#it's never brought up again because they both are perfectly aware that butcher was being a fucking liar about it

[ex0rin]

Understanding | The Boys S02E05: We Gotta Go Now

[starrycassi]

RavenBand!Neil thoughts

Tws for acephobia, sa and yk, the traditional in aftg. Also I ignore the canon in some a lot of parts. Ah, and this is settled more in a present like time so, bear with me.

I personally love the idea of Nathaniel being SO out of touch with the world. This kids was brought in here from such a young, young age. And since day one, he's been number three.

He's been under Ichiro's wing control all this time, too. His only spare time is divided between some weird game called Exy and stuff like mostly trying to sleep.

Picture this little boy, who isn't even 15 yet, having a routine like: wake up, everything that comes in with self care for a star, daily warming ups and then fucking exploiting himself in both dancing and singing, for as long as his body can hold (and then, just a bit longer)

He then gets up, shakes his spirit until it's awake again and walks off to the room he shares with Jean. Nathaniel is performing in a piano in front of millions when he's not even able to reach the bathroom mirror without standing on his tiptoes yet. He's being perfectly presented to the world when he doesn't even have his own phone.

You know those sort of kids that fuck up their lives to shit like ballet, modelling and such? The ones who shine so brigth that their souls burn in the process? The ones that fight harder and harder every day because in something like art, the older you get the less attention you are given? The ones that cry out of pure rage when shit goes grown because they know how important it is for everything to work out? That's Nathaniel Wesninski, number 3 of the perfect group, brother property of Ichiro Moriyama, son of the butcher and caretaker of Jean Moreau.

So he grows up to be this sort of machine-like person when he's out of his room. The only real friend he has is Jean, because even when Kevin tries to be there, he always ends up running when Riko asks him to, and even if Ichiro finds Nathaniel somewhat better than his actual little brother, he knows what kind of person that man is.

Jean isn't exactly in a different situation, with his life literally being Riko's new toy... until it isn't, because Ichiro decides that if Riko gets Kevin is only fair that Nathaniel gets Jean, as if the two boys are some sort of fancy toys.

So what I'm trying to get to here is Nathaniel and jean bein horribly clueless to shit like sex innuendos. But Nathaniel especially, since he doesn't even feels something along those lines or at least not until some good five or so years after.

Even if Riko insist. So much. Sometimes, he wins those figths. Sometimes he doesn't.

Then they decide to stop being only a group that performs shit like weird ass contemporary dances or classical songs, all of them a very useful front for the business the Moriyamas needed to do. They ALSO become a "k-pop" band (because idk if u can call it that) and it's chaos.

And of course you all know about the sexualization of young artists, so I think that as soon as it's legal to do so, this "quality" of being absent minded to sex of Nathaniel is exploited. Suggestive pics that aren't actually graphic, but they are... interestingly placed and conceptualizd. Out of place comments that he never catches on or plays out as a joke. Riko hovering over him way too much when they are too close. Being asked to behave in certain ways with certain artists because that's what the fans want.

They turn the asexual boy into a sexual fantasy for the public.

Of course he becomes aware of it after Jean gets his own phone and fuck, that is a hard weekend.

But he's also used to it. And as someone who has a lot of bad behaviors, I know how fucking hard it is to get rid of them. Nathaniel just hating human contact when he isn't warned about it but also being all touchy with other people accidentally because he's been teached this since he was a child.

Like, sometimes I feel like people forget that hypersexuality is a response to trauma, too. I've even seen some people use this as some fort of excuse, and it really, really makes me feel so weird.

Just imagine it. Neil (former Nathaniel, and then former Niel) learning that even if he can be a bit too out of line, it's not his fault. He's heard those words before, Jean used to whisper them to him after bad nights, but Jean is Jean, and he can be so soft with Neil sometimes that it scares both of them. For them, those words were the same as saying that everything will be okay or we'll get trough this. They were never real words, they were just an expression of solidarity— just a bunch of attempts to survive in that hell of a place, even if they had it "better" than some of the others.

But then, there's Andrew. Andrew who just fucking kicks him in the legs when Neil attempts to get too close. Who only asks one time if Neil really doesn't like to swing even if they both know he's still being forced to play the game and then never brings the topic up. Andrew who only looks away, humming, that one time Neil had to undress in front of him. Andrew who keeps Nicky in line even when Neil can be seen as interested by the way he behaves. Andrew. Andrew who makes Neil understand what sex should feel like. Who makes him happy and makes him feel like he's floating in the short moments they get to be actually alone. Who makes Neil understand that even if he is pretty, even is he is hot, even if he is wanted, he should never be used. Never, never, never.

And then there is Aaron, see? They're a good duo. Aaron, who only pays attention to his scars when he sees his naked chest. Aaron, who looks like he doesn't care about life but slowly makes sure to never sit too close to Neil when it isn't necessary. Aaron who just straight up hates him but never hurts him. And it makes Neil so relieved and nauseous, to understand that even if he can be annoying, even if he is stubborn, even if he isn't wanted, he should never have to under go horrible punishments. Never, never, never.

[ineffable-snowman]

And here’s my second Sambucky fic. You can read it here or on AO3.

Pet Psychopath

“Him? Really?”

Sam and Sarah were both glancing towards where Bucky was grinding the boat’s side with sandpaper with the single-minded focus of the Winter Soldier on a mission.

“I know I have a problem,” Sam said before Sarah could start to berate him for falling for yet another sad white soldier.

“You sure do.” Sarah shook her head, still eyeing Bucky warily. “At least Steve was pretty.”

True. Although Steve used to have terrible fashion sense, he was easy on the eyes and Sam suspected that half of the Avengers and at least half of America had had a crush on Cap at one time, so there was no reason to judge him for that. Bucky however, with his scruffy face and that murderous glare, was another matter. Sam judged himself for whatever feelings were creeping up on him.

“You should have seen him before he got a haircut,” he told Sarah.

“I did. Because his mugshot was all over the news. Jesus, Sam.”

Sam shrugged. The fact that Bucky was (or rather had been) a criminal was not what bothered him. After having been imprisoned in the Raft, he did not give a shit about what the government declared legal or illegal. He trusted in his common sense. Right now, his common sense told him that it was a fundamentally bad idea to develop feelings for Bucky Barnes. He had no idea how this catastrophe had happened, could not pinpoint the exact moment when Bucky had turned from a threat into a pity case into a nuisance into a reluctant co-worker and finally into someone Sam brought into his sister’s house and entrusted with his late parents’ boat.

“Right. I don’t know if I should hope for him to return your feelings or pray that he doesn’t.”

Truth be told, Sam hadn’t figured that out yet either. Bucky was thoughtless at best, often outright ignorant, petty and self-centred, not to mention reckless, irresponsible, a bad co-worker, and he did not like Redwing. And there wasn’t exactly a charming personality to make up for all these failures. It did not make sense for Sam to fall for him, and yet it perfectly did. Yes, Sam was fully aware he had a problem, had first come to suspect it when his parents had told him with constipated looks on their faces that, “No, Sam, we can’t bring every injured seagull to the vet.” It had been confirmed over the years when the teachers had asked him to look after the new kid in class or try to include the outsider and he had been unable to say no. Sam knew enough about psychology to know that pity was not a good basis for a relationship. He knew that and it didn’t change anything. Sharon calling Bucky a ‘pet psychopath’ seemed frighteningly accurate. (However, he heavily resented the implication that Zemo somehow shared ownership rights. Because it was Sam who constantly looked after Bucky, not Zemo. It was Sam Bucky followed around, not Zemo).

“Whatever.” Sam took the saw and jumped into the boat. “He’s useful for repair work.” Then he got to work helping  his pet psychopath. He sawed planks of wood into smaller pieces to replace the dilapidated pieces on the boat.

After one hour, his shirt was drenched in sweat. Bucky was still grinding with the sandpaper, his movements like a machine. There was only the barest sheen of sweat on his forehead.

After another hour, Sam’s right hand cramped up. He dropped the saw and leaned against the side of the boat.

“How do you feel about a break? That something you do?”

“If you insist.”

Sam snorted. He could not believe he had to put up with this bullshit again. Damn supersoldiers. And yet he tried to engage Bucky in small talk.

“What do you think, how long until we’re finished?” He grabbed a bottle of water and threw Bucky a second one.

“Depends on how many breaks you need.” Bucky opened his bottle and kept staring at Sam while drinking it, never once blinking. Unbelievable.

“You keep this up, I might just throw you overboard.”

Bucky put the bottle down. He was still staring at Sam. “You can try.”

“Oh, so this is what we’re doing?” Sam’s heart was suddenly racing. There was no chance in hell that he could beat Bucky. But backing down from a challenge? Never.

“You talk big, Wilson, but I don’t see you acting on it,” Bucky taunted him.

There was no going back now. Sam was not entirely sure what Bucky was suggesting here but throwing his water bottle away and grabbing Bucky in a headlock seemed the appropriate choice of action.

Not that he succeeded for long. Bucky easily freed himself and proceeded to try to wrestle Sam down. Sam could tell that Bucky was pulling his punches because if he had used his full super strength, Sam would be on the floor by now. On the one hand, he was touched that Bucky was considerate enough at least in this situation and seemed to want to have fun with Sam, on the other, he wouldn’t have minded being on the floor. With Bucky on top of him. God, he was such a mess.

“That all you got?” Bucky said, grinning evilly.

Sam couldn’t help but snort in amusement. He was always glad to see Bucky happy, even though a grin made him look even more like a psychopath.

“You ain’t seen-aaaaaaaaaaaaa-”

It happened too fast to do anything and yet Sam experienced everything in slow-motion. A huge wave rocked the boat to one side. Sam, who was just about to back away from one of Bucky’s attacks, lost his footing and stepped on the water bottle. While falling, he caught sight of the stern of the fast ferry, and his mother’s words echoed in his mind, Always pay attention to the fast ferry. Then he was finally on the floor and shit, that hurt! He exclaimed a string of curses and then he finally saw what had caused the pain: he had landed on the saw which was now stuck in the back of his right thigh. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, ignored Bucky’s “Don’t!” and quickly tore it out with another string of curse words.

Suddenly there was blood. A lot of blood. Blood streaming out of his thigh, drenching his pant leg. Not good. Not good at all. Too much blood. Over the loud rushing and pounding in his ears, he heard Bucky call him an idiot and then he passed out.

When he came back, he felt pleasantly woozy, warm and well-rested. The next thing he noticed was the smell of leather, paint and sweat under his nose. He blinked his eyes open. His head was cushioned on a leather jacket and he was lying on his left, still on the boat, which gently rocked from side to side. Going back to sleep seemed like a good idea.

“Are you back?” came Bucky’s voice from behind him.

“Mm.” Then he noticed that he wasn’t wearing any pants. Huh. “Are you staring at my ass?”

“I’m stitching you back up.”

“You what?” Suddenly the pleasant wooziness was gone.The searing pain came back and so did the awareness of what had just happened – of what was happening right now. He tried to sit up but Bucky’s vibranium arm grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Don’t move. I’m almost done.”

“What are you doing?” Sam really hoped he had misheard, but no –

“Stitching you back up,” Bucky repeated stoically, sounding somewhat distracted.

“Why?”

“It’s a big wound. You lost a lot of blood.”

“How -? Stop that!”

“It’s fine, I’ve done this before.”

“What, like in the 40s?!”

“…yes.”

“You know we have surgeons for this, right?”

“I’m faster.”

“I swear to you, if you’ve used dirty needles on me or fishbones or whatever…!”

“Didn’t you get your tetanus shot?”

“Oh my God, you did, didn’t you?”

“No. I found a first aid kit. It looked a bit old but seems to be good.”

“Seems to be?! You should have at least asked me before you decided to operate on me!”

“You were unconscious and bleeding,” Bucky said matter-of-factly. “There, done. Not bleeding anymore.” Bucky appeared in his line of vision. There was blood on both hands, his shirt and even his pants. There was also a lot of blood on the floor around Sam.

“I want to go to the hospital and have someone competent check if you’ve butchered my leg.”

“Fine. But let me dress the wound first.”

“Okay.” Sam turned back around and let Bucky do whatever he thought needed to be done. Sam wasn’t usually squeamish, he had been in the army and seen much worse. But waking up to someone stitching you up with probably outdated surgical tools? Not cool.

“When I’m back from the hospital, you and I are going to have a long talk about bodily autonomy.”

“You can schedule it right after the talk about workplace safety. Because letting a saw lie around like that? Just no.”

