lot of blood, so we're producing potions for him to take every four hours for the next three days." The doctor explained. "He'll be groggy, but I believe he will do just fine. He will however need care because I want him to get bedrest. I can keep him here, if he would prefer."

"Thank you, and I'll run the options by him." Y/N said as she shook his hand.

"Would you like to see him?"

"Can I?" She asked. He put his hand softly on her upper back and led her back and deeper into the hallway. They walked for less then a minute when they stopped outside a room.

"Go a head in." He encouraged.

The room was very plain and ordinary. Sitting up on the bed was Percival. Already looking like he wanted to go another round. However, his skin was pale and it was easy to see he would be unsteady on his feet. His own clothes must have been discarded as he was wearing a hospital gown. She could faintly make out former cut marks on his arms that were an angry red. His brown eyes connected with hers and for a moment, she saw it. Relief. She couldn't stop herself. Taking several quick steps forward she pulled Percival Graves into a hug. Her arms wrapped around his upper back and shoulders and, to her great surprise, she felt his arms wrap around her waist.

"I'm glad you're back." She whispered before pulling away.

"You didn't have to come down here."

"I know." She answered. "So the docs said you have a potion you have to take every four hours for three days."

"Alright."

"And you have to rest - no working for those three days." He looked almost angry. "That way when you do come back you'll be at 100%."

"If I have to."

"And you're suppose to stay on bedrest. So, I'm going to come take care of you."

"What? No."

"It's your choice, Percival." She said with a shrug of her shoulders. "Let me take care of you for a few days..."

"Or..."

"Or you to stay here and be a special patient of the healers." It was as if he was at war with himself for a moment.

"When can we leave?"