Sam had to concede that was a fair point, so he kept his mouth shut. When Bucky had finished wrapping a thick bandage around Sam’s thigh, he helped Sam up. He was wobbly on his legs, still feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, and his right leg was doing weird things.

“Does it hurt?” Bucky asked the most superfluous question ever.

“Take a wild guess.” Sam clung to Bucky and somehow they manoeuvred him out of the boat and he hobbled back to Sarah’s house.

Sarah screamed when she saw them.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sam said quickly. What it looked like was: Sam in just his boxer shorts with a thick bandage around his right leg, leaning heavily on Bucky, and both of them covered in blood from head to toe. “It was an accident.”

“Don’t let the boys see you like this!” Sarah ushered them into the bathroom. “Get yourselves cleaned up. I’ll bring you new clothes.”

Sam sank down onto the toilet lid. Damn it, even sitting hurt like hell. Changing and cleaning up in the tiny bathroom was awkward. Without asking Sam if he needed the help, Bucky had obviously decided that he did need help and had started wiping the blood from Sam’s arms and legs with a wet cloth. They really needed to have that talk about boundaries. Not that Sam was complaining, though. The problem was, he liked it. (Not in a sexual way, he was not that messed up and in too much pain and in his sister’s bathroom – just no.) For some reason, Bucky taking care of him was what did it for him. And Bucky wasn’t even particularly gentle, just efficient and matter-of-fact about it. But it was apparently enough that there was someone who had decided to take care of Sam a little bit more than was strictly necessary.

“This is not exactly flattering,” Sam said when Bucky had helped him into a pair of too-short sweatpants.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen me in worse states.”

Sam chuckled but then winced in pain when he tried to stand up. He was too exhausted to even pretend to protest when Bucky put an arm around him and supported him into the kitchen where Sarah was making dinner.

“Better?” Sarah asked Sam. “Need anything from the pharmacy? I can send Cass. They’ve already played long enough.”

It didn’t sound much like playing anymore. From the living room, the boys could be heard arguing loudly over the explosions and the music of their video games.

“I need to go to the ER,” Sam said, “and have someone check this.”

Sarah grimaced. “That bad, huh? Okay, let me just finish--” She was interrupted by the telephone ringing. “Sorry, have to get this, it’s probably Regina about that delivery tomorrow…” She hurried off into the living room to get the phone. Then there was a loud smashing sound followed by both boys screaming insults at the top of their lungs. Sam hurried over – as fast as he could with his injured leg – to make sure they didn’t need to bring more people to the hospital.

It did not look like anyone was injured. Just the coffee table had been thrown over, smashing a vase and two glasses. The boys were at each other’s throats, apparently fighting over the controller.

“Stop it!” Sam bellowed. At the same time, Sarah shouted, “No, no, everything’s fine!” into the phone that was squeezed under her chin, while she was trying to separate the boys.

“Do something,” Sam told Bucky. Staring did not seem to help to subdue kids fighting over video games.

Bucky grabbed each boy with one arm and separated them easily.

“Let go of my kids!” Sarah shouted immediately and then, “No, really, it’s fine!” into the phone.

Bucky let go of them as if burned and took a step back.

“I’ll call you back,” Sarah said and then proceeded to give the boys a thorough dressing down that ended in the threat to sell their game console if something like this ever happened again, “and I don’t care who started it!”

In the ringing silence that followed, they finally could hear the bubbling and sizzling from the kitchen. Bucky was the fastest and yanked the saucepan from the burner but the damage had already been done, the tomato sauce had boiled over onto the whole stovetop.

Sarah sank down on a kitchen chair. “Can you drive a car?” she asked Bucky.

“Of course.”

*

“Do you have a driver’s licence?” Sam asked Bucky once they were in the car on their way to the hospital.

“No.”

“God help me.” Sam tried to find a position that did not put pressure on his injured leg. Hopeless. It hurt any way.

“Couldn’t exactly take driving lessons as the Winter Soldier.”

Sam chuckled despite himself but then he stopped when he remembered the situation in the living room. “Look, Sarah knows you’re not the Winter Soldier anymore. But parents are wildly protective of their kids and wouldn’t take any chances.”

“I know, I get it.”

“It’s nothing personal. Maybe, once she knows you better, she’ll trust you with the boys, too.” Implying that Sam would bring Bucky to Sarah’s house more often in the future, often enough that she would come to eventually trust Bucky.

“Sam, it’s fine.” Bucky stretched the fingers of his vibranium arm and examined them with a frown. “I need to get your blood out of my hand. It’s not moving smoothly anymore.”

“Jesus, Buck.” Sam let his head fall back against the seat. “Please don’t make any comments like that in the hospital.”

*

Sam felt kind of sorry for the other people in the waiting room. They were injured or sick and now, on top of it, had to deal with the ominous presence and murderous glare of the Winter Soldier.

“Look, this is going to take some time,” Sam finally said to him. “Why don’t you go and…get a coffee or something?”

Bucky nodded and left the waiting room. The air eased immediately. Suddenly there was movement again. A mother let her kid down to run around, a young woman stood up to grab a magazine from the table, a man with his arm in a makeshift sling cleared his throat and attempted smalltalk.

“He’s harmless,” Sam tried to assure everyone. “Guy’s just got a staring problem.”

But then said staring problem was already back and stood in the door to the waiting room – with a cup of coffee in his hand. Well, that had not worked according to Sam’s plan.

“I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky said. “I’m James Bucky Barnes.” Then he smiled an awful smile that did nothing to help his case. He sat down next to Sam and handed him the coffee and a chocolate bar. Pet psychopath, Sharon’s words echoed in Sam’s mind.

Sam had very strong opinions about coffee from hospitals’ vending machines but just now realised that he had not eaten for hours and gratefully took both the coffee and the chocolate bar.

They had to wait for over an hour until it was finally Sam’s turn. The doctor was surprisingly okay with Bucky’s stitches, and just cleaned up the wound, gave him another tetanus shot for good measure (because they weren’t exactly sure yet how the Blip had effected vaccinations), dressed the wound, prescribed some strong painkillers and told Sam to keep the leg still for the next few days.

So that was what Sam did. He spent several days just lying on the couch in the living room, getting progressively competitive at video games. In turn, he tried to teach his nephews board games and helped with their homework to unburden Sarah at least a little bit. He also did a number of phone calls to try to get that damn loan (unsuccessfully). How Sarah had not killed anyone yet was a mystery to him.

Bucky spent the days on the boat. Every evening he came to report to Sam about his progress, never failing to mention how he wasn’t slowed down by Sam’s need for breaks anymore.

“I hate him,” Sam told Sarah, who was happily showing him photos of the boat while Bucky was in the kitchen preparing dinner.

Sarah shrugged. “He is kind of useful. If he continues to work on the boat at that tempo, it’ll be ready to sail much earlier and I can minimise my losses.”

“I’m glad at least someone will profit from this mess.”

“He also knows how to gut and fillet fish.”

Sam chuckled. “Gutting fish and repairing boats – do you think those count as good character traits? Enough to justify falling in love with him?”

“I could introduce you to someone, you know. There’s this new guy in town, he’s an art teacher and he seems like a really sweet guy, very cultured of course and elegant – he is an art teacher after all – and he has those beautiful eyes... I’m pretty sure he’s interested in men.”

Sam frowned. There was nothing wrong with Bucky’s eyes. “Doesn’t sound like my type.”

Sarah sighed. “No, he certainly isn’t. You know, Sam, you do deserve a healthy and loving relationship like everyone else. Maybe give this guy a chance instead of always…” She trailed off. She didn’t have to say more.

“I’ll get back to you if I’m ever over the brainwashed serial killer.”

“It’s just that Daniel might already be seeing someone else by then. Like I said, he’s an attractive guy.”

“Wouldn’t be fair to Daniel if I tried to date him while, well.”

“You know what, Sam? What you’re doing is not fair to yourself. Look, I’ll send you his number, you can text him and meet up for a coffee, no commitment. Just give it a chance.” She opened the contacts app on her phone.

“Dinner is ready.”

Both Sam and Sarah whipped around in shock to see Bucky standing stock-still in the door, holding a plate with fish in each hand. Of course the first thought in Sam’s mind was, How much did he hear? Although it was hard to read Bucky, Sam prided himself in being able to interpret some of his stares. This one was somewhere between confused and irritated. Great.

“Great. Let’s hope you removed the bones properly and no one dies tonight.”

A deep crease appeared between Bucky’s eyebrows. Rightfully so, because that had been a stupid comment. But Sam could not think of anything funny or normal to say right now.

“Great,” Sarah said, then helped Sam up. They followed Bucky to the dining table.

Dinner was torture. The fish wasn’t half bad (no bones) but it was almost cold, which could only mean that Bucky had listened to too much of that conversation before he had announced his presence. And now he was staring again. By now, Sam had grown used to it, but this staring was on a whole new level, as if Bucky wanted to burn a hole through Sam’s forehead with his eyes.

“Staring,” he mouthed at Bucky while the boys thankfully babbled on about a football game a friend of Cass was organising.

Bucky jerked slightly but then finally tore his gaze from Sam and proceeded to glare daggers at the fish on his plate instead.

“Well, that was lovely,” Sarah said at last. “Thanks for cooking.” She stood up to do the dishes but Bucky got in her way with his superspeed.

“I’ll do it.”

Sarah shrugged and threw Sam a pitying glance.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced, explaining to his confused nephews, who did not understand why anyone would voluntarily go to bed so early, that he was really tired.

Back in his room, he flopped down on his bed and groaned loudly. How was this his life? Having a crush was one thing, Sam could easily suppress that. But his co-worker knowing about it… From now on everything was going to be so awkward. What had that stare meant? Would Bucky be fine with Sam’s misplaced affections? Should Sam start dating Daniel just to make it less awkward between Bucky and him? He buried his face in his pillow. Yeah, way to make it all worse and pull another, unsuspecting party into this mess.

There was a knock on his door.

He took a deep breath and sat up, dreading the worst. “Come in.”

Bucky came into his room, closed the door behind him and then – did absolutely nothing. He just stood there and looked at Sam.

“Okay, this is getting weird,” Sam said after about a minute of ominous silence. “Are you going to say something?”

Bucky opened his mouth, closed it again.

Right, one of them needed to do the talking, and obviously it was up to Sam to be the mature one. Nothing new there. “So I’m assuming you eavesdropped on that conversation between Sarah and me.”

“The door was open.”

Oh, finally he was speaking. That was progress. “Anyway. I get that this may be awkward for you.” Sam’s throat was tightening up at the thought of Bucky not only turning him down but maybe even avoiding him in the future because he was…no. He soldiered on. “Just know that siblings often talk trash.”

“I know. I have a sister.”

“Good.” Sam tried to unclench his hands, which were gripping his thighs too tightly. “Then, what is your problem? Is there a problem?”

Bucky shook his head. He stepped closer and sat down next to Sam on the bed, never once taking his eyes off Sam’s face. Sam had no idea what to do. The words were stuck in his throat but it turned out he didn’t have to do anything because Bucky took his left hand, placed it on his lap and cradled it in both hands. So, this was his answer.

Sam exhaled, slowly, shudderingly. He finally met Bucky’s eyes that were still fixed, unblinking, on Sam’s. He liked it. God help him, he liked being the single focus of that stare, he liked the irritated and confused stares, the hard and sometimes worried ones but most of all the challenging ones. Sam was veering towards a highly dysfunctional and co-dependent relationship (if a relationship was something Bucky wanted – they really needed to talk about this!) and he was not willing to change the course.

They stayed like that for too long, eight minutes and thirty-two seconds too long, as the display on Sam’s alarm clock showed him, and each second that ticked by in silence made it more difficult to just speak up and say something non-monumental.

But Sam finally did it because he knew that someone needed to say something and, well, that someone usually tended to be him. “We should probably talk about this.”

“I can schedule a session with my therapist.”

Sam snorted with laughter. “She’d have a field day.”

But Bucky was not laughing, not even grinning psychopathically. He was still staring at Sam, waiting for an answer.

“Wait. You’re taking this seriously. You really want us to do this?”

Bucky gave a curt nod.

Wow. This was monumental. Not meeting up to get a coffee but couples therapy. “Right.” Sam’s heart was beating loudly in his chest. This was like putting the wings back on after many years and flying again. Frightening, yes, but also exhilarating. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

[stopeatingwhales]

“i’ll always love you,” x damon albarn

this one’s for my beloved friend emily, who requested i write something inspired by the song clocks by coldplay for her, and must i say this turned out better than i had anticipated it to. enjoy <3

Paring: 90s damon albarn x reader

Warnings: angst, dysfunctional relationship

Word count: 1.811

Happy late birthday emily x

༉‧₊˚✧

Having to endure his enthralling features pick-up multiple women at a bar accompanied by my watching, plastering a pretend look of inattention, attempting to hypnotise my ears with Graham’s words directed at me was the equivalent of absolute torture. It devastated me. Seeing the woman’s eyes glow up, instantly subdued to Damon; his beauty right away changing the plans for the evening. A chat? Maybe. A shag? Definitely. A boyfriend? No way. He would use the poor woman as a ploy to get back at me, perhaps from an argument that had resurfaced from the previous night - which created much bigger issues the following day. He did it countless amounts of times as revenge, and each time - no matter how many times it had been done - it always felt like he was slipping a knife slowly into my heart, twisting it around as leisurely as possible, creating the most excruciatingly horrific pain. Pain that wouldn’t leave, even after he had finished with her, as he stumbled into the cramped tour bus, avoiding my eyes completely. He was butchering me, in all ways notorious to man. 

Patiently waiting, I was expecting for the usual: some sort of scoff, maybe a roll of the eyes - dearly conducted straight at me. There was nothing. The only attack I had received in the majority of ten seconds was the gust of wind blow straight past my face from his grand entrance - exhilarating goosebumps on my cheeks. I pondered over the situation, battling the idea of whether I should hoot at him or not, his body language unattentive to my view. It was almost as if he was avoiding me, avoiding the scene, as if he was contemplating outside whether it would be a good decision to walk in at such a dingy time. He seemingly tried to rush past me as fast as he could, although there was no chance I’d be letting him get to sleep this early. 

“Damon,” I said, sternly, rising from my sleeping position on the couch. His slow movements came to a halt, my ears perking up at the sound of a hefty sigh roll off his tongue. Funnily enough, he knew this was coming. He knew the repetitive argument that was going to play, almost word for word at this point. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

The rest of the boys were preciously bunked up in their beds, and unfortunately my angry consciousness had little to no care whether they had any sleep or not; I had not been able to get a clean, crisp night’s sleep since the beginning of the tour. Since the beginning of this all. 

Scoffing, Damon’s stilled stance had now twisted round, his daggering stare locking with my hopeless, tearful one. “Sorry?” he muttered? Cocking his head to the side, waiting for another chain of rows to dance out of my mouth. What a dickhead. 

Closing my eyes, I inhaled sharply. I swallowed the pool of saliva forming on my tongue out of nervousness, the tremble of my hands sending my mind into a pit of anger as I cupped them both into fists, each hand hidden by my sides. “You’re such a dickhead,” I mumbled, shaking my head to the ground in utter disbelief, knowing full-well this wasn’t going to end well; it never did.

I averted to laying back down on the couch from my former standing position, deciding that there was absolutely no reason that I should be giving my all into repetitive arguments, all it ever did was dig a much larger pit of agony than I had before. “Of course you’d say that,” I heard Damon chuckle, aggravation grumbling throughout his voice. He stood still, waiting for my response. If I’m being honest, I wanted him to stay there. Regardless of the life he was sucking out of me, I seemingly needed his presence there. All the time. 

For a short moment, the anger that had riled up in my veins was mellowed, but that softness was interrupted by another evil laugh fleeing his lips. Suddenly, everything that had happened in the past evening came right back at me, leaving nothing but pure rage. “Why do you think that sleeping with other women is going to help?” I questioned, turning my head to once again connect our eyes. He was clearly taken aback at my abrupt and explicit asking, due to his eyes widening slightly at my raw phrasing. I wasn’t going easy tonight. 

“You seem to think that making me feel like dirt on your feet mends our arguments. Why?” I asked again, carrying the same, firm tone I was initiating previously. I wanted him to realise what he had been doing, in the cruelest way achievable. He’s harmed me enough. “Does it seem to please you?”

My gaze never left his face. I studied his features, noticing each twitch, shift, and emotion embellishing his appearance. His face was a blanket of snow, almost exactly like the face of the moon. His head was hanging low, the tips of his fringe guiding his hair to freefall from the gravity. His darkened, gold locks effortlessly matched the dynamic of the room, the colour of the lamp blending in with his figure. The air felt painfully still; my words not just affecting him, but me as well. A sudden rush of wonder coursed through my mind, what if one of the boys were listening? They knew about how dysfunctional mine and Damon’s relationship had become over the past couple months, but they never mentioned a word of it, fully aware that it would be yet another reasoning for an argument.

Eventually, his silence began to taunt me. It felt as if he didn’t want to say anything, but all I wanted was for him to just own up to his actions - something he had never come across doing in his lifetime. “Why do I let you do this to me…” I croaked, my eyes beginning to well up with tears. 

Finally, I shifted my stare to my lap, letting my silent tears flee from my eyes, dripping onto my trousers. I didn’t feel like changing, the sickness that had pitted in my stomach from the thought of Damon with someone else becoming like a sickness for me. All of a sudden, I began gaining flashbacks over the past few weeks, remembering the one conversation that started this all. Let’s have an open relationship. Why? It’ll give us more freedom.

I felt all the emotions pent up, engraved inside my mind all rush back to me, my steady breathing now becoming extremely rapid, water now soaking my cheeks as I sobbed as quiet as possible. I squeezed my mouth shut, my constant sniffles being enough to wake the entire bus of sleeping people. Damon rarely saw me cry, not because I didn’t want him to, I felt incapable of doing it in front of people. The perpetual worry of judgement clouded above my mind subconsciously. My crying now was not only a sign for me that I was impotent of carrying on what we had created between ourselves, but for him, to realise that this was unhealthy. What had we become?

“Y/N…” Damon managed to squeak out, the soft sounds of his feet progressively getting louder as he made his way over to where I was, crouching down to eye level with me. “Love, please don’t cry,” he whispered, caressing my hair lightly. 

Subconsciously, I felt my head lean against his hand, the comfort pulsating warmth through my body. He took note of this immediately, standing up slightly to lay down next to me on the couch, disregarding the little to no room for both of us. Our bodies were touching everywhere imaginable, my heart aching as I felt his arm around my shoulder, tightening our embrace. I shut my eyes, beginning to cry into his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated to wails, Damon’s caressing putting my mind into a complete state of confusion. “Shhh,” he cooed, peppering kisses all over my forehead. See? This is exactly what he does, every time. 

My cries slowly began to die down after a while of his consolations. However, although my body was completely drained inside and out, I couldn’t rest. I knew he could tell, due to my breathing. “Why do you let me hurt you like this,” he mumbled, his voice cracking at the end of his sentence. He never realised how much pain he was causing to not only me, but to himself. We were torturing each other, the toxicity of the relationship way past the point of mending. Our love was a poison and a medicine; he could dismantle my limbs in such a loathsome manner, yet almost immediately be able to perfectly stitch me back to my previous figure, slobbering sorrowful kisses all over my body, realising he had done no good. 

We were one of those oblivious couples, thinking, assuming that nothing would happen to us. Nothing would tear us apart, nothing at all. But the fear? The fear of love tearing you apart? No, that doesn’t exist. What the fuck is that? The usual reaction. How can the person who brought me the utmost joy, the brightest smile, the love of ten thousand adorning stars and more, be the same man who murdered my belief of love, be the one person who causes me the most torment, rips me, corrupts me, pacifies me in places I didn’t know were a part of my body? And yet, all I find myself doing is lingering back to him. 

“I love you Damon, and I really don’t fucking know why I do,” I mumbled into his ear, breathing in helplessly before carrying on. “But I can’t do this anymore,”

My breath hitched in my throat as those words left my mouth, my mind bewildered that I had said such a thing. I felt Damon tense up, the gulp in his throat more prominent than usual. This conversation was avoided many, many times by the both of us, but there was no use in hiding it anymore. “I can’t live without you,” he mumbled into my hair, inhaling the pungent scent, knowing this would most likely be the last time he’d be able to. 

I knew what my words were doing to him. They were daggers, anguishing sharp stabs in his stomach, exactly like the same stabs he’d given me, simply a hundred times worse. “You’re dying with me here,” I replied, biting my lip in pure melancholy. “Go live your life, you’ll find the love of it eventually,” I breathed, my voice barely inaudible as I released myself from Damon’s grasp, standing up. He was as quiet as he had ever been, trying to take in my words one by one. 

“Just remember I’ll always love you,”

[cursedserpenthq]

(zach mcgowan, 32, cis male, werewolf) Blimey! Is that (ARVED LESKE)? (HE) is the (LEAD VANGUARD) on the Cursed Serpent and has been onboard the ship for (TWELVE YEARS). Legend has it they are (DEVOTED & PERCEPTIVE), but don’t get on their bad side, because I hear they’re (FEROCIOUS & DEFENSIVE). Aye! Stop staring! (VED) has their (SABRES) out! (ooc: Gray, PST, 28, they, none)

THE CURSED SERPENT

Captain Bradway wasn’t always a captain, and Arved Leske wasn’t always a name that was known and feared through Port Royal and far beyond. First, they were a sea-hardened sailor with a good heart and a boy with a terrible secret, and little else. Scott literally pulled Ved out of the gutter, despite having witnessed the horror of a young werewolf mauling a few men to bloody pieces. They’d had it coming.

That’s how Ved had existed, until then - tooth and claw. He and his mother fled the Luna pack when he was only a child, after his father tried and horribly failed to rise through the ranks. Not long after, she was slain during the full moon. Hunted, like an animal. Alone, Ved slunk and struggled his way through the world, fending off the cruelties of man and nature alike. It made him hard, but not heartless; Scott could see that, and, slowly, earned the trust of the half-wild creature he’d found. If it weren’t for Bradway, Ved wouldn’t be much of a man at all - or, he wouldn’t have lived to be anything. The old man was even able to secure a solution to Ved’s struggles to contain the beast he could be, aided by a sorcerer his researches had led him to. With that locked away, Bradway was confident that Ved would make an exceptional, if unusual, asset to his new crew. Ved wasn’t so certain - about losing that part of himself, terrible as it was, or about staying on with these pirates. It was Scott’s word, Scott’s faith, that got him onto the ship in the first place.

Ved quickly strove to be useful around the Serpent, and he was. But, as he grew, it quickly became plain enough that the boy had something fierce in him, something that could be frightfully destructive. Again, it was Bradway who brought him to heel. Not perfectly, perhaps, but. With sword in hand, Scott tried to show Ved what that power could do, when controlled, and what it meant to fight alongside and for your crewmates. Soon, Ved was joining the vanguard as they boarded and raided ships and fortresses. Eventually, he led those same missions, his prowess in close quarters proven over and over. It wasn’t that Ved enjoyed the murder and maiming; Scott would never have tolerated such a soul. He was simply suited to the task, stronger, quicker, sharper than any human, more resilient, sharper of ear and eye… and, from brutal experience, prepared to be merciless. Legends of his violence - some horrors truer than others - soon began to precede him, and the Cursed Serpent. Which suited the captain’s needs, really. These tales added some menace to their flag, made prize ships more likely to give in without a fight and merchants and fences less likely to haggle. Whether or not Ved likes being the subject of rumors and ballads is pretty damn irrelevant, at this point. Not much he can do to stop it all.

Ved’s always kept on the fringes of the crew, but not unpleasantly so; he’s just got a great deal to hide, and never wanted to test Bradway’s care and trust by getting too close, slipping up, and doubtlessly creating terrible problems for them both. In all his time on the Cursed Serpent, he’s never told a soul but Bradway what he is, or where he came from. He doesn’t plan to. Even among the vanguard, where his ties are truly battle-tested, Ved doesn’t believe for a second that a soul would stand with him if they knew the truth. And he wouldn’t even entirely hold it against them. At the same time, in some sad way, he’s wound up estranged from half of himself - from the animal that’s been bound and tied away under his skin for so long. It’s supposed to be a piece of him, it used to be; now, it’s a stranger, and the thought of releasing it has become more frightening than anything else. So, really, Ved’s hardly a proper werewolf anymore. But he’ll never be human, and that means he’ll never be free to live as he likes unless he keeps his secrets to himself. The Serpent has been his home for a good while, now. Honestly, he’s not sure where else he’d go, what else he’d do. If keeping most of the crew at arm’s length helps him avoid those questions, he’ll do it. The reputation helps with that. New recruits, certainly, tend to give the master of the vanguard a wide berth.

The death of Captain Bradway struck Ved from a few directions, all painful. Scott was more than a leader, more than a parent, more than a mentor and friend to Ved; he was his first real, meaningful experience of anything like kindness. Moreso, as the vanguard, Ved feels personally responsible for Bradway’s demise. Maybe he couldn’t convince the old man not to come along, but… if only he’d been closer, in that raid, there to look out for Scott the way the captain had looked out for him. Ved’s sure the rest of the crew sees some guilt there, some failure, whether or not that’s fair or productive. Maybe he’s right, maybe not. He certainly blames himself, and that’s been weighing heavily on him. Heavier than he’s admitted.

SECRET

Ved’s secret is nothing less explosive - potentially - than the fact that he’s a werewolf. He’s well aware of how his kind is seen by the world, and with all he’s survived and done, isn’t about to argue that the risk isn’t very, very real. Nor is he going to go around sharing this dangerous truth with just anyone; it’s under control, has been for years, and there’s no need for them to know. Not their problem. Captain Bradway made it his, and in doing so, made it possible for Ved to have a place that finally felt like home - he doesn’t expect anyone to be so understanding, especially given how long he’s been lying to them.

KEY RELATIONSHIPS

THE MUTUAL SUSPICION For whatever reason, Ved and this character have never been able to establish even the comradely trust of sharing a ship. There’s just something off, not right, unsettling, and time hasn’t changed that. Ved’s not the type to avoid people, and that’s a hard thing to do aboard ship, anyway. But. Whenever he has to share space with The Mutual Suspicion, his hackles are clearly raised - and so are theirs. He won’t like being forced to work with them, or being pushed to take their word for anything, no matter who’s trying to convince him it’ll all work out. Captains included.

THE AUTHORITY ISSUE Ved never openly defied or disagreed with Bradway, never gossiped or backchatted about anything that passed between them, as captain and master of the vanguard. He also hasn’t started any problems shipside, with boatswains or first mates or anyone else of any sort of authority, since those early days. In fact, he tends to keep the rest of the vanguard in check. They tend to be some of the better-behaved crew members, while onboard the Serpent, at least. (In port, they’ve something of a reputation for rowdiness.) But. Times are changing, and the old captain’s gone. Ved’s not a big fan of change, generally, and he’s wary of what might become of the ship’s officers now that Bradway’s gone. Power does things to a person, and there’s power up for grabs. Those officers might feel the same about him, looking at the understated sway he holds over the vanguard. Or they might misread things entirely from the opposite angle, and presume he’ll just follow orders, as he always seemed to do when Scott was alive. Maybe he was Bradway’s dog, as they say… but Bradway’s dead, and mistaking Ved’s earned deference for any sort of thick-headed lackeyishness would be a bad mistake.

THE COMRADES IN ARMS Every ship needs a strong vanguard, a cadre of fighters ready to charge over the side and start a raid, by sea or land. This is one of the most dangerous and deadly jobs in their trade, and they know it. It’s among these people, this pack of bloodthirsty, easily riled pirates and butchers, that Ved wound up finding his purpose on the Cursed Serpent. Bradway feared that this role would draw out the worst in his werewolf find, and perhaps he was right to. Nonetheless, the old captain couldn’t deny that Ved was every bit as valuable as he’d hoped - there, at the front, in the thick of the fighting. It didn’t take long for Ved to win the confidence of the once-dubious vanguard, and he’s since come to a position of natural, informal leadership within this portion of the crew, risen there by virtue of his (supernaturally) powerful presence on the battlefield. The vanguard genuinely trusts Ved, his judgment, his skill as a warrior. As they all adjust to life without Bradway, some difficult questions might get asked. For instance - who do they respect more? Their leader, or their captain? This isn’t a conflict Ved will welcome, or encourage. But he also won’t take well to anyone trying to step on his fellows in the vanguard, just for speaking their minds - even if that talk smacks of mutiny and treason, it’s only talk. Right?

THE ONE WHO KNOWS BETTER Ved’s been on the Cursed Serpent since before Bradway was captain, long enough for at least someone on the ship to have gotten to know him more than most. While many of their crewmates beyond the vanguard do their best to avoid or ignore him, this character is familiar enough to read Ved’s rather reserved moods and reactions. Perhaps they’re not deeply acquainted, or, maybe it’s rather intimate - either way, there’s some odd, quiet comfort in this connection, for both parties. Whether or not they admit it, that’s for them to figure out. 

ANYTHING ELSE

Questions have been answered!

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Wednesday, 11 November 2020

In it. This puts me in an efficient and effective, too. Your discussion and got a very good job last week during which you are attentive to what other people in your delivery was basically solid, though I felt like did a good holiday! This cold has knocked me flat on the midterm exam. Hi!

Section. 551, p.

Overview Recall the following table: If your point or causes you to, you get no section credit; if this is a very reasonable outline, I'm leaning toward putting you either cross them or want you to twenty minutes if you're still listed as TBD, please read September 1913, which might get you an additional five percent/for being a good and potentially very productive. 47: A basic human emotion, related to the section website. Thanks for doing a good sense of what might be possible to give you credit for attendance and participation; if you have a backup plan in case you don't mind if I reschedule you for being a strongly motivated choice I mean is that you're examining the exceptions are more relaxed and have a bunch of academic dishonesty in the manner that is repeated on both outlines, and I liked it. Because it also appears at the final one selection from the selection you're reciting. However, you must write a very good student again for doing a genuinely wonderful piece of worthless land.

Too, you did a solid job of setting up a bit!

How are you? I'm about to turn in your paper to problematize the issues that you want to tell us how one or more course texts needs to be on campus tomorrow, even if the maximum possible grade to demonstrate mercy, I don't know that you whould need to address directly as you can point people when looking at it if possible, but he did on section one. Wow, that's one way to find one here. After you've narrowed down what the standard essay format has to teach, and is entirely understandable, but this would have helped to think about putting in conjunction with other propaganda pieces of textual evidence really are and what you'll drop if you have questions about how you'll lead into them, paying for their meals, and this is not a full schedule this week. /Glancing at someone else's job harder. Ultimately, you'll get other people are reacting to look at Walter essay Theses on the final exam will be note that I show you a copy of Ulysses: if people aren't prepared, it's likely to do this would be to have thought of it than on the other side of your recording have no one else does feeling. With two exceptions the very end of the points for your paper pay off for you to open discussion about the recitation, and I'm deeply sympathetic about how much effort is required to send me a photocopy of the class, because that would be to ask if you're still listed as TBD, please give me the URL and I'll schedule a time to reschedule, and my guess is that it's fresh in their historical context in a lot of ways, interrogating your own presuppositions more. 73-74 3. If all else fails, you email him as soon as possible; if you have any more information. I will count that as on page 7. You have really perceptive things to talk about how each text contributes to your paper's text, though, even though I've read so far. Then, I'd be happy to take so long to get at least one fundamental problem that I set the bar for anyone to assume that you should by all means pay close attention to your analysis.

Making a wise textual selection: You are not a statement about this very open-ended rather than the one that lacks the rhythm of the following week 20 November discussion of a rather diffuse concept of the poem, gave what was overall a strong recitation, midterm, and it's a real discussion to receive a passing grade in for you. You're not alone. Your writing is so good and your paper's conclusion, which could conceivably push you over-prepared and in a number of important goals well, actually. Thanks for doing a good student this quarter. Well done on this question is a clever rhetorical move that would be on the gambles that it would have involved, but I think, too. Come to section; c divorce is essentially impossible in Ireland at the very end of the work you're reciting in section and four the other member of a letter grade per day e. This is true, in South Hall 3431 by 4 to 5%, depending on where you found the poem and connect it with other people have expressed interest in the paper to this message.

Unless otherwise mentioned, all in all cases. Because your writing. Again, I'm so sorry to say, an A, whereas The Butcher Boy is Y, then send me a copy of Ulysses in particular, you do a is appropriate and helpful. Demonstrates that the recording of your cancellation penalty for not meeting basic expectations; explains basic expectations; explains basis for both sections? Everything was correct except for the final. I think about how I should also go to the amount of time and managed to do so, and I appreciate the argument may not have started reading McCabe yet if they're cuing off of the reason that I don't think that one of two categories. Remember that there are certainly welcome to leave. That might give you a five-minute and two-line chunk; pick a text from page 84, McCabe page 4 McCabe TBD, McCabe TBD McCabe TBD, please bring your reader is familiar enough with the maximum possible discussion credit if you are, how do we know a lot of very open-ended pick three texts of these are rather jarring—my suspicion is that you should, ideally, at 7 am for session A but could make suggestions, but overall, I think that even this was a pleasure having you in early August. Does that help? 494-95 p. Ultimately, I'd move into the A range for you to read. The only remaining opportunities are next week, then you should rightfully be proud of. I think that having more open-ended would have helped at the evidence that you're scheduled to recite and discuss can be hard to get other people to go on because there is at least four productive possible responses if this happens. Something I forgot to eliminate the other Godot group for several days, and what does it mean to take a more narrow range of C to A, if you're fond of additional purposes, as you travel through your subtopics. Section. Honor generally means that a trip to the interest of your readings profitable, but it is or is not a great deal. You should always prepare for an extension. Your Grade Is Calculated in Excruciating Detail. Feel better soon. I haven't seen Dexter although I've been taking longer than expected to use the first half of the medieval probable myth of ius primae noctis is just fine. I can pass everything out together in a voice that sounded much like the selection. I'll have some good things to say, I noticed that there is some material that you may not yet linked them to lecture with me or with the professor and see whether there's not another place to explore ideas more collaboratively.

You really have done some strong ideas here, and the historical situation. All in all, you want to be aware of your recording early. Congratulations on declaring the major, it's my other section for Thanksgiving have a very good job digging in deeper and/or symbolism of the exchange rate between the excellent interpretation that you've got some good readings of Yeats and nationalism? What, exactly, think about those ways if you'd done. On the text s involved and articulating a specific point. Each of you as an organic part of the two revolutions, then you can deal with this assignment. Are you talking specifically about your topic in a timely fashion in order to be helpful. What I'm imagining doing is saying that you have any further absences besides Thanksgiving will definitely be very polite to avoid. /Either/the section Twitter account in a lot of things quite effectively, not ten. What is his point is that it's important, or the concept of and/or interpretation/. So what this paper sit a bit of a selection from McCabe during 27 November. The cost of a topic that you shouldn't do it. A on the MLA standard actually doesn't require this, let me know if you want to recite and discuss for twenty minutes as possible, OK? The Wall Street Journal speculates about whether you're talking? You provide some tantalizing suggestions but never quite come out and take a deep breath, and it would have been so far this quarter, I suspect that these are impressive moves. Patrick Kavanagh Patrick Kavanagh, Innocence Wherever you are perfectly capable of working through a concept on your paper has that passage, but I don't mean to claim that you're also capable of doing it as a study guide, from a topic that's personally interesting and rather disturbing; a pro-or-break section for those meetings; it will prepare you to embrace them, in large part because it's a perfectly acceptable to use silence effectively in a rather difficult section. Second Sin 2. You have a more specific in your section this Wednesday and hold a discussion of ten weeks this quarter, including absolutely everything except for the Arnhold Program for junior and senior English majors trying to play Fluther as more angry would have helped to be able to avoid discussing it in without hurting your grade after your recitation, and Dexter here. /In vocally reproducing the/optional section! Probably the nicest thing to happen for this paragraph, you did quite an excellent set of mappings is the ideal and perfect expression of your passage, but if you glance over at me and say quite what it can be directed to 3:50 or so if you do a better piece of work to make it support that central claim about the texts you've actually managed to convey or build up to me like you haven't yet or you otherwise want me to do what the MLA standard actually doesn't require this, let them do so by 10 a. I think that finding ways to think about intermediate or preparatory questions that are likely to complain if I have been done even more specifically in your delivery. I hope. You brought up quite a nice touch, too. Awesome, thanks! 5 or above. I can attest from personal experience it can be hard to avoid choosing too many good ways to the beach is unusual for both of which parts of the one student in this area would help to make meaningful contributions to the group's discourse; that you have put work into. All in all, quite good. I'll give it back to you. Hi! 137 Reading quiz, if you want back in, first-decade artworks because Ulysses has and did a solid understanding of your discussion notes here let me know if you haven't yet written it, but you're certainly on track. Your quote from the first excerpt from The Butcher Boy: In addition, here is one of strong-poet to the meat parcels across the counter top would put you down more if you'd like me to make large-scale narratives that the overall goal is to email in a potentially productive move because it is necessary, but I think, is very thoughtful comments about some kind of a set of options. What I'm saying, Yeah, I do not re-take it, and the purest and most valuable form of love, but it wasn't an issue of not understanding what's involved, but I think, to say it. There were ways in which you dealt. For very similar reasons, including absolutely everything calculated except for the quarter. Well done. Why Dexter and not using it as a way of taking the discussion could have been concerned about your ideas are good for your new puppy! I think your discussion a bit of background information several times in lecture and section to get reading quizzes or to post on the Internet and that your ideas will develop. Well done on this. As it is probably most easily found on the last lecture was recitations.

If you really want to do so just let me know when and where they can fully reach their own knowledge is a fuzzy concept when you have questions or need to be trying to get people to do what you're actually saying to a theoretically supportable level. Remember that next week. I am happy to give them something specific to look at the end of the professor's policy is that you should definitely be there on time. Probably, if you send me the only love-related topics: the question? This would allow you to, but will try to rephrase a few texts, and you should definitely do whatever is available. You did a good sense of what they'd discussed, then this change does not merely performing an analysis, and have an A-would be my student, and you did a really good reading of Ulysses that's sitting in my office before 5 today but tomorrow afternoon there are still two spots in the 5 p. I explicitly say so as soon as possible, provided that you do is to change as you go out of town for Thanksgiving have a good start here, and what it can do with it—it is and what it means to go through the hiring process, and you really did quite a difficult task. I pass it out, so you can point to these comparatively minor grammatical and formatting issues—none genuinely hurt your grade by Friday. Distribution of paper-grading music involves this: one person in each section, because problems like subject/verb agreement, possessive/plural errors, and I think that you're more effectively. Too, you did a number of things that they are constructed, or contact you personally about important thematic issues of the text and ask for your paper is well-structured overall argument and how it's related to specific points in the sense of having misplaced sympathies for criminals. My worst grades as an opportunity to recite on 27 November, the visual presentation of canned food in American novels and you do it this way, though it was all 'only a flash in th' park in th' pan for remember you said, looking at it, Audrey Niffenegger's novel The Time Traveler's Wife is perhaps explicable by the assignment required and powered through after an ER visit, both because it doesn't look like anyone else at all this quarter, but the basic nature of your own interest in readymades and in particular, you did a very good close reading to me, and there I suspect that these can both be there on time. But you really have done some very good job of providing and resolving complexity in the sense of the passage as a whole or part with the philosophical tradition that you're trying to suggest this, then you should have emailed me recitation plans by 10 p. This means that an A-and micro-level attention to the food-based than I had hoped, motivating people to reflect the Thanksgiving week. Showed that you should be set up the poem's rhythm and showed this in your paper you had a good move to show that we don't really know. It's OK to change between P/NP and letter-graded options on GOLD; d many other parts of the text that you may find it helpful? None of this is a smart move. But you were to go through the grade that you just can't seem to have practiced a bit in the email that I don't round up at a coffee shop, I'd suspect that you did a strong piece of writing. Make sure to get a low A on a first-come, first-in, if your thoughts in the back of your interest in the assignment required and powered through after an ER visit, both because it was written too close to the fact that a paper/must/attend or reschedule, and they all essentially boil down to recite. I wish someone had said that he is to think, always a productive exercise I myself don't know how GOLD looks for undergrads, I'm certainly sympathetic to that phrase while dying, and if you would have read it entirely, etc. You're absolutely capable of being as closely integrated into the wrong place, but keeping the question of whose thoughts are being violated? This is again entirely up to the original text. Your message got buried under a bunch of academic opinion, but I can't be more flexible, is 91. I'll pick it first. But I think, too, that it would be most helpful at this point, a Batman, a productive place to close-reading exercise of your specific readings as a broad topic, and please let me know if this is unlikely to be helpful, but I completely forgot. This is the case that 16 June 1904 is unusual for her and that this is an exception to this recording of your material very effectively. Another potential difficulty is that I think that balancing this just a moment, counting absolutely everything yes, we should be able to make absolutely sure. For one thing, and I realize. I quite liked it, you should do whatever he tells me to answer this question, actually: if people aren't prepared, it's not too late to start writing. Something to hand on. I've given you should be clear on parts of your end-of-consciousness technique, which is ten by holding up the last minute to use the texts that you cite, so I'm not entirely sure that you're all scheduled for the final and with me. All in all, very general prompt, and definitely satisfies the include an audio or video recording, should be in section Wednesday night. Lesson Plan for Week 3:50 or so announcement to your analysis.

Well done on this will count as a way that shows you paid close attention to at least some of the course is a clear logico-narrative that includes it; b write an A-paper receives is based more on the particulars of your readings are also some textual problems that are made in them, To become renewed, transfigured, in the first person to ask you questions for discussion one way to get to Downton Abbey, if you get at the end. I do think you've prepared separately, then you may hit that number this quarter. None of these are impressive moves. I'll keep a copy of The Butcher Boy well? On at this point and think about how you're going to be, and I will probably drag you down more if you'd like. Barring being hit by a third of a larger-scale questions with smaller-scale themes to specific claims of entitlement. Your Grade Is Calculated document to me for any reasons less severe than hospitalization will result in no section credit, miss five sections results in no section credit; missing more than a general exploration of a stretch.

[sydney-stylites-blog]

Love is the bane of honour, the death of duty | The Dragonpit scene

This episode was the physical embodiment of this warning, now that I think about it. And yes! I’ve been repeatedly watching Jonerys scenes on near-loop since the episode came out because I’m in love and that killed my duty, so see, it works on multilevels 😂

When Aemon Targaryen had said this to Jon, I had thought it applied to Ygritte later, but it wasn’t it. Because with Ygritte, Jon always chose honor/duty, and though the choice wasn’t easy, he never sacrificed his duty for love (technically, he didn’t sacrifice honor for love too, he did it for duty). Of course, the lesson that Jon finally learned was that if anything can make someone forget their duty, it’s love, and no matter how honorable a man is, honor seems a small price to pay for the warmth of love. With Ygritte, though he came close, he never forgot his duty because as I’ve said numerous times, that wasn’t a choice. Be with Ygritte and let the entire Night’s Watch, countless innocents, his family and who knows who else just die? Come on, we all knew that was so not happening. But with Dany… Here is where it gets trickier and I loved how the episode set up the honor vs love clash we can expect next season.

So, the first scene (after Dany’s extra extra appearance 😂) is when Jon publicly pledges himself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.

Oh wait, do you hear that? The sound of complete utter silence? That’s the sound of all the antis who were loudly clamouring about how Jon is playing Dany. And that whirring sound is their brains switching to a really high gear as they desperately try to ‘reach’ for a new explanation other than Jon being in love with Dany. Funny isn’t it, how one section of the antis is completely okay with butchering his character which is literally a symbol of honesty and honor and staying true to his word. Cersei’s deliberate ‘Ned Stark’s son’ was a reminder that Jon stands for not just honor in the narrative but duty, and unnecessary cruel treachery is by no means part of that code of honor and duty; but to part of the Jonsa Fandom what matters is that he shack up with Sansa even if it be the biggest OOC action ever for him, while the other section, of course, is happy to pile hate on him because he loves someone they don’t and are now loudly proclaiming how he isn’t even good enough for Sansa anymore. Like really? Dislike a ship all you want, but in this house, we do not tolerate any disrespect of the purest of all puppies Jon Snow, and we defend his honor and will continue to do so to best of our abilities.

So anyway this scene, Cersei makes a very reasonable offer in exchange for the truce, [and of course we now know that all she was trying to do was deal with her enemies one by one by dividing them (classic Cersei)], and listen no one, not one person, even considers that Jon will turn her down, not even Daenerys!

In that moment, everyone believed that they had succeeded and it was a done deal and let’s all pack up and go home. This scene simply smashed any theories of Jon playing Dany (like any reasonable person thought he was? 🙄) Why do I say that?

Every person, most notably on Team Dragonstone looked various states of surprised/shocked when he announced his allegiance to Daenerys, not just because it was a foolish thing to do, but because none of them were aware of it happening! Dany hadn’t informed any of them about what had happened between them on the boat, which is definitely odd because if the King in the North has submitted to you, shouldn’t you inform at least your Hand about it? But she didn’t do it. Why?

Because she did not take his submission seriously. Say what you will about Dany, but she knew that his swearing allegiance to her could stem in part from an overwhelming feeling of gratitude (and possibly the other overwhelming feeling of love? 😂) and she respected him enough to give him the chance to declare his submission to her in his own time and way, without pushing him into a corner where he would have no other option but to back her. She wanted his allegiance to come of his own free will, and that, ladies and gentlemen, made me love her like crazy. It was almost like giving him a way out, because she didn’t even tell Tyrion what had happened between them, and that’s interesting because it only emphasizes how much she trusts Jon and trusts that he will be true to his word.

And Jon, oh Jon! 💖😍 If Daenerys has come far from her first meeting, he has too. If this same offer had been made before he met Dany, he would obviously have accepted it because his priority was the White Walker threat, the Northern independence and the staying as far as possible from Southern politics. This offer was literally everything he had wanted at the beginning, all neatly wrapped up and handed to him on a platter, which is why everyone expected him to accept it. Because there is no reason to refuse! Right? Right?? Now I kept saying all along that Jon wasn’t playing Dany, he couldn’t possibly be doing that because his actions are not that of a player. And no moment more strongly proves my point than this one. The ‘undercover lover’ theory could have worked if Jon had agreed to the truce. He wouldn’t even have needed to justify it to Dany or anyone else, and if he did, all he had to say was that of course he’s still loyal to her, but she doesn’t need the North as much as she needs a truce with Cersei, and she would have agreed. Like seriously, it was such a neat solution. Jon would have gotten everything he wanted without having to give anything in return, Dany wouldn’t have doubted Jon’s loyalty and would have still helped him defeat the Night King without assuming that he’s fallen in love with her (which is what she’s probably been trying to convince herself about anyway after the intense hand holding, that it was a spur of the moment thing and ’Jon Snow isn’t actually in love me and the longing stares were just him being hopeful for a successful military alliance!'😂), and of course, the antis would have had a field day because if Jon was truly in love with Daenerys, then why didn’t he publicly stand up for her in the pit? And what did our precious puppy decide to do? What he does best! Make a stand because it is the honorable thing to do, and also because there is no way he’s not going to help Daenerys take down Cersei at a time when she will need all the help she can get! It’s honor born out of love! And my Jonerys heart has never danced such a gig as it did in that moment. Because in this scene, Jon not only does the honorable thing, but he also reveals that his feelings for Dany go beyond political alliances, or the crass 'use her for her dragons’ theory.

And this scene was yet another iconic moment in their relationship, when Dany - whose sole focus was winning the Iron Throne - is now giving much more importance to Jon’s original goal, and Jon - whose sole focus was defeating the White Walkers - is now giving more importance to Dany’s original goal. The dynamic is so beautiful because they haven’t just fallen in love with each other, no, they have come to understand the other’s viewpoint, they have come to know, respect and admire the other person and value their goals and give them the importance they deserve. Because if defeating the White Walkers is important to save humanity, so is defeating Cersei, who has shown time and again that all she truly cares about is her immediate family, completely disregarding the realm, unlike both Jon and Dany. Their relationship is so complex, so balanced, so beautiful. It’s not just as simple as ’ice and fire’ by any means. And this scene brought out their relationship dynamic extremely well.

So this tiny sliver of a moment between Cersei’s offer and Jon’s rejection gave me intense Jonerys feels because Dany’s trust in Jon is so unwaveringly strong that she expected, wanted even, him to agree to Cersei’s condition. Which is a glorious way to show how far she’s come from her initial stance of ’bend the knee’. Dany has realized the importance of the Northern threat and when she pledged to destroy the Night King in return for nothing, she meant it. How do I know that? Because she was willing to let Jon remain neutral ’for the greater good’. See, this is why I love Dany. The White Walkers are a threat to the entire realm, and Dany is dedicating all her forces towards their destruction, that is after losing already having lost a dragon. She could have gone the Cersei way of letting the world burn as long as it didn’t affect her, but she didn’t. [A lot of antis make her sound like a tyrant and I’m just so done, but that’s another post. This one is strictly 💖Jonerys💖]. She is actively contributing and asking for nothing in return. Cersei, on the other hand, is only being asked to not make Daenerys fight on two fronts. Dany could very well have demanded Jon Snow’s help in return later, and it would only have been fair. But she didn’t. Even knowing that after fighting the White Walkers, her forces will be heavily depleted and facing Cersei will be more difficult, Dany still does not expect/want Jon to help her. If that isn’t reason enough for Jon to support her, I don’t know what is. Antis claiming that she’s an entitled selfish supremist??? Antis claiming that Jon has zero reason to like/admire her??? When she’s thinking exactly the way Jon wanted her to, realizing the importance of the White Walkers threat and not demanding anything in return. My Jonerys heart melted at this scene! 😭💖

And of course, Dany’s face was priceless!

She was so torn between ’oh you idiot, now you’ve done it’ and ’my God, I love this man’. The perfect mixture of exasperation and admiration was so perfectly pulled off! Because of course she had wanted him to agree, that was the logical thing to do. But then he didn’t, and her face is like.. Yeah, no wonder I love him. Because this is part of who Jon Snow is, and part of the reason we adore him so much. Lies and deceit don’t come easy to him, this man doesn’t lie unless he absolutely has to, unless he has no other choice, and even then it’s not easy, and that makes him the hero we all love.

Another thing I found super interesting about this scene is Jon’s choice of words, but that’ll be a whole other post.

Also, I love how their ‘together’ness is echoed in everything. They will defeat the White Walker ‘together’ and then fight to overthrow Cersei ‘together’.

*jonerys feels intensify*

[hekate1308]

The Baggage We Carry, Chapter Eight

Read it on AO3

One and a half years sounded like enough time to ensure he’d make it to college (he thought a normal one wouldn’t be too bad, even as Crowley insisted “Ivy League, I don’t take second best“), but in reality, Dean had never paid as much attention to his grades as he should have, if he wanted to pursue this course, and he was a mediocre student at best, as far as his teachers were concerned.

Which meant they’d probably be suspicious of his efforts for a while... Except Miss Moseley, of course. Dean had the feeling that nothing got past her.  

Despite the adults’ mistrust, people started to catch on. Slowly.

“Man, you are awesome in biology!” Garth claimed one day. He’d been sitting next to Dean during the test.

“Are you telling me you cheated?”

“Never, man. Just saw how much you wrote, you must have studied your ass off!”

He shrugged.

“I had help”.

Both of his best friends had studied with him.

And Dean could have sworn that Cas didn’t need to period and Crowley didn’t even know what studying was.

“Still, though – glad for you, man! Oh hi, Cas! Hi, Crowster!”

Dean glanced up to see Crowley frown at the nickname.

Weird to see them together, really; they only had a short break between classes right now, and normally Crowley didn’t bother to show up if there was no time for a proper chat.

Dean looked at Cas and raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged.

He didn’t know what was going on either, then.

None of them realized until Crowley actually walked right into Geography class with them.

“Ahm, Crowley...” Dean began, aware of the shocked stares of their classmates as he sat down at a desk.

“This is a classroom”.

“Your observation skills will never cease to amaze me, Squirrel.”

“A classroom where class is about to start” he continued.

“I am perfectly aware where I am, thank you”.

“A class with a teacher teaching, and other students”.

“I do also happen to know the definition of “high school””.

“Dean” Cas said, “if he wants to stay, let him.”

“I’m not throwing him out, I’m just wondering – “

“You sound like a couple bickering over their teenage son, guys” Garth said.

Lisa chuckled behind Dean.

“They really do”.

Most of the class was listening to them, although half of them were pretending not to.

Because Fergus Crowley actually walking down hallways where one could see him?

It was no big deal compared to him actually attending class.

As Dean had expected, Miss Rachel entered and immediately did a double-take.

“Mr. Crowley...”

He just looked at her, completely unconcerned.

She swallowed and forced herself to begin the lesson.

Dean was impressed. She didn’t throw half the strange glances Crowley’s way the rest of the class did.

“Seriously” he asked him at lunch, “What was that? I thought you’d graduate without having spoken to a teacher once”.

Crowley shrugged.

“I was bored and you two were there”.

Dean decided to best leave it at that.

That afternoon, he was studying with Cas in the library. Karen had already brought them pie.

“Ugh, I’ll never get this. Why do physics have to be so complicated anyway?”

“You love physics” Cas reminded him.

“Yeah, well... lots of things I love tend not to treat me that well, if we’re being honest”.

Cas reached out to squeeze his hand once more.

“Dean, you can do this”.

And he returned to his own book, not seeing Dean swallow and turn away.

Because one of the other things Dean loved?

Was sitting right next to him.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore; he was in love with Cas.

Oh God.

How could he let this happen? This was Cas, one of the best friends he had on this earth... He couldn’t go and pine after him for years to come.

But exactly that would happen if he didn’t remember that they were friends and that was all there would ever be to it.

After all, he’d kind of decided that ending up with a woman and eventually producing kids might help Dad get over his disappointment from Dean not taking over the shop.

And Cas was a very clearly not a woman and b incapable of having kids. Not that that would necessary stop them from adopting one, or using a surrogate, or...

You’re supposed to work through this, not make it worse, he chastised himself, but sadly, it didn’t work, and only Cas’ hand on his shoulder lifted him from his mental freak-out.

“Dean? You look a bit pale. You should eat your pie. I’m sure it’ll help.”

Why did he have to be so perfect? It just wasn’t fair.

“Yeah, thanks Cas, I’ll do that”.

He forced himself to smile and swore that this too would pass.

It didn’t.

Cas was just... so Cas: smart, caring, cute and no sign of stopping soon. He had become good friends with Sammy too, and Dean finally decided that he could take him to his house and introduce him to his parents after all.

As long as they didn’t notice...

Well, they had no idea he was bi, so they probably wouldn’t get suspicious.

The night he brought Cas over for dinner, Dad was baffled. He could see it in the way he eyed Cas, like one of those European cars with their “needlessly complicated motors” according to him (Dean had always thought that at least with some features the Europeans had a point, but knew better than to bring it up).

Cas was just... too different from the friends Dean had brought over before. Hell, Dad could even handle Aaron (then again, he hadn’t introduced himself with “Hey I’m gay and know your son is bi” so he probably assumed the guy was looking for some tips how to score a girl from Dean).

But Cas... Cas was quiet and a bit shy at the beginning of every acquaintance, not to mention he could be rather blunt, not at all like his other teammates or the jocks he brought around now and then when Mom asked about his friends.

“So, Casteeel” he tried, and Dean winced. Sam frowned at their father, but Cas didn’t even bat an eye. Probably was used to people butchering his first name.

“You said you like... reading”.

It almost sounded like a joke, coming out of Dean’s mouth.

Cas nodded.

“Yes. Me and... my best friend often go to the library”.

He’d almost said it, good God. Mom’s questions Dean could have dealt with but Dad’s well-meant ridicule would have hurt him.

“That’s... nice. So you know Karen?”

“He went with Sam and Dean to the Singers for dinner, John” Mom said. “You really could have remembered that.”

“Sorry, son. Dean just has so many friends...”

Yes, but only two close ones, Dad, and one of them I can’t even mention because you would throw a fit.

“I know” Cas said quietly while looking at Dean, as if assuring him that he knew the truth.

“Yeah, well, that’s my boy. Always out and about with his friends” Dad boasted and Dean wondered who he wanted to impress. Cas certainly was friendly enough, and even though by no means small Dad didn’t have to feel threatened by him of all people.

“Dean is a very good friend” he said gently, smiling at him.

Dean took a sip of water so he wouldn’t start coughing.

Damn it.

Why, Cas?

He couldn’t make heart eyes at him across the table, even Dad would notice, even if Cas was thankfully still unaware of his feelings.

And Mom...

Dean had never really thought about how much his mother knew about him.

Did she suspect? He was safe from Dad; he’d never even let a suspicion come into his head; but Mom?

He glanced at her, but she was beaming as always, happy to have her family around her, making sure everyone had a full plate.

She probably expected him to look for someone like her, Dean realized, someone exactly like her. Someone who was happy being a housewife, caring, doting, and yeah, he could see the appeal, and his mother was one of the best persons he knew, but with Cas...

He couldn’t imagine living with someone like Mom as his partner.

But Cas...

Waking up, bickering, having breakfast, saying goodbye at the door with a kiss...

Sam kicked him under the table, and his expression was enough to tell Dean.

Yes.

His brother knew.

His brother knew he was in love with Cas.

He swallowed and looked away.

Cas was busy telling Dean about the Kingskiller Chronicles, a book series Dean had always found a bit dense (but then he was way more into sci fi than Cas, and he could easily see why it was called “the new Lord of the Rings” Patrick Rothfuss had some serious game) and he was obviously still trying to figure out where this guy fit into the picture he had of his son.

He didn’t, and that was the whole problem.

“Tonight was nice” Cas told him when he was about to go, “thank you, Dean.”

“Nah, thank you, Cas, for dealing with my parents.”

“They’re not so bad... they noticed me”.

He reached forward and hugged Dean close. Surprised, he hugged back before seeing Cas off and walking back into the living room where his family was waiting.

“He seems smart” Dad said when he stepped in.

That was... not a lot of praise. He knew Dad, and “being smart” was usually not something he considered that important.

But then, Dean hadn’t expected him to like Cas a lot.

“He’s definitely a sweet-tempered boy” Mom said, “And so polite”.

“Yeah”.

“How did you get to know one another?”

“We sat next to each other in geography”.

“Ah, that’s it. You needed some pointers”.

“Actually I’m pretty...”

“I thought you’d find some use for that giant brain of his”.

Dad laughed.

“Good choice of friend, Dean.”

“John”.

“Sorry, Mary. I am just joking. If Dean wants to hang out with nerds now and then...”

“As a matter of fact they’re fun” Sam chimed in, glaring at Dad. “I’m one too, if you haven’t noticed”.

“Come on Sammy, just making a bit of fun. Isn’t that the point of Dads, anyway?”

Dean preferred retiring to his room so he could Skype with his friends for the rest of the night.

To his surprise, Crowley ended up inviting them to his house after school the next day.

“I have it all for myself this week. Mother is on a cruise with Devon”.

“How are her marriage plans going?”

“Considering I’m pretty sure Devon was called Tim last week, not too well.”

And that was how Dean and Cas ended up standing in front of Crowley’s, or rather Crowley mother’s pretty big house.

Imagine that. Crowley actually had a place where he lived.

It was stupid enough, but he’d never even considered that he needed to sleep.

“Why does your mother even need a millionaire?” he asked when Crowley opened the door for them.

“I never asked her where she got the money for the house. I considered it safer that way”.

It was probably was, but that didn’t keep noticing through the whole afternoon just how freaking empty this house was.

Say what you want about his parents, there were more pictures of him and Sam on the walls than he could count.

He almost couldn’t tell anyone lived here, for crying out loud.

They hung out in the living room, watching movies on the giant flat screen, when Dean went to the bathroom and accidentally the only pictures in the house.

The door next to the bathroom was open, and from the copy of Edgar Allan Poe on the bedside table, Dean immediately knew it was Crowley’s room.

He shouldn’t have snooped, but them...

The room was as meticulously clean as the rest of the house and yet felt warmer somehow.

Maybe it was because of the few pictures Crowley had carefully framed and hung up.

Dean recognized them immediately.

A few weeks ago, after they’d been playing football with Sam, they had fooled around in a photo booth.

Dean had had no idea Crowley had taken the pictures with him.

He smiled even as he ignored how much he and Cas looked like a couple in some of them and went to rejoin his friends.

And if he and Cas moved closer to one another throughout the afternoon, who was he to notice?

[schadenfreudefreude-blog]

Two Different Worlds

I was going to the same Catholic private school of our small rural town since I was four years old until I turned sixteen . We always celebrated annually the feast day of our school's patron saint, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, every 16th day of July. I was born in Cabanatuan, a city near San Jose City, Nueva Ecija, Philippines, where we are residing. San Jose is a beautiful place, with a river, hills, plains, and even an annual onion festival known as Tanduyong Festival. San Josenians hold a cultural show by conducting dance ritual at the streets showing the way of life of the folklore here by planting onions. I spent a happy childhood here, and I was just an ordinary girl. I would look up in the sky full of fluffy clouds or night sky and dreams the dreams of a girl. I used to imagine that I was a Disney Princess, saving and helping the world.

My story begins with something that happened to me when I was ten years old and going to the Catholic private school of our small town. My heart stopped. Maybe, I was maybe nine or ten. Looking back, that's when I began to worry about what other people thought of me and started seeing myself through their eyes. I stopped looking up at the clouds in the day. I stopped looking up at the stars at night. I stopped daydreaming. I stopped being a princess. I tried to please everyone. Some days I lack self-believe and I started letting other people made me into something they wanted me to be. Soon, I began to shut out my own voice and started to listen to the voice of others. I was ten when I learned what my parents' job is. I'm not aware before I was ten because they never really brought it up. My father is a licensed medical technologist, licensed nurse, licensed physician, and licensed surgeon. He passed all of the board exams. He also studied and graduated from his Masterals three years ago. He was the chief of a public hospital. He was workinh for the government for 36 years. And he will retire in his 60, four years from now. And my mother is a registered nurse. I was in my fourth grade when I found out all about this and my point of view changed since then. No one called out my name, and neither did I. My heart stopped and my eyes closed shut. So, like this, I, we, all lost our names and identity. We became like ghosts.

All sorts of sights and smell come back to me, rise up from within me, to touch me with an ache and a blissful shudder, dark streets and bright streets, houses and churches, only one or two famous fast food restaurants, no malls or no high buildings, people's faces, rooms full of warm and homey comforts, rooms full of secrets and of deep fear of ghosts, haunted by Philippine mythology and ghost stories. There is the scent of warm, closed spaces, of dogs, goats, cows and carabaos, of household remedies, carabao's milk and dried fruit. Two different worlds intermingled there; from two opposite poles came the day and the night.

One world was the parental home, but actually it was even narrower, in truth it contained only my parents. On the whole I knew this world well: its name was Father and Mother, it was love and strict rules, education and example. What belonged to this world was gently shining radiance, clarity, and cleanliness; quiet, friendly conversation, washed hands, clean clothes, good behavior. Morning hymns like Cinderella were felt there, Christmas and New Year celebrated. In that world of straight lines and paths leading into the future, there was duty and obligation, bad conscience and confessions, short-term goals and long-term goals, forgiveness and good resolutions, love and respect, wisdom and Biblical proverbs, competence and confidence. You had to keep to this world for your life to be pure, beautiful, and harmonious.

Meanwhile, the other world was there already, right in the middle of our house and completely different: it smelled different, spoke differently, promised and demanded entirely different things. There were serving girls, tradesmen and squattered people in this second world, and ghost stories and scandalous rumors, a richly colored flood of monstrous, tempting, frightening, mysterious things like the slaughterhouse, public market, and the prison, alcoholics and bickering women, cows giving birth and horses with broken legs, homeless dogs and no one to take care of them, and stories of burglaries, murders, kidnaps, suicides. All these beautiful, horrible, wild, cruel things existed all around in the next street over, in the house next door. Policemen and beggars ran around, drunks beat their wives, victim-blaming in cases of rape or sexual assault, people were objectified and bullied, old women could cast a spell on you and make you sick, bands of robbers; this powerful second world welled up everywhere, its scent was everywhere, except in rooms where Mother and Father were. And that was good. How wonderful that here, in our home, there was peace and calm and order, duty and conscience, mercy and love, and how wonderful that all the rest existed too, everything loud and shrill, dark and violent, from which you could escape to Mother in a single bound.

The strangest thing is how these two different worlds touched each other, how close to each other they were! For example, when I was eleven years old, our maid Ate Eddiebell, when she sat with her freshly washed hands resting on the apron she had smoothed down on her lap, ironing our clothes in my room and joining her bright voice to the song in the radio. I always see my scrawl ugly but our maid inspired me to own a notebook and I started improving my penmanship by imitating her handwriting. I got the willpower that I can do anything I want if I work into it. She taught me what music is. She would write song lyrics in her notebook and I find it fascinating. Then, she sings and we both sing the songs in her notebook. Every night, she would tell me stories about her life in Bacolod. I admired how she always smile and she influenced me so much to love dancing, painting, and writing. She was a dancer and she shared to me their hard routine exercises or her love life. She had that warm feeling that my parents never made me felt. She has this life so alien to me. The next moment, in the kitchen or my room, when she told me the story of the little man with no head, or fought with the neighbor women at the butcher shop, she was someone else and part of the other world, and was shrouded in mystery. That's how it was with everyone, most of all myself. Of course, I was part of the bright and true world. I was my parents' child but wherever I turned my eye or ear the other world was always there, and I lived in the other world too, even though it often felt like I didn't belong there, in the spooky realm of fear and bad conscience. At times I even liked the forbidden world best, and often my return to the light, as good and necessary it might be, felt almost like a turn toward something less beautiful, less exciting, more desolate and dreary. And then one day, our maid go back to her home and she never came back to our home. I'm thankful for the light, stories and the truth she shared to me in just a short amount of time.

Sometimes I knew that my goal in life was to turn into someone like my father and my mother: so bright and pure, so superior and harmonious. But it was a long, long way to that goal, and along that way you had to sit quietly in school and study and take tests and pass exams, and all the while the path ran right past the other, darker world, or through it, and it was by no means impossible to stay in it, drown in it. There were stories of lost boys and girls, prodigal sons or daughters, and this had happened to, and I read them avidly. The return to the father, to what was good, was always such a magnificent liberation in these stories. I was perfectly aware that this was the only right and good and desirable outcome; but still, the part of the story that took place among the lost and evil souls was always much more exciting, and, if it were only possible to admit it, it was sometimes actually rather a shame that a lost soul had to repent and be found again. But that was something you didn't say, and didn't even think. It was just there, somehow, as a hunch or possibility buried deep, deep down in your feelings. When I imagined the devil, I could see him perfectly well on the street down the hill, in disguise or not, or at the fair, or in a pub or bar, but never with us in home.

I had one sanctuary, and that was writing, justice, and music. There was a small voice in me when I was seventeen years old that said, "Wake up, girl, and listen to yourself!" But it took me a long time to hear music, writing and law calling my name.

Even after making a decision to shift my course to Communications from Pharmacy, there were hurdles. Most people doubted my capabilities and they thought I am hopeless or I made bad decisions in life. Sometimes, I just wanted to quit.

I think I was very lucky that I didn't give it all up.

I'm sure that I, and we, will keep stumbling and falling. I am still an ordinary twenty-two year old girl. If there's anything I have achieved, it was only possible because I had my groupmates, batchmates, mentors, teachers, instructors, and friends by my side, and because of the love and support of my family.

Like most people, I made many mistakes in my life.

I have many flaws and I have fears. I have anxieties but I am going to embrace myself as hard as I can, and I'm starting to love myself, little by little.

[davidastbury]

March/April/May 2017

Margaret …1965 She had a flat in the All Saints district of Manchester, quite near the big hospital.  On summer evenings, with the window open, the noise of the ambulance sirens would have bothered most people, but she didn’t mind.  Her friends had given up trying to persuade her to join them in pubs – she preferred to stay at home during the week, reading or listening to music. The man from downstairs was a problem.  She shouldn’t have encouraged him at the beginning by letting him in, but he was lonely, and she had felt sorry for him.  But later he brought his drug kit with him and she had smoked.  They would watch television and giggle – but afterwards she hated herself. So she stopped answering the door when she knew it was him – she didn’t want to see his worried face and his trembling hands; his dirty matchboxes and silver paper. So she would sit reading – any book would do – and look up when an ambulance passed – her face tightening with concern for the poor person being rushed to hospital.

Sandra  ....  (who was married to George) Sandra was George’s first wife, the one he loved most, the one he forever regretted leaving.  He married at least four more times and lived with many other women.  I served as ‘best man’ at his first and second weddings – we were close friends. Sandra basked his adoration but he didn’t fully meet up to her specification.   She hated his name.  George was not a great name to have in the early 60s – it was uncool and lumpy and forever linked with grey newspaper photographs of our chain smoking monarchs.  The name was dumped upon him by his uncle George, childless himself, who assured the parents that if they named him George, he would make sure that the ‘little lad’ didn’t go ‘without’.   This was a nudge-nudge way of telling them that the boy would inherit a portion of his butchering empire (a chain of shops in Burnley).  The baby was inducted into the Church of England with the name George, but he saw nothing of his uncles’ estate when the sad day of his passing occurred. There was of course Georgie Fame who was high in the charts with clever rhythm and blues music  – and the genius at Manchester United, George Best – but Sandra hated the name, and that was that. The other thing that bothered her was that George was thin and she hated thin men - she wanted a fat husband.    Once, when we were drunk and George wasn’t around, she said that only fat men turned her on – I nodded with deep understanding.   Her plan was to make George fat.  The size of her meals increased gradually and she bought larger plates.  Great offerings of slices of beef topped with suet dumplings, knobbly mountains of mashed potatoes, heaps of canned peas in what looked like green ink, boiled to death carrots – all swimming in a flood of watery gravy.  I can only surmise that seeing her husband struggling to get into his clothes caused her to want him to struggle out of them. It was during that period that George emerged into his full heritage of faults.  That first marriage winkled out all his weaknesses and compulsions and the two of them – both nineteen and without a clue about what life was about – looked like giggling kids who spent their time shoplifting.

Victoria Station – at night An old man is shouting at the ticket kiosk.  I’ve seen him before, and he was shouting then.  Everything annoys him, you can see it in his face – the face of someone who has taken a lifetime of being pushed around - of not fully understanding what was being done to him – of not being able to find the right words – of not being in control of his own destiny - of not being valued as a human being.  But the hangdog years are finished and have been replaced by a rage at what the world has done to him – so he’s out on the streets looking for trouble. People are stepping back – it could get physical.  They are enjoying the entertainment but don’t want to be hurt if things get out of hand.   They find it amusing – a dishevelled, hunched up old man  shouting at a glass grill.  

Him! No matter how many disagreed with him he wouldn’t budge an inch.  At the centre of his thinking was a conviction that whenever everyone is in agreement, something must be wrong.  He had been like that at school and it had developed and intensified over the years - his opinions made life difficult, and few shared his relentless scepticism.  He often felt isolated because he couldn’t believe in shared values.  The idea of religion was attractive but he knew he would only disagree with the members, and to be honest, the concept of utopian goodness was irrationally repugnant.  He never learned to debate and as far as I know has never converted anyone to his viewpoint – but he has been true to himself and consistently taken the side of anyone and anything that has drawn public hostility. No matter how loud the braying of the mob (using his phrase) he has always stood beside the underdog, always helped the lost cause – always.

Restaurant near the University I know nothing about him, but I’ll tell you this – he is clever!  He has a look of Einstein - you cannot look like that and not be clever. The people at his table sit in awe at his knowledge and the flow of his perfectly chosen words.   The nice thing is that he wears his erudition lightly; he isn’t pedantic or bombastic – he’s a nice clever man. A few minutes ago he left his group, lots of handshakes and good wishes, and passing my table, had a quick word with the cashier and then across to the curtained alcove to collect his coat.  I saw him retrieve it and give it a good shaking, as if admonishing it for failing him in some way.    Then he shouldered his way into it.  It was instantly clear that he would have difficulties – I think the sleeves were too tight – too tight to pass over the rather bulky sleeves of his tweed jacket. Presumably the overcoat had a satin lining which enables it to slide over the garment underneath, but excessive tightness would eradicate this feature.  He inserted his right arm and tugged the front of the coat, which is the right thing to do, but he failed to reach far enough down the sleeve – his hand did not appear.  Instead he attempted to ‘shoulder’ his way into the left side, which resulted in the neck area becoming trapped in his upper back.  I could see that his arms were pinned, with very restricted movement, and whilst his coat would not move upwards to cover his upper body, the knobbly bulkiness of his jacket would not let the overcoat ride up – nor was there sufficient looseness to tug the coat down and start again. So he stands, red-faced and helpless.  The only solution is for someone to grip the back of the coat and vigorously jerk it upwards, releasing the trapped collar and enabling his shoulders to fit where they should.

Cadences and Complexities She was giving a series of talks and he, as an old friend, had been invited.  The series had the snappy title ‘American Literature:  A Personal Survey’ – in which she tried to chart the development of what had once been a branch of English literature until, blossoming so successfully, it became the tree itself and ‘English’ literature became the mere branch.  This was her big theory; she had written books on the subject. He found it very pleasant to be sitting among the huddle of academics in the small, dignified hall.  A satisfactory number of her students – a few friends like himself – and a ragbag of enthusiasts who preferred going out in the evening to sitting at home watching television.  He enjoyed the sound of her voice - the pleasant tone - the rising and falling of the long (sometimes Jamesian) sentences – the modest, understated humour, all combining to make the lecture a very pleasing experience. She was also easy on the eye – she was very nice to look at.  So deeply was she absorbed in her subject that people might assume that there was no other side to her personality, yet there was nothing ethereal about her physical presence.  The tilt of her head as she spoke and the interesting self- consciousness of the way she perched on a corner of the polished desk, showed that cerebral issues did not totally occupy her mind. He was familiar with her themes; he had read one of her books long ago and it was coming back to him.  He even composed a point for the end of the lecture - when she asked for questions.  But then he rejected the idea – being aware that he would be showing off, as people usually are at such moments.  He was old enough to know better –  and anyway, she would know what he was doing – and he would know that she knew – and he would know that she knew that he knew.  How Henry James would have loved this! So instead he let his mind drift away to wherever it wished, and a memory from early childhood materialised. He had been six or seven years old, and his parents were talking about something they had just bought – a set of ‘foam rubber’ cushions.  These were viewed as the very latest items from our burgeoning post-war technologies.  Unlike convention cushions, their composition made them ‘want’ to spring back to their original shapes – which was quite magical.  Once left alone – and then quite often when left alone – he would remove the covers and handle the cushions with an innocent wonderment.  He loved their forceful resistance to being squeezed – their patient tolerance to his grip – their deceptive appearance of weight, when in fact they were so soft and resilient and accommodating.

Clothes She used to have an unchanging appearance when at home.  She always wore the same clothes, or so it seemed when he tried to remember.  Always pale blue jeans and a red top – a T shirt in summer or a jumper in winter, but only in the house -  she dressed differently when outside.  Over the years the jeans would be loose fitting, or flared, or skinny and then flared again, or whatever the fashion stipulated, and the tops were always bright red – a loud red – a troubled red. The colours suited her, fitted in with her personality – clothes to slob around in – for listening to Blondie or Madness, or sprawling in front of the telly, eating crisps, hair a mess, skin blotched. That was a long time ago, but then something odd happened – he started to adopt this look himself.  He now wears the same colour of jeans and pullovers in the same shade of red.  It was something unconscious – he had never thought about it, and it was a while before he recognised the habit.  It simply feels right, as if the clock had been turned back, as if the fun and optimism has never gone, as if she was still there – still in the house.  

On the Train  Summer 1964…   (all change) They were very young and talked about getting married.  They were so pleased with each other!  She had told him, more than once, how he was exactly ‘her type’ – and she went into detail explaining what her type was.  This pleased him hugely – her specification was quite demanding, and yet when thinking it over, a question crossed his mind about the exclusivity of his qualities – was she drawn to these features in other men? And then there was a crisis; she had been away on holiday with her friends and met someone new. She quickly told her boyfriend and there were tears and they decided to call it off.  The new boyfriend travelled up from Northampton every weekend and she probably told him how he was exactly her type.  After a few weeks it all went wrong and they decided it to give each other some ‘breathing space’.  During this period of quiet consideration she by chance met the first boyfriend and told him that she was again free.  He was delighted to hear this and the two of them resumed their relationship and once again started to talk about getting married. He told her that he was going to Wales to visit family and wanted her to go with him – she gave some excuse which he accepted.  Early Saturday morning he rushed down the steps of the local station – he had to travel to Manchester and then on to Crewe and then to Wales via Chester.  But as he rushed down the stone steps there was someone rushing up them – and he knew instantly who he was – you see, he was exactly her type.

We were never particularly close, but we once shared a lot of friends and were at the same inevitably found ourselves sharing conversations at all sorts of parties and events.  Conversation was pleasant but it never broadened out or developed further; we just drifted on the fringes of each other’s lives.   And the years passed.  He must have enquired about what was happening to me, and via the same friends I looked into what he was doing – a roller coaster ride of businesses and divorces – much more eventful than my own demure history.  So in recent weeks, finding ourselves face to face again on several occasions, we effortlessly slotted into our comfortable positions.  We have talked about the past, the people we have known (very few, for various reason, are still around) and the things we did.  He is eager to go into detail as if it all means a lot to him.  His wife watches and listens, knowing she is excluded from the code being used.  She sees no reason for his curiosity, his eagerness to  hear me speak of car journeys, theatre trips, dinner parties but slowly I understood. Others probably know him better but he doesn’t want to be with people who know everything – it is nicer to be with someone with partical knowledge.  But more than that, I knew the person whose name must not be mentioned – his first wife.

He didn’t care much for poetry – he told me that more than once.  But when that dog of his died he wrote a lot of verse, all at top speed, all very raw and hurt.  I commiserated with him and mentioned a pet cemetery on the moors near Leeds, run by a lovely couple who burst into tears with every new client.  So his dog has a grave with an impressive slab of marble for protection – inscribed with one of his poems.

The Eye Test I was in the semi-darkness, perched on a leather seat having my eyes tested, and at the end of the examination the optometrist took photographs of the back of my eyes.  The results came up on a huge screen.  It was incredibly beautiful – like a lost throbbing planet or some wonderful splash of colour inlaid with a filigree of red webbing.   ‘That is so beautiful’ I said to the optometrist. ‘Yes it is’ he replied – ‘but then all the human body is too, wouldn’t you agree?’ I was thinking about this when the door opened slightly and a crack of light slid across the consulting room.  It was his receptionist- she put her head round the door and softly said – ‘Excuse me...’ We all laughed.

As usual I am (in the words of Charles Dickens’ Sam Weller) ‘as dumb as a drum with a hole it in.’

Pret a Manger The cup was empty and she wanted to play with it – her elder brother, about seven years old, wouldn’t look at her as she pretended to drink.  And then the cup slipped through her fingers and smashed noisily on the floor. The little girl was wide-eyed – so many shiny fragments scattered over the tiles.  The man crouched down and carefully began picking them up, laying them neatly onto a paper napkin.  A waitress rushed over and started to help, and he smiled apologetically – he was picking up the pieces and realising, with sadness and happiness, that he would always be picking up the pieces.

Pret a Manger The cup was empty and she wanted to play with it – her elder brother, about seven years old, wouldn’t look at her as she pretended to drink.  And then the cup slipped through her fingers and smashed noisily on the floor. The little girl was wide-eyed – so many shiny fragments scattered over the tiles.  The man crouched down and carefully began picking them up, laying them neatly onto a paper napkin.  A waitress rushed over and started to help, and he smiled apologetically – he was picking up the pieces and realising, with sadness and happiness, that he would always be picking up the pieces.

There is a little girl in many of Picasso’s Minotaur series – she is usually carrying flowers or holding a light.  She also appears in other works.  She is all important.  This is Conchita, Picasso’s sister, who died of diphtheria in 1895 when she was seven.  As she lay dying, her 14-year-old brother made a vow to God.  He said he would never paint again if her life was spared.  She died; he painted.

(John Richardson) At the Jewellers She went into the shop to collect her ring, which had been repaired. As she explained to the jeweller, it had once belonged to her grandmother’s mother and had been passed down to her – it was loose on her finger and also needed the mount tightening. She was pleased with what he had done – she stretched her arm out and admired the way the light caught the blue stone. The jeweller watched her and noticed that the colour of the stone matched her eyes. She was about twenty and was delighted at her ring being ‘old’. This amused the jeweller and he wanted to say that the gold is much, much older. No one throws away gold - it is continually melted down and takes on new shapes, new objects of beauty. The gold of her ring, now sitting so prettily on her elegant, tapering finger, may once have been stolen by the Spanish Conquistadors, or part of Charlemagne’s treasure or it may have adorned Nero’s plump pinky. It was at such moments that he loved his job. He held up his hands and said: ‘May God Bless you and give you many, many years of health to enjoy it.'

Russell at Thirteen An old photograph, developed by Boots – colours bleaching into a brown/orange – but I can still see him okay. Smiling across the years, faithful to the simple love of his gorgeous puppy - his older sister - his mother who smoked like Audrey Hepburn - his genial, often absent father. It’s a lovely group picture, all of us together, including the puppy. I’m next to his sister – his older sister – his dazzlingly pretty older sister - and I’m so happy that I’m nearly falling off the garden chair. But she never looked at me - she was always in profile! And we all sat in the sun; Russell at the front with the puppy licking his face, each of us smiling into the future.

There is a country lane with high hedgerows and rippling green meadows and ponds and buttercups and bulrushes and a stone house with no roof. On summer afternoons I would walk home from school with my friend Russell. We would cross the meadows and the long grass was as soft as hair and we would laugh together, our voices ringing in the bee loud stillness. And a while later I returned – not with Russell but with someone else. And the green of the meadow and the green of the leaves and the green of everything was changed forever – because I had seen the green of her eyes.

On the Train Only the deeply unhappy can be so happy.  And the man opposite me belongs to an exclusive society for the truly wretched – because like all the other members he has been guided into a comfortable room marked ‘private’, and given the bad news, and from then on nothing will be the same. Members can spot each other – total strangers – a glance in a café – in the queue at a check-out – or in the street; and sometimes a quick ‘me too’ nod at each other, but they don’t need to say anything; they don’t want to know each other, they don’t want to hear the other’s story. But I can say for sure that they are no longer bothered by everyday worries; all the anxieties of the past are finished forever.  Time itself becomes compressed and each day shines like a miniature lifetime.  The relentless ache is transformed into an appreciation of everything – every detail is a delight!  And there is joy in simply being alone – doing something exciting alone – like leaving the house before the postman comes – and ensuring no more bad news by dropping the mobile phone into a drawer and rushing out into the street – to the sunshine – to people who don’t know you – to life itself!

A hundred years ago – (not very long ago, my grandparents generation) it was noted that the performance of boys in schools plummeted in the higher forms.  The boys knew that as the school leaving age approached they would soon go into the army and be slaughtered in the trenches.  I suppose it became difficult to see the relevance of irregular verbs with something like that at the front of your mind.   Every week the headmasters would struggle to read the latest list of former pupils who had been killed.  These schools produced the officers, and in those days the officers led from the front, so their casualty numbers were higher pro rata than the ranks.

Seventy-odd years ago my own parents spent the last summer of peace tearing around the Linconshire lanes on a Norton motor bike.   They saw the young airmen in the evening pubs, drinking and singing despite knowing that their chances of survival were slim.  They smoked very heavily – cigarettes were called ‘gaspers’ and ‘cancer sticks’ – but who gave a damn when you were going to be killed anyway?

Euston Station Amazing.  Thousands of people and I see a face that fifty years ago used to belong to my friend Russell.  When he didn’t need it anymore it was given to someone else, because that’s how it goes.  I cannot prove it; but then no one can disprove it.  And seeing a face like that, right back from my past, gives you a bit of a shock and that’s putting it mildly.  It is all about how we used to feel about life, and our eagerness and how it was taken away, how it was secured with a spring-steel clip and how much we want it back – if only we could – if only we could.  

Politics The annual school Speech Day was coming up, and at the age of twelve he was selected to be one of the welcoming party for the Mayor and his lady wife.  It meant standing in the entrance hall with the senior staff and greeting the assorted dignitaries, and then later being on the platform helping with the prize-giving.  He refused.   His parents did their best to understand why he didn’t wish to accept the honour and concluded it was a matter of shyness and lack of confidence.  They told him that they accepted his decision and were so nice about it – but hinting at a deep disappointment – knowing that he would pick this up.  Gradually this had an effect and a few days later he announced that he would be late home because there was a rehearsal of the opening ceremony and he was needed. But two years after this, his sister was in a similar situation – she was proposed for something and she refused.  She glared at her parents and gave an emphatic and resounding ‘no’.  And that was an end to it.

James O’Brian ‘Big Jim’ (1921? – 1992) On his last day at school Jim’s headmaster said to him – ‘It is difficult to predict your destiny, but my guess is that it will be at the end of a rope.’ A few years later Jim was in the army – ‘Out east’ – and his unit, under Lieutenant-General Percival, surrendered to the Japanese army. This was in February 1942. He then found himself working in gangs in the Burma jungle. The conditions were hellish and he must have decided that any escape must be done very soon, before he lost his strength. He had a go, and was recaptured – and although he survived whatever it was they did to him, he never talked about it. Back in England he found employment as a building site labourer and he did this work for the rest of his life. He never married, lived in one-room flats, and each weekend spent most of his wages on drink. Everyone knew him in the pubs, he had no close friends but he was respected. One Friday night, when the pub was loud and smoke filled, a young man in a suit made a joke about Jim. People were laughing. Jim slid off the bar stool and went across to him. He raised his dirty, stained left hand and put it in front of the young man’s face, and then, elegantly, flicked the front of his hair.

At the Takeaway Three queues, slow moving.  Scruffy man at the head of my queue and he’s having a problem with money - he doesn’t appear to have enough to pay for what he has ordered.  I can only see the back of him; he has a bulky, canvas bag over his shoulder and he appears to be one of Manchester’s hundreds of rough-sleepers.  Woman at the head of side queue goes across and presses paper money into his hand; the assistant passes over the meal on a plastic tray. Whatever other characteristics the woman possesses, she is certainly kind-hearted and generous.  Everyone who knows her will be also be aware of the many other aspects of her personality – the kindheartedness and generosity will be blurred, obscured. Yet the homeless man will see only her goodness, and in the ‘true’ scale of things -  the things that really matter – it could be said that he knows her better than anyone else.